(seven) "I’m gonna kill you" and Other Meaningless Threats"

(part three) Riding Bikes


“It’s awfully sad,” the first twin said cheerfully.

“I don’t see how it can have a happy ending,” said the second twin.

-Peter Pan
J.M.Barry


(seven) “I’m gonna kill you” and Other Meaningless Threats

He never let on that he knew what they had done. Not one bit. He ate the pain and the humiliation. Summer was approaching and he would be spending more time with his friends. He would need their relationships to get him through what would otherwise be long tedious days filled with nothing. Sadly, he knew that he would be forced to bide his time and to commit his energies elsewhere. The thing that was fast becoming his favorite pasttime was plotting Eddie’s death in elaborate ways; ways one could only see in a Friday the 13th movie.

It would come from nowhere, he thought. A low black car, preferably a 1967 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors, with Jake crouching in the back, slunk below the blacked-out window, would slow in front of Eddie’s house. The Intended Victim, the Mark, would be outside raking leaves or weeding the flowerbed beneath the picture window or perhaps just smoking on the porch. He would turn to look at the car, caught by the glint made by the tinted rear window rolling down slowly. A moment of anticipation would flash across Eddie’s face as if he thought Farrah Fawcett had become lost in his neighborhood and had stopped to ask him for directions; his eyes glistening at the thought of the blowjob she would surely give him in return for helping her. Then that anticipation would melt into unmitigated horror as a flaming arrow would fly from the open window to its target, the center of Eddie’s poly-cotton polo shirt. The shirt would go up like parched kindling, burning his ever-so-perfectly-coifed hair. The Mark would hit himself violently about the head and neck in an attempt to put out the flames. Desperately, he would try to drop and roll, but the arrow sticking out of his chest wouldn’t allow it. The low black car would speed away with Jake in the back, slowly, methodically dismantling his crossbow with the precision of a professional killer and snickering softly to himself.

He would rock back and forth on his bed listening to Cheap Trick Live at Budakhan, and thinking these thoughts. They would comfort him like an old wool sweater. They would clear away the utter despair of the fact that he was alone in his misery. He saw no outward signs on any of the other kids Eddie had chosen to ridicule. Alex and Scott may have winced at a particularly harsh comment once in a while, but on the whole, it didn’t seem to phase them in the least. He cursed his own sensitivity in a vane attempt to assuage the emptiness.

The kids were gathered in the street in front of the Old Polks’ House seated on their bikes, bullshitting.

Richie’s bike was a Redline Competition Model, which he bought with money he stole from his various family members’ wallets and purses when they weren’t looking. Morris’ was a plain blue Huffy refitted with moto-cross handle bars and racing seat. Alex and Scott both had matching silver Schwinn five-speeds with the car-like gearshift, the banana seat and the shock-absorbed smaller front wheel. These bikes didn’t really allow them to do many tricks or jumps, but they looked cool riding down the street.

Jake’s bike embarrassed him. It was an off-brand bike by the name of Tyler that was built in Poland. When you thought of quality bikes names like Schwinn, Raleigh, Mongoose, Takara and Huffy came to mind. Quality bikes were built in California or Great Britain or even Japan, not in Poland.

“Do you have to pedal it backwards?”, Jake’s sister Kay asked him when he was about to mount it for the first time. She said this without the slightest bit of acknowledgement to her obvious hypocrisy. She was best friends with Richie’s mom who prided herself on being three quarters-Polish.

Jake had tried desperately to get rid of the plainness of his bike. He replaced the long handlebars with moto-cross versions he had picked out of the garbage. Likewise, he took the seat off a rusted ten-speed that sat at the curb on Trash Monday. He cobbled together his makeshift BMX bike from parts he found and parts he bought with the remains of his lunch money that he’d saved. His brother Craig, a long-time Harley owner, had dubbed his little brother’s bike “an Assembler’s Special”. This brought pride to Jake’s face, because he knew that the coolest hogs were always “Assembler’s Specials”.

