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The Hero Experience - Chapter 1

 
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Thu Mar 19, 2015 10:28 am    Post subject: The Hero Experience - Chapter 1 Reply with quote




_____________________________________________

Chapter 1

The statute of limitations is supposed to be seven years for the crimes I committed, but I wanted to play it safe, so I waited almost fifty. At the ripe old age of sixty-four, the follies of my youth now seem surreal and distant. But I know they’re real, because I’ve got the old newspapers to prove it.

If you’re old enough, you probably read all about it when it happened during the summer of 1967.

No? You missed it? Hadn’t gotten around to being born yet, maybe?

Well, that’s not your fault. Even for the folks who lived back then, it was largely a local phenomenon. But while it lasted, it was absolutely sensational.

Not many people know the confidential inside story. Not even my three children, my beloved wife, my two grandchildren, or my sweet gray-haired mother know what really happened. My father died a few years ago, and it’s probably better that he never found out that his son had once been wanted by the police . . . and witnessed a murder . . . and had a scar on his right side from a gunshot wound.

In my own defense, all I can say is that I had the best possible intentions for what I did. After you’ve heard all the facts and had a chance to weigh them for yourself, maybe you won’t judge me too harshly. Just remember this: the pursuit of a man’s dream can leave him way out on a limb. Take, for example, what happened to me during the summer before my senior year in high school.

Here’s how it all began . . .
_________________________________________________

The subject of the class was geography, and the topic of the day was Ethiopia. Add to this the fact that it was the last week of the school year and we were all being forced to endure a review for the final exam. This made no sense whatsoever, because the only people who had to take final exams were the students in danger of failing, of which few of us were. And I wasn’t one of the few.

Now, come on — be honest. Would you have been paying attention?

No, of course not. And neither was I. My attention was entirely devoted to a bit of very private reading material hidden behind my notebook, blissfully inattentive to old Mrs. Hensley’s lecture.

And yet, I must admit the old gal was pretty slick when it came to painting word pictures of those faraway lands we studied in her class. She was plum passionate on the subject, and once she got rolling, she was like a preacher at a revival meeting. To her, this wasn’t just a geography class — this was Around the World in 80 Days.

“Picture a spectacular land — the ultimate African country,” Mrs. Hensley intoned as she stalked back and forth before a big pull-down map that showed Africa in all its glory — her pale, elderly eyes ablaze with the fire of her profession. “The heart of Ethiopia is a region known as the Ethiopian Plateau, which covers more than half the total area of the country. The plateau is split diagonally by the Rift Valley.”

The Ethiopian Plateau? That got my attention. The phrase conjured up a colorful mental image of a cloud-piercing plateau, covered by a steaming tropical jungle and inhabited by gigantic dinosaurs.

The Lost World, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Great book. Those Ethiopians have all the luck.



“The wild life includes lions, elephants, hippopotami, and giraffe — all the larger species indigenous to Africa.”

Mrs. Hensley obviously wasn’t going to talk about the dinosaurs. Okay, BE that way, lady! To heck with Ethiopia. I dove back into the magazine I was hiding behind my geography book and tuned Mrs. Hensley out.

A whispered voice drifted to me from the left. “Jones, you’re such a dork. I can’t believe you’re looking at that crap right here in class. You’re gonna get caught.”

Trouble in paradise. Clayton Denault was sitting at the desk next to mine, paying no more attention to Mrs. Hensley than I was. Six feet three inches tall, skinny as a knitting needle, with a narrow face and beady eyes that were crowded toward the middle of his face. He looked like one of those elongated reflections in a fun house mirror, a rubber man with his shoes nailed to the floor and his head glued to the ceiling. I ignored him because he was a typical loudmouth high school jackass.

And also because I was scared of him. Okay, so I’m a coward. But I’m honest with myself. Small consolation.

Clayton chuckled softly, shook his head, and whispered, “Don’t you feel embarrassed about reading that trash in public?”

He had a point. I did feel embarrassed, but only because I didn’t have the nerve to defend myself for choosing to look at the magazine hidden behind my notebook. Some people call it trash, but I call it art. Who cares what the Supreme Court calls it. They’re just a bunch of sissies in choir robes.

“Hey, Steven,” Clayton hissed to one of his buddies. “Look what Jones has got.”

A nice, humiliating blush covered my face and provided a crimson background for several dozen freckles, making my face look like a high-orbit photo of the red planet Mars. This was not good, because it made me conspicuous among the other students, which meant Mrs. Hensley would spot what was going on.

I glanced over the top of my notebook and saw Mrs. Hensley glaring at me. Small wonder in view of the fact that my face was imitating the geographic features of distant planets — and geography was, after all, her strong suit. She was giving a sharp look of disapproval to everybody in my general area, but she continued to lecture in her reedy little voice. Maybe she was aware of the fact that requiring the full attention of the class during this last week of school was cruel and unusual punishment, and we could all probably charge her with child abuse. But the threat of legal action didn’t seem to be cramping her style one bit. She was determined to cover Ethiopia in one day or die trying and be buried next to Dr. Livingston somewhere in the heart of Africa.

“As I was saying,” she continued, raising her voice a bit, “the largest species of African wildlife are native to most parts of Ethiopia, such as giraffe and elephants.”

Right, not to mention Stegosaurus, Brontosaurus, and Tyrannosaurus Rex. Poor Mrs. Hensley believed everything she read in the textbooks. The dinosaurs were there all right, but nobody would officially admit it because they didn’t want to panic the general public. Ditto for the aliens who walked among us in human form. And if I breathed a word about either of these carefully guarded secrets to the newspapers, government agents would show up on my doorstep at midnight and see to it that I never lived to see the sunrise.

Oh, well. Back to my magazine.

“Hey, Brad,” whispered Clayton. “You got any more of those for us? Come on, buddy, share a few with your friends.”

This priceless bit of humor produced a flurry of snickers from Clayton and his buddies. Small minds are easily amused — which of course explains why photos of Einstein rarely show him smiling. It’s hard to tell jokes using higher mathematics.

