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The Hero Experience - Chapter 7

 
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Thu Mar 19, 2015 6:07 pm    Post subject: The Hero Experience - Chapter 7 Reply with quote



____________________________________________


Chapter 7


Unit 57. An 11-83 at the corner of Piedmont and Monroe. Time: 9:57.

Unit 57, copy.

An 11-83 was a traffic accident with no injuries. Boy, crime was running rampant tonight. And here were the Bowmen, asleep in Piedmont Part, smack in the middle of downtown Atlanta.

I looked around at my colleagues, all three of whom were snoozing in cramped positions. Ten minutes ago, I was sleeping when Stan had awakened me for my turn at listening to the police band radio — the police band radio that was supposed to tell us where we could make our dramatic appearance as the Bowmen — the radio that droned on and on about broken traffic lights, drunk drivers, and minor fender benders.

The stupid radio. The stupid boring radio. Whose idea was this, anyway?

The last two weeks had been a bitter disappointment. With the bows stored in the back of the jeep and our masks lying on the seats next to us, we looked like four perfectly normal guys who just happened to like wearing matching blue t-shirts. Carl had gotten permission to use the Jeep on six separate nights — which must have been some kind of record. My father had grown increasingly cheerful as the days went by without my asking to use the family car. Then I started hitting him up for gas money when the expense of our roving patrols took its toll on my meager allowance.

Unit 23 to dispatch. We’re 10-8.

Dispatch copy.

Unit 57, dispatch.

Go ahead, 57.

Minor damage on that 11-83. No ambulance required. I’ll be 10-7B for about three.

Good ol’ Unit 57 was going to be out of his vehicle for about three minutes. What drama! I looked around at some of the other cars parked near us. We were smack in the middle of Lover’s Lane, surrounded by normal couples who were doing what comes naturally on a warm Saturday evening. All the cars had their windows rolled down, making it easy for them to hear our police band radio. I could tell that several of the couples were getting nervous, suspecting that maybe we were a police stakeout (a code 5) right in their midst.

Relax, folks. All the criminals have gone north for the summer.

Unit 16, Unit 22. 10-44 in progress. The Magic Mart on the corner of 10th Street and Lee. Unit 24, stand by.

Unit 16, copy.

22, copy.

Unit 24, standing by.

I sat up straight and tall as I stared at the radio. Wow! A holdup! If only we could stop a holdup — or even help stop one — that would make the headlines. I could see it all. Fighting shoulder to shoulder with the cops, we’d knock those burglars cross-eyed with our flawless bowmanship. One crook would make it to the getaway car, but I’d put an explosive arrow right into his grill and blow the radiator to smithereens.

Go, Bowmen!

The radio rudely interrupted my mental meanderings.

Unit 16 to dispatch.

Go 16.

Suspects have departed the Magic Mart. Will relay descriptions 10-21r.

Dispatch copy.

What! The police didn’t even get there in time to stop the robbery? Pitiful! The cops certainly needed our help.

I noticed a head pop up briefly in one of the nearby cars. It was the third time in five minutes that the people in that car had looked in our direction. My goodness, we were certainly making those people nervous. I wondered why they didn’t just leave. Maybe they figured we were going to arrest anybody who tried to leave the scene of the crime.

I tried to picture what was going on in that car. It had to be something that produced a very guilty conscience. I came up with some pretty interesting mental images. Then I decided to stop picturing what was going on in that car, for the obvious reason.

The radio on the dash squawked to life.

Unit 12, what’s you’re 10-9?

Just stopped a 10-41 on 12th street. Over.

10-4. When you’re 10-8 again, check out a possible 10-59 at the Ace Mini-Warehouse at 2118 Forsyth Street.

Copy, dispatch. I’ll be 10-8 in about fifteen minutes.

Dispatch clear.

I had to look up a code 10-59 on the typewritten sheets Carl had gone back to get from Mickey McClusky’s parents the day after he'd borrowed the radio. Using a flashlight to study the long list of police codes, I discovered that a 10-59 was an illegal entry / trespassing. Somebody was snooping around the mini-warehouse on Forsyth Street. I wondered where Forsyth Street was. I grabbed the map from the dashboard in front of Carl’s sleeping head and studied it by the glaring light of the flashlight. Forsyth . . . Forsyth . . . Forsyth . . .