“If you ever get married, Jones, what’s your wife gonna think when she sees you reading that stuff?”

“He don’t read ‘em. He just looks at the pictures,” whispered Steven Hatchet. He was Clayton’s principal henchman, the one in charge of all the dirty work, like getting rid of dead bodies.

Some of the other people around me were starting to laugh. My stomach knotted up and my breathing became shallow. The last thing I wanted was trouble with Clayton and his idiot cohorts, but I couldn’t just sit there and let them laugh at me without defending my honor and reputation. Mentally I rehearsed a bold plan of attack. When Clayton least expected it, I would let out a savage scream, leap up from my desk, jump kick his nose right into his brain, then grab the heads of his buddies and bang them together like two ripe coconuts.

The plan had its merits, but it might upset Mrs. Hensley, so I devised a new one. Ignore Clayton and simply rise above this tawdry situation. A much better plan. Rise above it . . . and live to tell about it.

I turned the page of the magazine and feasted my eyes on fresh images that thrilled my young heart and captivated my teenaged sense of aesthetics. Say what you will, but it beat the hell out of Ethiopia.

Mrs. Hensley was still in Africa, thank God. “The geography of Ethiopia is remarkably varied.” Her watery old eyes were shining with a passion for distant lands she’d never live to visit. “Ras Dashan, the tallest mountain, is roughly three miles high, and the Ethiopian Plateau is cut by numerous valleys and rivers, some of which are two thousand feet deep.” Mrs. Hensley paused and looked flustered for a moment. “I mean the valleys are two thousand feet deep, not the rivers.“ The class chuckled. Mrs. Hensley gave the class a fleeting smile and forged on, hacking her way through the jungle of teenaged indifference surrounding her. “The climate is just as varied, ranging from temperate to tropical, with everything in between.”

Ah yes, sunny Ethiopia. What I wouldn’t give to be there right now.

Clayton waited until Mrs. Hensley turned to glance at the map of Africa, then he whispered, “Know what your problem is, Jones?” He paused to let me ponder the question. Then, grinning like a fool, he said, “Arrested development.”

I ignored Clayton. I made myself stare at the magazine with a noble disregard for the peons who pestered me. It was not as easy as it looked, but I pulled it off

Clayton was clearly annoyed by my stoic indifference. His grin quickly went somewhere else, and he was suddenly and visibly agitated by my continued lack of response. He knew his buddies were watching, and they were not getting the show they expected. Suddenly Clayton reached out and snatched the magazine from my hand. He held it high for all to see.

“Hey look, guys,” his whispered. “This is what Jones likes to read in class.”

Faces all around were turning to stare. I felt angry and embarrassed and confused, all in rapid succession. Right there, for all to see, clutched in Clayton Denault’s hand like the head of John the Baptist was the magazine I had been looking at. A Spider-Man comic.


______________


The shrill, outraged voice of Mrs. Hensley sliced through the air like a civil defense siren. “I'd like know just what is going on back there!” She glared at Clayton as he waved the comic book over his head like it was the checkered flag at the Indy 500. Clayton stared at Mrs. Hensley and froze like a deer staring stupidly at approaching headlights.

Despite the situation, I was unaware of Mrs. Hensley, oblivious even to the mocking faces of the people around me. My eyes were riveted on the elevated comic book. The glossy cover was wadded up in Clayton’s fist, bending Spider-Man into painful contortions. The pages were flopping around as they fanned the air, giving the ring of spectators a brief glimpse of the cleanly drawn panels inside, pictures of wild acrobatics, daring rescues, and titanic battles between good and evil.

To most people that comic book was just twelve cents worth of escapist literature, a pulp magazine worth no more than a postage stamp. To the surrounding crowd of teenagers, that magazine was an object of ridicule, a throwback to the childish years of coloring books and teddy bears. And to Clayton Denault it was just a piece of trash, a convenient source of blackmail, a hostage he could hold for ransom.

But to me, that comic book was a doorway into a land of courage and heroism and nobility. It was a vehicle that carried me to an exciting world of danger and adventure and romance. It filled the same need in my young life as novels like The Three Musketeers, The Swordsman of Capistrano, and The Adventures of Robin Hood once did for the wide-eyed romantics who lived decades ago.

Their heroes were D'Artagnan, Zorro, and Robin Hood.

My heroes were Daredevil, Superman, and Captain America. More than mere heroes — superheroes! They were my idols. Their battles were my battles, their ideals were my ideals. The lives they led were the lives I yearned to lead. My soul’s ambition was to be like them — dashing and handsome and forty pounds heavier. No surprise that I treasured each issue, preserved it carefully, and shielded it from harm.

And yet I was just sitting there like a craven coward, watching a jackass wad up one of these priceless objects in his grubby fist.

Suddenly I saw my own hand reach out, close itself around Clayton’s nose, and give it a healthy quarter turn. Clayton bellowed with rage and pain as he let the comic book slip from his hand. It fluttered down onto his head as he reached up and knocked my hand away from his tortured schnoz. Like a striking snake, his right fist grabbed my shirt, while his other fist reared back and —

“Stop it! Stop it, both of you!” shrieked Mrs. Hensley, stumbling hastily down the aisle toward us — tall and fragile and indignant, her face livid. “How dare you act this way in my class?”

Clayton still had a handful of my shirt in his clenched fist, and Mrs. Hensley slapped at it a few times until he let go. Clayton’s face was no pretty sight. It was even more clenched than his fist had been, and I could see exactly what he must have looked like in his crib, seventeen years ago, when he’d screamed for more milk at two o’clock in the morning. Nobody’s idea of a beautiful baby.

Ugly though he was, he was nobody’s fool, either. Clayton regained his composure far quicker than I did, and he went into an amazing act.

“Whoa! Wait a second, ma’am!” Somehow he managed a sheepish grin. “We were just kidding, Mrs. Hensley. Honest!” He started smoothing out my shirt and giving me affectionate little pats on the shoulder. He looked at me like I was the lost friend he had spent years searching for. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, buddy.”

All smiles and good cheer. He leaned across the aisle, draped one arm over my shoulders, and shook me gently as he looked up at Mrs. Hensley with the same phony smile used car salesmen aim at gullible customers.

“Brad and I put on this act sometimes — you know, makin’ like we’re fightin’.”

Clayton turned that smile toward me, fooling no one except maybe elderly teachers who didn’t want any trouble in class, especially with summer vacation just hours away. He’d never get an Oscar for this performance, but it proved beyond all doubt that Clayton Denault had more balls than a pool table.

Mrs. Hensley glared at us for a long moment while she pondered what her next move should be. And by hesitating, the moment was lost amidst the sudden explosion of the bell that ended the class. Everybody but Clayton and I lunged for the door. Mrs. Hensley turned without a word and headed back toward the front of the room. While the mad exodus flowed around us, Clayton leaned close and let the full impact of his ugly face, his fuming anger, and his bad breath wash over me as he spoke through clenched teeth.

“I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot after the last class. You’d better be there.”

I no longer had a choice in the matter. The gauntlet had been hurled, the lance had been broken, the silk glove had been slapped firmly across my aristocratic face. Honor demanded that I make some kind of reply. Sadly, nothing particularly vicious or clever occurred to me, but I was determined not to say anything wimpy or stupid, so I just sat there and stared at him.

Not much of a reply, I’ll admit, but it was a vicious and clever stare if ever there was one. Clayton withstood the full impact of that stare for several seconds, and then he rose to follow his buddies toward the door. He shot one more hostile look in my direction before he vanished into the hallway.

My hands were shaking a little as I carefully picked up the comic book from the floor and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. No good. It was a lost cause, a mangled mess, a strong argument for mercy killing. I wondered if my face would suffer the same sad fate before the day was done. A great way to begin my summer vacation. Maybe I would be out of the hospital in time for my senior year.

The hallway was a river of bodies, all rapids, with little whirlpools here and there when some guy grabbed some gal and spun her around to flirt briefly on his way past. I stepped out into the flow and let it sweep me down the hall. I rode the rapids for a hundred feet until I reached my locker, then I managed to swim ashore. My fingers felt thick and clumsy as I fiddled with the combination lock, and it took me three tries to get it open. Obviously, my mind was on other matters.





Now that Mrs. Hensley’s Grand Tour of Africa was behind me, the only class left to endure was history — the last class of the school year before the final exams for those wretched failures destined to become migrant fruit pickers. I stood there for a few seconds gazing at the notebook I was holding. It should have been filled with the notes I’d made in various classes. What it mostly held were doodles I’d rendered throughout the school year while I was supposed to be paying attention in class. Those doodles represented the closest thing to an education I’d gotten all year long, and I debated taking them home to show my parents. The doodles were much more amusing than my report card was going to be.

When I closed the locker door, I was startled to discover that somebody was standing behind it. Stan Jenner by name, close friend by choice, and a good candidate for pallbearer at my funeral — if Clayton Denault had a good day after school.

Stan delivered his typical greeting with a deadpan face. “Yo, Jones,”

“Yo, Jenner,” I replied with equal aplomb. Two could play this game — as we always did. “What’s new?” I began to weave my way through the crowd in the hallway, trying not to think about the fact that this could be my last day on earth. I sent a silent thought to the surrounding crowd.

Remember me fondly, folks. Don’t fight over my meager possessions.

“I just heard a nasty rumor about you,” Stan said as he began to follow me down the hall like a reporter hounding the president for fresh war news.

“Did you hear it from Clayton Denault?” I answered, reluctant to be quoted by the press.

“Indirectly. Word gets around fast. Something about a fight after school. What did you do to make him so mad?”

“I treated his nose like a doorknob.”

“Bad move. Why did you do that?”

Silently I reached into my notebook and pulled out the wrinkled comic book. Stan just stared at it for a long moment, a stricken look on his face. He lifted his hand and took it gently from me as if it were a wounded sparrow. At first, I thought he was being sarcastic — but no, he meant it. The sight of the wrinkled magazine was a worthy cause for righteous indignation.

Then I remembered why he looked so stricken. The comic book belonged to Stan. I had borrowed it from him. I was in worse trouble that I’d thought.

“I’m . . . uh . . . I’m sorry about the way it looks. Want me to pay you for it?”

“No,” said Stan, staring at the comic the way a loved one gazes at a dead relative in a coffin. “I want a new one.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

As he peered at the rumpled comic book, his eyes were like wet pebbles, cold and hard. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Clayton did this?”

I just nodded.

Stan heaved a sigh. “You realize, of course, that this outrage demands the shedding of blood. That vile dog must die — and it must be done slowly and painfully. You must kill him with your bare hands . . . in full view of all his kinfolk.”

After a moment of careful thought, I said, “Well . . . okay. But, uh . . . what if he should resist? You know . . . fight back. Something like that.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Stan said firmly.

“Pardon me?” I stuck my finger in my ear and wiggled it around vigorously. “There must be something wrong with my hearing. I couldn’t quite make out that last remark about — ”

“I said that won’t be a problem. Clayton is a beanpole. He’s a lousy fighter. His center of gravity is about five feet off the ground. Very unstable structure.”

I closed my eyes and pondered the concept. Hmmm. Yeah. From a physics standpoint, it made sense. Quietly, I replied, “Oooooh, yeah, right. The bigger they are, the harder they you-know-what.”

“Exactly. He’s built just like you — except that he’s a couple of stories higher. But that doesn’t help if the penthouse is empty.” Stan tapped his forehead with his finger, indicating that his obscure remark had something to do with brains.

“Are you suggesting that I can beat him with superior intelligence?”

“Ah, now you’re catching on! Don’t worry. He’ll topple like a rubber flagpole.”

I appreciated his attempt to build up my confidence, but it was tough to buy his rosy prediction of how the fight would turn out.

“Gee, Stan, I don’t know — ”

“Trust me,” he said quickly, placing his hand on my shoulder and gazing at me intently from a scant five inches. “Rely upon my superior knowledge. I know what I’m doing.”

The bell rang and announced loudly that we were both late for the last class of the day.