Ah-ha! There it was.

It was just two measly blocks from where my bored little backside was sitting. Suddenly I felt like a groom on his wedding night — ready for action and tired of waiting.

Unit 12 to dispatch.

Go ahead, 12.

I’ve got a drunk driver. I’m 10-16 your 10-9. Over.

Unit 12 had a drunk in custody and was on the way to lock him up. Poor Unit 12. He’d probably end up with vomit in the backseat of his car. But wait a second. Who would check out the 10-59?

Dispatch copy. Break — Dispatch to Unit 17.

Unit 17, go.

Possible 10-59, mini-warehouse at 2118 Forsyth.

Copy. Is this a code 2?” (Which meant: Is this urgent?)

Negative, 17. Are you 10-7? (Which meant: Are you busy?)

That’s 10-4, dispatch. (Yep, I’m busy.)

State the nature, 17. (What are you so busy with?)

There was a pause, then Unit 17 made his confession. Restroom break. Need about ten minutes.

Ah-ha! Unit 17 had to take a number two. Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Apparently there was no code for this — which seemed really weird since everybody in world knows what a number two is. Go figure, eh?

Dispatch sounded sympathetic when they replied. 10-4, Unit 17. When 10-8 again, check the 10-59 on Forsyth. Dispatch clear.

I stared at the radio like it was a coiled snake as I reached over and slapped Carl’s arm.

“Uh!” He was startled awake. “What’s wrong?

I shushed him and pointed at the radio. “Someone is breaking into the mini-warehouse, just up the street.”

Carl rubbed his eyes and said, “Yeah?” He pulled himself up straight. “Uh . . . do you think we should try this one?”

I could barely breathe as I kept staring at the radio, trying to decide. Then, finally, after thinking it over really, really carefully, I said, ”Yes.”

Carl reached back to shake Stan. “Hey. Wake up, boy.”

“What is it?” Stan mumbled.

“We're going to work, sir!” said Carl.

“What? Really?” Stan got wide-eyed right away.

The radio electrified the moment when it suddenly asked a simple question. Dispatch to Unit 17. Are you 10-8 yet?

This was definitely it. The moment we had waited for. There was a three second pause that lasted forever.

Negative, said the radio.

10-4. Dispatch clear.

Bingo! Unit 17 was busy and nobody else wanted the job right now — except for us! We wanted it so much we’d have sold close family members to swarthy foreigners who had lecherous intentions.

“That’s us!” I shouted. “Go, Carl! Crank it up! Go!”

Carl grabbed the ignition key and twisted it hard. The engine turned over a few times, but when it didn’t catch, Carl pumped the gas the way a man stomps on a brush fire threatening to burn down his farm. In the backseat, Doug was still asleep, and Stan backhanded him in the gut so hard it knocked the wind out of him.

“Up, Doug! We’re moving out!”

I started looking around the front seat desperately. “Where’s my mask? Oh, crap. Where’s my mask?”

Carl had flooded the engine in his haste, and he started swearing like a Greek merchant marine as the engine turned over endlessly without cranking. He used words I’d never heard before and hoped I wouldn’t remember. I stared at him in horror.

“You’ve flooded it!” I wailed, as if he didn’t know. He ignored me so he could concentrate on cursing at the engine that he suddenly hated. In the backseat, Doug was yawning and blinking in total confusion, perhaps thinking the car was on fire. Stan had his mask on and was twisting it to line up the eyes holes. I was leaping around on my car seat like a naked man sitting on an anthill, searching for a mask that had ceased to exist.

The engine finally caught and roared to life. Carl pumped the gas savagely, racing the engine so loudly that every head in every car around us popped into view.

“Got it!” shouted Carl. “We ride!“ He slammed it into gear just as two cars ahead of us suddenly cranked up, headlights bathing lover’s lane with unwanted light. Carl popped the clutch and left $35 worth of rubber on the pavement as we leaped forward. The screaming cry of the tortured tires brought the rest of the people in the cars around us to a full panic. Headlights blazed, and suddenly it was bright as day in all directions. Hollywood could have filmed the event without those big lights they usually needed.