“Okay, but . . . If you’re so smart,” I said softly, “how come you’re at the wrong end of the building for your sixth period class?”

Stan looked around with panic-stricken eyes and realized that he was the White Rabbit — late for a very important date.

“Yikes!” He bolted away and went sprinting down the nearly deserted hallway like Barry Allen, alias The Flash. Stan could sure move when he put his mind to it. If fast feet were fast brains, Stan could write encyclopedias for a living. I hurried off to the class I was equally late for.

When I entered Mrs. Story’s history class, I noticed several people pointing in my direction and whispering to each other. Stan was right — word traveled fast. The last schoolyard fight of the year was getting plenty of advance publicity.

I sat down at my desk in the back of the class and paid attention just long enough to answer the roll call. Then I opened my history book, hid the crumpled comic behind it, and tuned out the rest of the world. Thanks to Clayton, I was paying a heavy price for possession of that comic, and I was damn well going to enjoy it.

To be honest, I never paid much attention to Mrs. Story’s history lessons on the best of days. The poor woman had an uncanny knack for boring her students. She made Mrs. Hensley’s lesson seem like the last ten seconds of a tied game at the Super Bowl. Most of us ended up staring out the window. To put it kindly, if it weren’t for peripheral vision none of us would have known the blackboard even existed.

Today, Mrs. Story made no attempt to bore us one last time with the tedious record of mankind’s vain endeavors. She knew as well as we did that this was the last class before final exams — and if the failing students who had to take it didn’t know the material by now, they were destined to be working for minimum wage for the next forty years. Such is the fate of those who think the world owes them a living.

Mrs. Story announced that this was to be a study hall and we should use the time to quietly review our notes before taking the final exam. We all knew that if we talked too loudly she would launch into a review for the upcoming history test, so everybody talked quietly . . . about everything except history.

I spent the time studying the fight sequences in the comic book, hoping to pick up a few pointers. I discovered that the comic book was a complete bust as a guide to the art of self-defense. Spider-Man's basic techniques were not applicable to normal humans. They required too many extraordinary attributes — like quasi-telepathy, near-invulnerability, and an uncanny knack for running up walls and clinging to ceilings.


_


They also required superhuman strength. To be brutally honest, I didn’t have human strength, never mind the superhuman kind. Without this last characteristic, a guy in my situation would be better off just writing a stern letter to his opponent’s mother:

Dear Mrs. Denault,

Please make your son behave. He's killing people.

Sincerely,

His Latest Victim


Alas, I yearned to be a superhero. With a few superpowers, I could deal with life’s little problems as easily as the beloved characters in the comic books I revered so completely.

Admittedly, it was a silly aspiration for someone old enough to be teetering on the brink of manhood. But I was a victim of my own excessive romanticism. Childhood fantasies die hard, and my fantasies were as indestructible as Superman. I was hooked on the idea of daring rescues and narrow escapes and dramatic entrances and skintight costumes that showed off my gigantic muscles.

Unfortunately, reality was incompatible with the dream. If I ever tried to wear a skintight costume, I’d poke holes in the back with my shoulder blades. I was so skinny, I practically had to call for help just to cast a shadow. I ate voraciously, but I still worried about losing weight.

Sometimes I worried that I might lose weight in my sleep and then wake up be gone entirely. I even worried about my pale skin, because it served as a contrasting backdrop for all those unwanted pimples. I was more sensitive to sunlight than Dracula. I didn’t tan — I toasted.

“Hey, Brad,” said Benny Gilmore, sitting in the row to my right. “I heard about the fight. What are you and Clayton fighting about?”

The question was embarrassing, but I couldn’t think of a clever answer, so I gave an honest one — embellished with a little imagination.

“A comic book. Believe it or not, we’re fighting over a comic book. Childish, isn’t it? I tried to reason with him, but he threw a tantrum and held his breath until he turned blue, and then he laid on the floor and — ”

“You’re never serious, are you, Brad?” Benny said quietly. “I ask a simple question, and you go into a comedy routine.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You want a serious answer? I’ll give you a serious answer. Ask any question you want, I’ll give it a real serious answer.”

Benny looked less than convinced, but he took a shot. “The fight. Why are you going to fight Clayton?”

I gave the question serious thought while I pondered just how well I knew Benny Gilmore and how much kidding he’d take. I let all traces of humor slide out of my expression, and then I said, “It’s really none of your business, Benny, but if you must know . . . we’re fighting over a girl. He and I are in love with the same girl.”

Benny studied my face carefully, watching for any sign of a smile. And I made absolutely sure he didn’t find one while I held his gaze with a total lack of expression — not happy, not sad, not angry, not glad. Nothing.

“Is this on the level? He and you like the same girl?”

“Love, Benny. I said love.”

“Right, okay, love. You’re serious?”

“Do I look serious?”

“Sure, but with you that doesn’t mean . . . ummm. You could just be . . . ” He faltered and stopped. Love and girls and schoolyard fights were serious subjects to us teenagers — weighty matters that were not to be scoffed at. A fight over a girl was something Benny could understand.

“Okay, I’ll buy that,” Benny said finally. He leaned close and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Who is she, Brad?”

I gave him my best expression of outraged indignation. “Ooooh, sure! I tell you, and you blab it all over school, print it in the school paper, write a few cute remarks on the bathroom wall — ”

Benny was instantly repentant, the soul of discretion, a man you could trust with the darkest family secret. “No, no — I won’t tell anybody, honest!” he whispered earnestly.

Naturally he was lying — and I knew he was lying — and he knew I knew he was lying. But he didn’t think I would come right out and say that I knew that he knew. And so, I looked all around to see if anybody was close by — which of course everybody was, because the room was full of people. Then I leaned close to Benny and said, “It’s Lois.”

“What?” Bennie looked pretty confused all of a sudden. “Lois? You don’t mean Lois Sanford, do you? The flat-chested scarecrow? Jeez, Brad, she’s not worth fighting over — ”

“No, no. Not her. The other one. The good looking Lois.”

Benny was even more confused than ever. He furrowed his brow and wrestled with this high school riddle. “What other Lois? Who are you talking about? Lois who? What’s her last name?”

“You know, the gorgeous brunette. Works for the newspaper. What’s the name of that rag?” I snapped my fingers a few times. “The, um…” Snap, snap, snap. “The Weekly Globe. No, that’s not it. The, um…oh, I got it! The Daily Planet. That cute dark-haired babe! Lois Lane!”

Benny wasn’t fast, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He had grown up in the same era as me, and he had watched the same TV shows in the 1950s. It took him a moment to realize I was putting him on — again. But when he finally got it, his disgust was readily apparent in the look on his face and the tone he used when he said, “You and your stupid comic books, Jones.” He turned away, but he was still muttering. “Grow up, man. Seventeen years old and still reading comic books.”

I was laughing, but my heart wasn’t really in it. I felt bad about the joke I had played on him. In a quiet voice, I said, “Aw, come on, Benny. Isn’t there more to life than — ”

The bell detonated like an off-key bomb, augmented by a cheer from the class as they bolted for the door. The school day had expired, and the enslaved masses smelled emancipation right around the corner. Freedom had come to the Israelites, and they were getting the heck out of Goshen. But I couldn’t share their enthusiasm, because I kept thinking about the ambush waiting for me in the parking lot. As I moved to the door, I tucked the Spider-Man comic book inside my notebook where it would be safe from my sweating palms.

A plump little blond named Shirley Glasgow broke away from a group of girls and made her way over to me. She spoke in a timid, sympathetic voice.

“Brad, I heard about the fight between you and Clayton. Good luck.” She put her hand on my arm for a brief moment.

I was as nervous as a tax dodger at an audit, but I tried not to let it show. Brave words and a cocky smile. “Thanks, Shirley. Remember me fondly. I die for a worthy cause.”

Her solemn expression never faltered as she said, “Clayton is a total jerk. Just kick him in the jewels.”

I was a bit stunned by the remark, but it had definite merit. Reluctantly, I said, “Wouldn’t that be cowardly and unfair?”

“Who cares about fair?” She squeezed my arm again and then dropped back to join her friends.

Who cares about fair? I said to myself. Well . . . I do. I’m just an old-fashioned guy, I guess.

I smiled briefly at Mrs. Story as I left the classroom — probably the first time I had ever done so — and walked out into the hallway. Reluctantly, I headed toward the exit leading to the parking lot. With shaking knees, I realized I had no excuse not to go out to the parking lot and let Clayton Denault dance his fists around on my freckled face.

As I joined the noisy mob in the hall, I noticed several people glancing at me and passing secretive comments back and forth. Many of the people around me were headed out to the parking lot to watch the big grudge match between Killer Denault, the Rubber Beanpole, and Sorrowful Jones, the Armchair Crime Fighter.

Stand tall and look tough, Jones. Your public awaits.

When I emerged from the building, a crowd was gathering at the grassy circle formed by the cul-de-sac located near the parking lot. The cul-de-sac was filled in by a grassy circle with a sidewalk around it. Mounted on a concrete slab at the center of the circle was a huge artillery piece that had been donated to the school by the United States Army. It was a brute, ugly monstrosity, and I had always wondered why the school’s officials had considered it a suitable decoration for the campus grounds. What was the intended message?

Maybe the message was: "Uncle Sam wants you — as young as possible."

Or maybe: "Might always makes right."

Or perhaps: "When in doubt, use heavy artillery."





In the parking lot across from the cul-de-sac I could see some of the less bloodthirsty of my peers leaving the campus. I blessed them with all my heart. But the crowd of eager fight fans in the cul-de-sac was already sizable and growing fast. The part of my brain that followed nobody’s rules and paid little attention to practical concerns wondered idly if an enterprising fellow could make money selling peanuts and hot dogs at an event like this. It was a pointless thought in view of the fact that any money I made in the next ten minutes would go to my heirs.

I approached the crowd with mounting dread. In spite of the fact that Clayton Denault’s arms looked like fleshy pipe cleaners, I didn’t expect to do well against him. I just didn’t have any natural ability at the manly art of self-defense. I actually hated the idea of hitting somebody in the face. I doubted Clayton had that problem. His arms would have dragged the ground if he hadn’t been such an oversized beanpole. He could batter my teeth out while standing five feet away. Shirley Glasgow was right. Given half a chance, I’d kick him in the jewels.

Just as I reached the crowd, I heard a friendly voice from behind me. “I figured you could use some company.”

“You figured right.” I turned around and put on a brave face for my longtime friend, Carl Ladinsky. “Any advice?”

“Yeah,” Carl gave me a relaxed smile. “Break his nose.”

I laughed, despite the fact that it was just a brave front. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Actually it would be easy for Carl to do. He was a husky fellow with a slight pudginess that softened his outline for the unwary who might underestimate him. We’d known each other since the fifth grade. Unlike me, Carl didn’t brood, he didn’t complain, and he didn’t get challenged to schoolyard fights. Carl had sandy hair, a round face, a loud laugh that came easily, and corny jokes that weren’t always funny. You rarely caught him in a bad mood. Maybe that’s why I liked him. My jokes weren’t always funny either, but he laughed anyway.

“You’ll do okay,” said Carl as we reached the outer edge of the crowd. “But watch out for Hatchet and the other guys in Denault’s group. I once saw them trip a guy who was fighting one of his pals.”

“Sounds like I’m in trouble.”

“Naw. Not from Denault. He’s a stick figure.”

I didn’t bother to counter with the obvious remark that I was a stick figure, too. As we shouldered our way through the crowd I was surprised to receive a few sincere pats on the back from well-wishers. Apparently Clayton Denault was nobody’s hero. Carl and I stepped into the open area at the center of the crowd. The big artillery gun bordered a portion of the crowd-formed circle. Several people had climbed up onto the massive army-green piece of machinery for a nice overview of my untimely demise. The turnout was pretty good, and I regretted not having a percentage of the box office gross. Oh well, you can’t take it with you.