Carl dodged around the two cars ahead of us, running halfway off the road in his maniacal need to break the sound barrier. I finally located my mask on the floorboard, and when I turned to see if Doug was putting on his mask, the view out the back window was so scary it probably arrested my growth. I saw a pursuing armada of automobiles, madly winding along behind us on the narrow twisting park road. Everyone was leaving because everybody else was leaving, and nobody knew the reason why. Escape now and ask questions later.

In the backseat, poor groggy Doug was blind because Stan had put Doug’s mask on without lining up the eyeholes, and now Stan was twisting Doug’s head off in a misguided effort to fix it.

My nerves were drum-taut, and I was in constant motion — looking around, drumming my fingers, biting my nails. The Jeep came blasting out of Piedmont Park like a Tomahawk missile, tires pleading for mercy as Carl twisted the steering wheel and turned us onto Piedmont Avenue, only using the two left-hand tires through most of the turn. Right behind us came the mad mob of fleeing lovers, running as much from each other as from the unknown danger that had started the stampede. They spilled out of the park and raced off helter-skelter in both directions.

With Stan’s questionable help, Doug finally got his mask turned around, but then he quickly wished he hadn’t when he saw what was going on around him. Carl’s driving bore an alarming resemblance to my own, only twice as fast. He suddenly dodged into the oncoming lane to pass several cars that were already going ten miles over the speed limit.

I seriously considered turning my mask around so I wouldn’t have to watch my own impending doom.

“Which way do we go?” said Carl, shouting above the noise of tortured tires and an overworked engine.

“What street are we looking for?” Stan asked, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.

“Forsyth Street. A mini-warehouse complex.”

He pointed straight ahead. “I think Forsyth Street is the one at the gas station at the next light.”

“Do we turn left of right?” asked Carl.

Good question. Damned if I knew. I grabbed the street map and peered at it frantically as if I’d find the words “Ace Mini-Warehouses” in big letters somewhere along Forsyth Street. Reading the map under these conditions was like trying to read War and Peace while skydiving.

“If we turn the wrong the way,” said Doug, “we’ll never get there in time.”

Carl was looking very annoyed. “We can’t just stop and ask for directions in these outfits!”

“Yes, we can!” said Stan. “Carl doesn’t have his mask on yet. He can pull into the gas station and ask somebody while the rest of us duck down.”

This was getting nuttier by the minute. The three of us dove out of sight as Carl wheeled into the gas station at a decidedly unsafe speed and skidded to a halt within a few yards of an elderly attendant in orange coveralls who was pumping gas into a Plymouth with fins bigger than the ones on Flash Gordon’s rocket ship.

Carl leaned his head out the window and called out, “Excuse me, sir. I’m trying to find the . . . “ he suddenly realized he didn’t know the name of the warehouses.

“Ace,” I whispered, lying on the seat next to him. “Ace Mini-Warehouses.”

“Ace Mini-Warehouses,” Carl said, trying to smile in a friendly manner while his impatient foot raced the engine like Richard Petty at the starting line of the Daytona 500.

I heard a faint reply, then Carl said, “Thank you, sir.” The car surged forward, and we all straightened up cautiously, afraid to look out the front window as Carl ran us up to full speed, searching for higher gears to shift the Jeep into.

“What did he say?” I asked Carl.

“He didn’t say anything. He just pointed. This way.”

We were headed west on Forsyth, hopefully in the right direction. I tried to listen to the police band radio for an update, but the growling engine drowned it out. We were all peering at the road ahead, and we all saw the bright sign with red letters on a white background: Ace Mini-Warehouses.

There were just a few cars visible on Forsyth, and none were near us at the moment. Carl doused the headlights and slowed as we approached the big gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the whole mini-warehouse complex. The gate was closed — but the chain that secured it had been cut, the lock dangling from one end. Somebody was doing things they weren’t supposed to be doing, and they were doing it four hours after the closing time posted on the big, rusty metal sign bolted to the fence to the right of the gate.

Naughty, naughty . . .