“Let’s get this over with!” said a loud voice. My archenemies, the dreaded Stretch-O and his evil sidekick, Hatchet the Bloodsucker, emerged from the crowd on the far side. They were accompanied by a third guy, whose name I didn’t remember.

Before I could answer Clayton’s remark with something brave and glib, a voice from behind me said, “Relax, Denault! We've got all summer!” Stan came up beside Carl and me. He turned his back on the Denault Gang and spoke quietly to me. “You’ve got a reasonably tough look on your face. Keep it up.”

This was breaking news to me. I just stared for a moment before saying, “I do?”

Stan looked annoyed. “No, you did. Now you just look silly. Never mind. Here’s my plan. We’re gonna psyche this guy out a little before you two even get to swingin’. Take your shoes off.”

I certainly didn’t see that one coming. With big wide eyes I said, “Do what?” Maybe I had misunderstood him.

“Take your shoes off. Your socks, too. James Bond has made kicking fair, so use a little karate. Kick him in the balls if you get the chance.”

I stared at Stan for a moment and said, “Wow, that is so weird! Shirley Glasgow told me to . . . well, never mind.” I lifted my feet one at a time to yank off my sneakers without untying them. When I started peeling off my socks, Clayton watched me with a puzzled expression. The crowd murmured louder, but nobody shouted out any discernible comments.

“Good,” said Stan. “Item two: when you step out to begin the fight, pull off your wristwatch and toss it back to me. Make it casual.”

I was totally befuddled. Softy, I said, “Okay. But . . . why?”

“Psychology. Just trust me,” he said.

It sounded like a lunatic suggestion, but what did I have to lose? “Okay, I’ll do it . . . but I’ll probably throw it wild and the crowd will get it. I’ll never see it again.”

The corners of Stan’s mouth twitched upward. “Don’t get me tickled. We’re supposed to be tough. Now, one last thing. Press the attack. His reach is about three feet longer than yours, so make him back up to use it.”

“He’s right,” said Carl. “Push forward, no matter what he does. Make those long arms work against him.’

All this good advice was making me feel more optimistic about my chances of living through this nasty situation. With a grateful smile, I said, “Got it.”

“Hey, Jones!” Clayton called out. “You gonna stand around barefoot all afternoon?”

I answered with a bold retort. “I’m ready when you are!” My voice sounded level, but my heart felt like it was pounding on the front door of somebody’s house, begging to be let in out of the cruel world. I started walking forward, and Stan whispered to me.

“That’s a good start. Remember the watch.”

I took three steps toward Clayton, grabbed my Spandex watchband, and whipped the watch off my arm. I didn’t even look back as I casually tossed it toward Stan. He caught it, even though it was an inch from his nose. The crowd gave another murmur at the flamboyant gesture. So far, so good. Here’s goes nothin’, folks. Give my love to Ma.

Clayton brought his long arms up in a boxer’s guard that made him look like a praying mantis in blue jeans. I crouched with fists ready, shuffling forward. Clayton kept glancing at my feet as if he thought I might suddenly turn into The Green Hornet’s sidekick, Kato, and part his hair with a ragged toenail.

Suddenly a wild roundhouse swing caught me on the temple, and I had to resist the urge to back out of range. No! I said to myself. Press the attack. Sick ‘em, Kato!

Two more sideways swings came out of far left field, but I blocked them with my thin forearms. Clayton was five inches taller than me, so it seemed only natural to swing an uppercut at his jaw. When it actually connected I was so surprised I froze for a second. So did Clayton. I’m left-handed, and he’d been watching my right hand. Encouraged by my first bulls-eye, I danced forward on nimble feet, and Clayton backpedaled to keep his reach advantage. He stumbled into the big artillery piece, and I threw a right at the pit of his stomach. It landed off-center and rapped him on his lower ribs just as he pitched a right at my face. His aim was too high, and he pounded me on the forehead. I staggered back, wincing from a sharp pain at the hairline.

Clayton was holding his fist up to guard his face, and I saw the fat cheap-looking ring on his right hand. So much for fair play.

Clayton sprang away from the big gun and hopped toward me, eager to shove that ring right up into my sinuses. I backed away. The crowd was screaming for blood. I felt like a poodle facing a pit bull at a dogfight.

“Push him, Brad!” I heard Carl shouting. “Stay close to him!”

Clayton brought his long arms within range and started shelling my face with more of those inefficient roundhouse swings. I took about three hits on each side of my head before I realized how little damage they were doing. With this knowledge came the nerve to push in closer. I ducked and dodged and blocked as I passed through the strike zone of his octopus arms, and when I got close enough I dug my right heel into the ground and drove my right fist into his nose. My knuckle missile scored dead on target, and Clayton’s head snapped back. My sneaky left fist caught him flush on the mouth and sent his head back again. My third swing fanned the air where his head had been — because now Clayton was retreating!

“Finish him, Brad! Take him down!” I heard Stan screaming amidst the roar of the bloodthirsty crowd. I danced forward, ignoring the rain of wild blows from Clayton’s flapping fists. He backed in a circle to keep from running into either the big gun or the fringes of the surrounding mob. I didn’t let him get more than two feet from me the whole time, swinging frequently at his face, even though few of them connected. He had to keep his long arms folded in close to cover his tall body. The crowd was reenacting an average day at the Roman Coliseum, enjoying the sight of hungry lions dining on unpopular religious zealots. And I was having a ball being a hungry lion.

Ah, but pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. One bare foot hit a rough rock, and down I went. I ended up on my hands and knees as Clayton rushed in like a gladiator hoping to earn a big thumbs-up from Caesar. I scrambled up as fast as I could, but he caught me on the jaw as I rose. It sent me stumbling back right into Stephen Hatchet and his buddies. They grabbed me by the arms and propelled me roughly back toward Clayton, who rapped me on the forehead again with his ring-augmented fist. He sidestepped my stumbling rush and stuck out his foot. I went crashing down again, plowing up the grass with my chin.