I looked up and down Forsyth Street. No police cars in sight. Okay, it was now or never. I got out and hurried over to the gate. I gave it a good push and it swung open. The complex lay before us, lit by spotlights around the perimeter. I scrambled back into the Jeep.

“Go,” I said in a voice that came out hoarse. My throat was as dry as Death Valley.

The Jeep didn’t move. I looked over at Carl. He was the only one in the car not wearing a ridiculous blue mask, so he was the only one whose nervous expression was right out there for everyone to see. Carl peered at me with unblinking intensity. In a low voice, he said, “Are you sure about this, Jones?”

Doug leaned forward from the backseat and looked me in the eye from twelve inches away. The mask covered the area around his eyes, but the look in his eyes mirrored my own heart-pounding uncertainty. And yet his voice was quiet and calm when he said, “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. After all, we’re trespassing. And the police are on the way.”

In the backseat, Stan sat in dignified silence — in spite of the fact that he was wearing a mask that made him look like an overzealous fan of The Lone Ranger. All eyes were on me. They were waiting for me to let them off the hook. They were ready to cut and run if I gave them a reason. But in spite of my own fear, cut and run was not what I wanted to do.

I spoke in a low voice, trying to sound brave and confident. "We planned to do this." I looked each of my uncertain friends in the eye for several seconds and then said, "We're ready to do this."

There was a silent moment of mutual mental debate, then Stan spoke quietly. “Well, then . . . hot damn. Let’s do it.”

That was enough for Carl. He drove through the gate and we entered the complex, then he turned left to drive slowly down the lane that went past the ends of the long warehouse buildings. The headlights were still off as we rolled along at barely walking speed, searching each row as we passed it, looking for the malicious slayer of that poor, defenseless chain on the main gate. The spotlights that circled the complex did a poor job of illuminating the alleys formed by the long warehouse buildings. They were there to discourage people from climbing over the fence.

Carl stopped the Jeep the instant he saw the pickup truck at the far end of the sixth row. It was sitting diagonally in the lane, it’s tailgate pointed toward an open mini-warehouse. Carl backed us up and turned the Jeep down the fifth row. The rest of us realized that he intended to come around the end of the building at the backside of the complex, near the truck. Good plan.

When we quietly reached to the end of the building that separated us from the culprits, Carl stopped the Jeep and wrapped his mask around his head. I turned to Stan.

“Crawl in back and be ready to hand the bows out to us.” We had practiced this. We knew what to do — if we could just keep our jittery nerves under control. Stan scrambled over the backseat, raised the Wagoneer’s rear window, and then lowered the tailgate.

“Hang on back there,” Carl whispered loudly enough for Stan to hear. Stan nodded and put his arms over the backseat, hugging it to his chest. Carl looked over at me as if waiting for the command to launch.

“Dazzle ‘em, buddy,” I said in a low voice. “Lots of light and noise.”

Carl nodded, turned to look straight ahead, and placed one hand on the headlight switch. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor with his right foot while he popped the clutch with his left. He yanked the knob that turned on the headlights and then twisted the steering wheel to the left, sending the Jeep careening around the back end of the warehouse building.

Screaming rubber pierced the air as Carl wheeled the Jeep around the corner. Our adversaries came into view. The pickup truck was piled high with the contents of the looted storage cubicle. Two men turned their startled faces toward us as the headlights swung across them. One man was tall, thin, and dark. The other was short, fat, and pasty. The contrast was striking. They dropped the cardboard boxes they had been lifting onto the truck and tried to scramble into the vehicle as we screeched to a smoking halt. I pushed open my door and leaped out just as Doug climbed out of the backseat behind me.

“Freeze! Put your hands in the air!”

The fat one actually did freeze as he stood at the passenger-side door of the truck, stunned by the disconcerting sight of four men in Lone Ranger masks and matching dark blue outfits. We must have presented quite a spectacle.

“Who are you guys?” he said in a shaky voice.

“We’re the Bowmen!” I stated firmly. “Don’t move and you won’t get hurt!”

There was an embarrassing little squeak in my voice right in the middle of my shouted command. Stan was standing at the back of the Jeep, and I turned to catch my bow in the dramatic fashion we’d rehearsed. He tossed it with perfect accuracy. I caught it perfectly . . . right on my forehead. But I grabbed it on the rebound and turned back to the men, hoping desperately they wouldn’t be convulsed with laughter. I had to resist the urge to rub my forehead where my bow had soundly smacked it.

Doug stepped up next to me and struck a dramatic pose as he held his bow at his side. But he realized he had forgotten something when he saw Stan appear next to him with a slugger already mounted on his bow. Doug hastily pulled an arrow from his bow-mounted clip. He fumbled with it, unable to position the arrow with hands that had apparently gone numb. When he finally got it into position, he raised the bow and hauled back on the bow string, apparently hoping to scare the two men.


__________


It worked too well. The fat man’s eyes went white all around as he shouted, “Oh, God! Don’t shoot me!”

He turned to flee, but then realized that ahead of him was the long alley formed by the flanking rows of the mini-warehouses. If he ran that way he’d be a chubby sitting duck for four lunatics with hunting bows.

In a blind panic he turned around and bolted straight toward us, his arms raised in front of his head. But he veered to the left, toward the opposite side of the Jeep from where Doug, Stan, and I stood, running between it and the building. Carl was following our plan to sit in the Jeep and be ready for a fast getaway, but his door was partially open. The passing fat man slammed it closed when he ricocheted off the door as he raced by.

“Cover the guy in the truck, Doug! Come on, Stan!” I shouted. The hawk-faced man had gotten behind the wheel of his truck, but Doug had moved to the right side of the alley, and the open passenger door put the driver in line with Doug’s drawn arrow. The frightened man sat there motionless with one arm held up, hoping he wasn’t about to meet the same fate a deer does during hunting season.

The pudgy runner had passed from sight when he rounded the nearest corner of the building. Stan and I turned the corner and took off after his fleeing form. We were amazed at how fast he was traveling on those pudgy legs.

When the fat man looked back over his shoulder and saw us in pursuit, he headed for a trash dumpster positioned against the back fence. He ran around behind it while Stan and I slowed to approach it cautiously from both sides. We expected to find the man cowering behind the dumpster, but just as we came to the backside of it, the fat guy rounded the corner and charged straight into me.

I slammed into his soft, jiggling belly and bounced off like a tennis ball, stumbling backward. I landed on the trash-littered ground squarely on my butt and then rolled backward until my feet pawed at the stars.

Looking up from the ground, I saw Stan come around from the back of the dumpster and leap clean over me, hot on the heels of Tubby, who was heading back toward the end of the building, right back in the direction of the pickup truck. This guy was completely berserk!

I scrambled up and followed Stan at a dead run. We rounded the corner of the warehouse just in time to see the man race up behind Doug, who no longer had his arrow drawn but was still pointing it at the man in the truck.

“Yeeee-ah!” Fatso screamed as he slammed Doug aside and made a mad dash for the open passenger-side door of the truck. The skinny man behind the wheel was instantly in motion the moment Doug no longer had him covered. He cranked up the truck just as his friend reached the open door.

A blurred shape flashed through the air, and a slugger bounced off the back of the fat man's head. His legs turned to jelly, and he slumped forward, falling halfway into the truck just as the vehicle lurched forward. The hawk-faced driver slapped his right hand onto the collar of his companion and pulled hard as he cut the steering wheel to the left. The vehicle turned and headed away from us, its right front fender and the edge of the open door glancing off the building in front of it before it completed the turn.

Carl stood on the far side of the Jeep, lowering his bow as he looked over at me. As Doug struggled painfully to his feet, Carl hurried around to the back of the Jeep and tossed his bow inside.

“Let’s go get ‘em!” he shouted.

I dashed over and retrieved the slugger he had fired while Stan stood at the back of the Jeep, quickly stowing the bows as they were tossed to him. He slammed the tailgate closed after I handed him mine. The three of us dove into the Jeep from both sides with no attempt at grace or dignity. Carl popped the Jeep into gear, and we took off before Stan and I had even closed our doors.

The chase was on!