Clayton hurried over to take a few free swings at his disadvantaged opponent. As soon as I had my feet under me, I lunged toward his legs. His right fist popped me on my left ear just before my shoulder caught him at midthigh. I wrapped my arms around his legs and kept pushing as he stumbled backward for ten feet. We collided with the yelling crowd, right next to Hatchet and company. Clayton went down hard on his back, knocking the breath out of him. I landed smack on top of him and pulled my knees up on either side of his rib cage. The crowd was pressing in close as I hammered down at Clayton’s face.

Suddenly a hand from the crowd shoved at my shoulder, nearly toppling me off of Clayton. I turned to see Steven Hatchet standing there just as Clayton’s hand grabbed a wad of my t-shirt in the middle of my chest. He planted his right hand under my armpit and rolled us both sideways toward Hatchet. We were right at the feet of Clayton’s friends, who deliberately did not move back so that I was hemmed in by their unmoving legs while Clayton tried to roll on top of me. We were both grunting and straining in our efforts to secure the advantage, with me losing ground as I lay there sandwiched in by the enemy.

Things looked black for our hero.

I looked up at Denault’s buddies just as they were grabbed by the shoulders and spun around forcefully. I heard a meaty double impact of fists on faces, and both Hatchet and the guy next to him fell back across the struggling bodies of Clayton and me. As they tumbled completely over us, Carl and Stan appeared, standing shoulder to shoulder with clenched fists. They leaped over Clayton and me to wade in among the routed enemy to deliver a few more pointed remarks about fair play.

I turned my full attention to Clayton, feeling a savage glee. The bad guys were on the run. The Marines had landed at Iwo Jima.

I grabbed Clayton’s nose and wadded it up inside my fist just like I had done earlier in class. He quickly released his hold on me so he could grab my hand and tear it free. His nose was sore from the first time I had awarded it this mistreatment, and his nose didn’t like it any better the second time. I scrambled up quickly as the crowd surged back from what had now become a six-man fight. Stan and Carl were enthusiastically rearranging the faces of Hatchet and the other boy. Stan’s whizzing fists were a transparent blur. Carl’s fists were reminiscent of the sledgehammer that drove in the golden spike for the Transcontinental Railroad.

Clayton managed to struggle to his feet like a granddaddy longlegs doing push-ups. When his rising head came even with mine, I slapped his left ear hard with my open right hand. It pinched his eyes closed with sudden pain. I rushed in close and plowed three quick punches into his gut — one, two, three. On the third punch, Clayton made a very sincere attempt to knee me in the groin, but his knee collided with my thigh, and I twisted sideways to thwart any second attempt.

Clayton put his hands on either side of my head and clenched a double fistful of ears and hair. He spun us both around hard and sent me flying backwards. Completely off balance, I backpedaled right through the other combatants and fell down beneath the barrel of the artillery piece. I stared up at the long green cylinder of steel for a few dazed seconds as Clayton bore down on me like a freight train. Visions of Spider-Man danced in my head.

Just before Clayton reached me, I struggled to my feet with frantic haste and put my arms over the fat gun barrel above my head, chin-up style. As Clayton zoomed in for the kill, I tensed my arms to support my weight and did a Rockette kick that caught Clayton firmly on the chin. His teeth clacked shut with a lovely castanet sound. His tongue was caught in there, doing a very painful tango with his incisors.

I let go of the gun barrel, dropped to the ground, and charged forward like the NFL’s reigning MVP — Johnny Unitas — catching Denault in the pit of the stomach with my shoulder. I pushed hard with my legs and got him going backward at a good clip, then I skidded to a stop and let him do a human bowling ball into the screaming crowd. When he socked into the scrambling mass of people, he knocked a dozen of them to the ground.

“Strike!” I screamed, sporting a moronic grin as I realized I was actually winning this wacky battle. But then I saw the bystanders who were still standing begin to part like a curtain. Through the opening strode Mr. Guttendorf, the assistant principal, along with several of the male teachers. They marched into the melee with grim expressions.

“What is this? A riot?" roared Mr. Guttendorf. He looked around at the crowd of teenagers with an angry face which sent the whole mob slinking away with guilty expressions and silent prayers that he wouldn't call their parents. Guttenborf certainly didn't seem like a happy man, but nobody stuck around to debate the issue. His parting shot was like the words of Moses to the sinful Hebrews. "Go home, all of you! Right now!”

The crowd was dissolving like snow on a warm day. Clayton was fuming as he limped past me toward his friends. The fight had definitely not gone the way he had planned. Even his buddies had gotten whipped, thanks to the cavalry rescue performed by Stan and Carl. I felt a wild exhilaration at having actually won this schoolyard battle, even though the victory was by decision rather than by an actual knockout.

Clayton and his motley crew went slinking off. Carl and Stan walked up, nursing minor wounds and sporting major grins. They pounded me on the back with more force than Clayton had used in his useless windmill swings.

“Great job, Jones,” said Stan. “I knew that wristwatch trick would get him.”

“You did? Well, thanks. But I’ll bet you broke the watch while you were fighting with Hatchet.”

“Nope." Stan wore a smug look. "But I may have broken Hatchet’s watch.”

“Good.” I was grinning like a politician who’d just won his election by making outrageous false promises.

And so my day had been changed from disaster to triumph. Carl gave Stan and me a ride home in the slightly faded 1963 Jeep Wagoneer that served his family as a second car. It was an energetic vehicle, well maintained despite the dents and scratches sprinkled across its exterior. It rode on third-hand mag wheels which Carl’s father had gotten in trade for an extremely used shotgun. Carl’s father had lost interest in hunting, but retained his interest in camping, so he’d sold most of his hunting gear.

The money had been used to give the battered red vehicle an extensive overhaul. It looked like a clunker, but it ran like a Mercedes — and that’s just how Carl drove it. Carl’s father was a pilot with Eastern Air Lines, and he could have easily supplied his son with a brand spanking new Chevy Malibu or a Pontiac GTO. But Carl’s stated opinion was that if he got a car like the ones driven by the more pampered members of our age group, he might start acting like them.