The pickup truck was rapidly losing its cargo. The tailgate was still down, and the sudden acceleration had started an avalanche of furniture, boxes, and garden tools that littered the asphalt alley behind it while it sped away. We could see the dangling feet of Chubby, still hanging from the open passenger door. Carl swerved and dodged in an effort to avoid the obstacles, but it was impossible. We bumped over lamps and smashed through boxes as we pursued the fleeing truck. It was a wild ride as we surged left and right, narrowly missing the buildings on each side. The police band radio skidded back and forth across the dashboard each time we lurched sideways, but I was too busy hanging on for dear life to rescue the poor thing.

Directly ahead of the truck was the perimeter fence that separated the Ace Mini-Warehouses from Forsyth Street. The truck swerved around the end of the building on its left, and I held my breath to see if poor Pudgy would be thrown out the door. Somehow, the driver held him inside the truck and completed the turn as the last of his cargo spewed out the back, bounced along the pavement, and collided with the fence in a cascade of debris. We rounded the end of the building a moment later, just in time to see the truck lock up its brakes and run head-on into a police car. The hood of the police car flew up on impact, and steam exploded from its ruptured radiator.

“Go left! Go left!” I shrieked.

Carl twisted the steering wheel, sending us down the next alley between the rows of storage cubicles. The police band radio slid along the dashboard and tried to dive out the window on my side, but I snagged it in midair and hugged it against my stomach. Carl floored the gas pedal, and we raced between the buildings, the doors of the mini-warehouses flashing past on both sides.

“Get around behind the — ” I started to say.

“I know, I know!” Carl said in a strained voice. “Quiet! I’m trying to drive.”

We made a squealing right-hand turn at the end of the alley and raced along the back perimeter of the complex until Carl cut right again and put us back in between the buildings. Ahead of us we could see the main gate at the other end. The Jeep lurched forward, engine roaring, and I felt every muscle in my body tense as the open gate rushed up to meet us.

When we shot across the gap between the end of the buildings and the main gate we caught a glimpse of the rear of the police car, fifty feet to our right, before the Jeep plunged out onto Forsyth Street, narrowly missing a passing car. The Jeep titled dangerously as Carl slid it across the road and lined it up with the yellow traffic lines. After fishtailing for a few heart-stopping moments, Carl floored it for our dramatic getaway.

We raced along in stunned silence for a quarter mile, then Carl spoke quietly.

“I wonder if the policeman was hurt.”

After a few seconds, I said something a bit less unselfish. “I wonder if he got a good look at us.”

“Turn up the police band, Brad,” said Stan from the backseat. “See what they’re saying about the whole thing.”

I put the radio back on the dashboard and turned up the volume. There was a few seconds of chatter that we couldn’t make out, then we heard — vehicle appeared to be a dark-colored station wagon, but I didn’t get a good look. When last seen they were headed west on Forsyth at a high rate of speed. Over.

10-4, Unit 17. Break. Dispatch to all units responding to the incident on Forsyth. Be on the lookout for a dark-colored station wagon traveling west on Forsyth at high speed. Dispatch out.

Carl slowed down and started driving the speed limit, minus five miles per hour. We all yanked our masks off before somebody in a passing car noticed us. We were all looking around in different directions, praying to God that we didn’t see a police car. We held our breath and waited for the radio to say that a police unit had spotted a red Jeep Wagoneer containing four foolish teenaged boys in dark masks, sweating profusely into their new blue t-shirts. Several minutes crawled past as we all wished we’d never thought up this suicidal scheme.

After ten full minutes went by without any of us spotting a pursuing police car and no mention of us on the radio, we finally realized the truth.

We’d done it.

We’d gotten away with it.

We had thwarted a pair of evildoers and delivered them into the hands of the police. And after doing so, we had ridden off into the night like Zorro on his jet black stallion.
______________________________________________________________

Lift the receiver, put the dime into the slot, dial the number.

I was sitting in a phone booth located at the back of a brightly-lit drugstore a few miles from the location of the Bowmen’s debut appearance. The phone rang just once before a voice said, “Atlanta Police Department." (beep).

The beep meant the call was being recorded. Make it good, Jones. My friends were crowded around the open door of the phone booth, hoping I wouldn’t screw this up too badly.

“Yes sir, this is the captain of the Bowmen. We wanted to find out if the officer who responded to the 10-59 at the Ace Mini-Warehouses was injured when his patrol car collided with the suspects’ vehicle.”

I was reading my speech right off the scrap of paper I had written it on, but I hated the quavering sound of my voice. I was trying to make my voice sound deep and heroic, but it sounded like a nine-year-old asking his father to explain the birds and the bees.

There was a silent pause at the other end of the phone, then the voice said, “Who did you say you were?”

“I’m the captain — the team leader — of the Bowmen. We’re a vigilante group of crime fighters who are dedicated to aiding the police.”

The paper in my hand was shaking so badly the words were blurred. When I had written my little speech a few minutes ago, it had sounded like pure Macbeth. Now it sounded like something Mickey Rooney would say to Judy Garland in an old Andy Hardy movie. I fully expected the police officer to tell me to put my mother on the phone so he could tell her I was making prank calls.

What I got instead was a serious answer to my question. “No, the officer is fine. He only suffered minor injuries. Uh . . . could I have your name please?” (beep)

I took a deep breath and tried to sound twenty years older than I was. “Sir, just call me Captain. I’m the leader of the Bowmen. We’ll be helping out from time to time. We know the police are overworked, and we feel it’s our duty to . . . well, keep the public safe from . . . crime.”

I had used up everything on the paper in my hand, and my ad-libbed remarks were beginning to seem awkward and dumb.

The voice on the phone sounded distinctly puzzled. He didn’t know quite what to make of the whole thing. Apparently he decided to err on the side of courtesy, so he said, “Well . . . thank you. We appreciate any support the public can give us.”

“You’re quite welcome, sir. Good night.” I hung up the phone before I could say anything to spoil this perfect moment, then I burst into a lunatic laugh that startled my friends. They exploded with questions about what the police department had said, and I repeated what I could remember from the brief conversation. I pushed my way out of the phone booth as they all started pounding me on the back and congratulating me for not fainting while I told the most outrageous lies imaginable.

“Great job, Captain,” said Carl. “Your squeaky little voice hardly broke at all.”

“You’ll get better with practice,” said Stan as he held up a dime. “It’s time to make us famous.”

I took the dime in my trembling hand and stepped back into the phone booth, clutching the piece of paper with the notes we’d made for this next call, which was chock full of lofty terms and impressive phrases I could use to make us sound dashing and daring. The guys all crowded around the door again as I looked up the number and dialed it.

A fast-talking woman answered on the second ring. “Atlanta Journal-Constitution. What department, please?”

“Oh . . . ummm . . . who do I report a story to?”

“Local, city, state, or national?”

“A burglary. Well, an attempted burglary.”

“I’ll transfer you to the city desk. Please hold.” There was a click, then a ring, and then a tired male voice.

“Matt Daniels, city desk.”

I fumbled with the paper in my hand, swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried to deepen my voice, mostly in vain. “Good evening, Mr. Daniels. I’m the captain of the Bowmen, a vigilante group who is dedicated to aiding the police.”

There was a pause, which I desperately hoped was the result of Mr. Daniels being extremely impressed by what I had just said. His glib reply ended that idea. “Is that so? What can I do for you, partner?”

I tried not to sound like I was reading from the paper in my hand. “Sir, we just wanted to be sure you got a reliable report about the burglary on Forsyth Street, tonight. Two men were looting a mini-warehouse, and we assisted the police in apprehending them.”

There was long pause. Finally he said, “Oh, yeah?” I heard him chuckle. “Well, how ‘bout that?” Another pause, then he said, “Who’d you say you were?”

“We’re the Bowmen — a group of volunteer vigilantes who use bows and special arrows to fight crime.”

A very long pause this time. I wondered for a moment if he had hung up. Then, with noticeable skepticism, he laughed and said, “Say, is this on the level?”