Maybe it was just sour grapes, but I admired Carl for making the best of the situation, regardless of his true feelings on the matter. I’d have screamed and cried and held my breath until my daddy bought me a sexy hot rod that made it easy to get dates with those busty gals who got all breathless over such things. Call me irresponsible, call me unreliable, but my feeling was that when one went big game hunting, one used a big gun.

“So, how do we celebrate our parole?” I said as we left dear old Union Point High School in a cloud of dust.

“I don’t know how you guys are celebrating,” said Carl, “but I’m going out with Cindy.”

There was a moment of silence while Stan and I hated Carl for having a girlfriend. Life was cruel and unjust, and Carl was in danger of being pushed out the door of his own moving vehicle.

“Aha. It figures,” I said to my friend in an unfriendly way. “Well, have fun . . . you creep. And don’t think about how I envy you for having a steady woman while I’m forced to spend my time with him.” I jerked my thumb at the backseat where Stan sat, looking unsympathetic.

“Does that mean you don’t love me any more?” said Stan, gazing out the side window at a group of girls walking home together. He seemed to be memorizing their appearance in case the police ever needed a description.

“It means that until you come up with a good suggestion for how we can spend the weekend, I’m holding your Spider-Man comic hostage.”

Stan turned his attention toward me in the form of a very hostile look and a nasty remark. “Good God! You ungrateful wimp! If it hadn’t been for me, you and your cheap wristwatch would be lying back there next to the big gun, beat to a pulp!”

“Which reminds me — where’s my watch?”

“Where’s my comic book?”

“Stalemate!” shouted Carl, grinning while he focused on the road ahead, doing a fine job of driving the Jeep and following the moronic conversation and ignoring the fact that two-thirds of the people in the car wished they had a girlfriend like he did.

“Okay, we’ll trade,” I said to Stan.

“Keep it. I like the watch better.” He pulled my watch from his pocket and studied it like a pawnbroker.

“In other words, you can’t think of anything for us to do tonight.” I was applying a little psychology. Stan was peering at the watch with frowning disapproval, holding it between his thumb and index finger as if he had just fished it out of a spittoon.

“I’ve never heard of this brand name before. Is it foreign?”

“The box said Made in New Jersey.” (I just made that up, of course.)

“Aha! Then it’s foreign.” Stan handed the watch to me. “Now, gimmie my comic book.”

“Nope, I’m gonna keep it. It’s got sentimental value.”

“It’s got what?” Stan stared at me like doctors look at terminal patients.

“It’s the one I was reading the day I won my very first fight.”

Carl turned and gave me one of his easy smiles. “Apply that same logic to your socks and you’ll end up with feet that smell like old cheese.”

“Don’t be silly, Ladinsky.” I stalled for time and looked out the front window, hoping for inspiration. None came. I was desperate. Finally I blurted out the first thing I thought of. It was lame, but it was all I had. “A guy with as many girlfriends as I have would never neglect his personal hygiene.”

Carl stopped at a red light and turned to give me the same look the Hebrews gave Moses when he said, “No kiddin’, guys! We’re gonna just walk across the Red Sea!”

“Girlfriends?” said Carl. He was smiling, he was skeptical, and he was cutting me no slack for that bold claim. I smiled back, ready with a witty answer. “I have intimate knowledge of several lovely ladies.”

“Name ‘em,” said Carl. The traffic light turned green and saved me from having to endure his doubting look when the road required his full attention.

“Gladly,” I said. Stan snickered in the backseat because he knew what was coming and shared my deep and unrequited love for the same damsels I was about to mention.

I took a deep breath and dove into the soft realm of fantasy females who ruled my heart and dominated my young, romantic mind.

“Lois Lane, Dale Arden, Iris West, Wilma Deering — ”

“Oh, God. I should have known, “ Carl said. His eyes were on the road, and he wore a look that was somewhere between pity and indigestion.

“ — Ann Darrow, Dejah Thoris . . .” I went on dutifully listing the sexiest women ever to grace the silver screen, classic novels, and the greatest comic books of all time.

“Yeah. Right. Okay,” Carl said impatiently. “But I prefer real women these days. The kind I can get my hands on.”

The remark was intended to kill the joy of the moment, and it worked perfectly. The moment was shot cleanly through the head and pronounced dead on arrival. Somebody would have to call the next of kin. A depressing silence settled over the area for a moment, then I made a determined effort to break the evil spell. I turned and looked back at Stan.

“Okay, Jenner, so what are we gonna do tonight?” I flipped open the Spider-Man comic and started absently leafing through it.

Stan understood the importance of responding with enthusiasm, so he said, “I’ve got two ideas. Idea number one — we dress up like superheroes and fight crime.”

“Naw,” I said, still absently leafing. “It’s been done.” I held up the comic book so he could see page twenty-two. “See? Been done.”

“Okay. Idea number two — we get somebody to buy us some beer and we investigate the phenomenon known as intoxication.”

I froze. I was afraid to move. I knew he was serious. Stan and I had tried to buy beer once before, without success. At the ripe old age of seventeen, beer was foreign to our young lips. This was one of the many dark secrets we kept from everyone except close friends like Carl.

Another such dark secret was the fact that neither of us had done you-know-what with a female. Being a true romantic, I was reluctant to pursue the loss of my virginity just for the sake of losing it. Of course, I had come close a few times . . . like that night with a girl named Alicia, who seemed to know more about the subject that most gynecologists. But I had turned down her offer to make mad jungle love in the back seat a car because I suddenly had a vivid mental image of her being pregnant waaaay out to here and on the verge of giving birth to a bouncing baby boy who looked suspiciously like me. It was, to put it delicately, a real mood killer.

“So, what about it?” said Stan. His question brought me back to reality. I had been daydreaming in the land of Eros.

I put on a brave face, a big smile, and said, “By gum, we’ll give it try. I feel lucky.”

“I think you’ve used up your luck,” Stan said. He gave me a look filled with both sympathy and pity, but it was shot clean through with tender human understanding. He smiled at me. I smiled back at him.

“Maybe not. We’ll see.” I turned to our chauffer. “Home, Carl! Dinner awaits!”

____________________________________________


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Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)
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