“Absolutely,” I said, striving for grave dignity. “You can confirm this by calling the Atlanta Police Department. One patrol car was damaged in a collision with the culprit’s vehicle when they tried to escape, but two other police units responded as backup.” I had to stop, cover the mouthpiece, and breathe deeply for a second. I was hyperventilating. My friends who jammed the doorway of the phone booth were grinning from ear to ear and started miming silent applause. I had to look away so I wouldn’t start giggling as I continued.

“But we were the first on the scene, and the culprits were actually fleeing from us.”

That got his attention. “No kidding?” All skepticism was gone from his voice. “Okay, let’s back up a little. Just who did you say you were, again?”

I was encouraged by his sudden change in tone. He was impressed. I suddenly felt four inches taller and ten years older.

“We’re the Bowmen,” I said. My voice didn’t waver a bit. “We use a special kind of mercy arrow that stuns rather than kills. One of the culprits at tonight’s burglary was knocked unconscious by one of these. But he’ll recover quickly.”

Holy moly. Where did that phrase come from? I didn’t know, but I loved it. There was another pause, and then Matt Daniels said, “Mercy arrows?” This guy didn’t know what to make of all this, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Exactly. We’ll be calling you occasionally to give you an accurate report of our activities. We wouldn’t want any misinformation to . . . tarnish our reputation.” Nothing I’d just said was on my piece of paper, but it sounded pretty good. I was starting to get a little cocky.

“Hmmm. I can see how that might happen.” I could tell he was playing along without really buying the whole act. He paused, then he said, “Uh, I want to be sure to write the story accurately, so could you please spell your name for me?”

Nice try, buddy. I smiled and spoke very distinctly, “The Bowmen — b-o-w-m-e-n.” I was young, but I wasn't stupid.

He chuckled again. “No, I meant your name, sir.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Oh, I see. Just call me Captain. I’m the team leader.”

Still chuckling, he accepted defeat gracefully. “Well okay, Captain. I appreciate your calling me about this. Let me give you the direct number to my desk so you won’t have to go through the switchboard next time.”

I frantically made writing motions to my friends until they caught on, but the only pen we had was back in the Jeep where we'd written the notes for the two phone calls. So finally I just said “Okay, sir. Go ahead.” He gave me his number, and I pretended to write it down. Then I said, “Thank you, Mr. Daniels. We’ll be in touch.”

“You do that. And real soon, okay?”

I hung up and then watched my hands start shaking uncontrollably. All the pent up tension of this amazing night went racing along my nerve endings and tried to arc out of my fingertips like an electrical overload. I slumped back on the seat of the phone booth for a moment, breathing heavily and sweating like a nervous groom. My buddies lost the jubilant looks on their faces and stared at me like I’d just broken out with smallpox.

Stan shoved Doug and Carl aside and bent down to look at me with a worried expression. “Hey, Jones . . . you okay?”

After a moment I smiled and said, “Sure. I’m fine.” I gazed at each of them for a moment and then I said slowly, “I just can’t believe we actually did it. Wow. “

All three of them suddenly realized that I wasn’t having a heart attack. I was reacting to the total and complete success of something that should have been the biggest disaster of the twentieth century. They all started grinning at each other as they came to the same conclusion. We’d pulled it off. We’d out foxed the whole city — and we hadn’t been killed in the process.

Finally Doug turned to me and asked impatiently, “Well, what did that guy say to you?”

I drew a deep breath of total satisfaction and said, “He said to call him directly the next time. He wants to handle our reports personally.”

Carl and Doug grinned and started slapping each other on the back like the team who had just won the World Series. They turned and headed for the Jeep, leaving Stan there wearing a faint smile as he gazed down at me. I stepped out of the phone booth and started walking with him toward the front of the store.

I was euphoric with the success of our mission, but Stan was shaking his head while he wore a somber look. Puzzled, I said, “What wrong?”

Stan heaved a big sigh. “I just think we should wait and see how the story reads before we start passing out cigars. Remember, the goal of this project is to create a news article that convinces people that superheroes are patrolling the city.”

I was amazed, aghast, dumbfounded. How could Stan think we hadn’t succeeded?

Then I remembered all those chuckles from Matt Daniels. Maybe the story he would write wouldn’t be quite as flamboyant as we were hoping for. I walked out of the drugstore wearing the same worried look as Stan.


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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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