Jake rode up next to Richie who sat with his front wheel in the air, spinning the handlebars in a circle. Morris was bent over his handlebars, spitting on the ants that were busily trying to make their way from swarming over the crust of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich to their home near the top of the curb. Scott and Alex were busy alternately trying to strip each other’s gears and shove one another off their respective bike. They were waiting for Eddie.

Eddie came rolling down his drive on his Mongoose, banked his bike toward the curb and jumped it, crossing his handlebars and straightening them before softly landing and skidding to a halt next to Richie.

“Let’s go”, Eddie lifted his front wheel, turned his bike 180 degrees and headed for the dead end of South Martin and what lay beyond.

They were going to the track. This was not really a track in the sense that they had to pay to get in and it was professionally groomed. This was a field just inside the border of Royal Oak, located outside of Quickstad Park. The kids always referred to it as Quicksand Park because there was a rumor that there was quicksand under the pond in the woods and that a boy about their age had gone under and was never seen again.

There was another rumor that people had seen the Blue Gremlin with the Hockey Stick Stripe driving around Quickstad Park. This was the car that was driven by the Oakland County Child Killer. Rumor spread that he lived in the woods and he had buried all of his victims there.

It was the Oakland County Child Killer who had ruined two of their summers with his incessant bloodlust. If he struck on Monday, all the kids had to stay inside on Monday. Then he struck on Sunday. “The Lord’s Day, How could he?” Jake’s mother had said. Then he struck on Saturday. Not only had this serial killer terrorized the whole of Oakland County, but he had also ruined the weekends for the entire summer for most of the boys and girls in Oakland County. They couldn’t go out. They couldn’t ride their bikes past the end of the block. And, for the boys of South Martin, Quickstad Park was ‘Off Limits’. It was the Oakland County Child Killer who made the City of Royal Oak lock the fence around Quickstad. It was the Oakland County Child Killer who spoiled their fun.

But, that was a few years ago. The Oakland County Child Killer wasn’t caught; he, most likely a “he”, anyway, had just stopped killing. Some say he was caught on another charge and he was in prison, champing at the bit to get out and continue his life’s work. This was the story of the parents who found that terror was a great way to control their children. Most parents would use the ubiquitous Boogey Man demagoguery trope to keep their children in line, but with a real threat looming behind every tree parents could use it to their advantage. “Don’t go too far or the Oakland County Child Killer will get you” or “No, you can’t go up to the Mini-Mart with your friends. Do you want the Oakland County Child Killer to get you?”. Consequently, for two summers the lawns and shrubbery around every house were immaculately trimmed and neat due to the surplus of child labor.

The other story was that he died and that’s why the killing stopped. Whatever story you chose to believe, there was still no closure to the trauma of living in fear. There was no demonstration outside the courthouse. No legislation for the reinstatement of the death penalty. No victim’s family support group. No chants like, “Burn the Baby Killer” or “No Justice, No Peace” hurled at the flak-vested sociopath as he was escorted from the courthouse in chains. The terror of the Oakland County Child Killer persisted and informed every action that every parent took. They held their children’s hands a little tighter while walking in a crowd. They knew their children’s whereabouts at every moment. It was fear that made them do this. Sadly, it took the tragedy of the slayings to make them better parents. However, the aftermath of intense caring didn’t extend onto South Martin.

The boys rode their bikes through the split in the barrier at the dead end. No concerned parent came out to yell, “And just where to you think you boys are going?” They rode across Normandy (or 13 1/2 Mile Road) and steered toward the dirt track that wound its way around the tall maples and oaks that lined the two lane road. Eddie parked his bike next to one of the many graffiti covered picnic tables that were chained to the smaller trees. This one in particular had hard rock groups names scrawled over almost every inch of its surface, table and benches alike. Groups like, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin--which was invariably left “Led Zep” because, as Jake thought, the artist didn’t know how to spell ‘zeppelin’-- and Aerosmith. Sometimes it would be spelled ‘Arrowsmith’ then summarily crossed out or the word “Dumbass” was written next to it with an arrow pointing to the misspelling. Whoever had written the correction and the helpful comment had a wonderful career ahead of them teaching in Clayton’s public schools.

Morris and Richie rode around the track, practicing bunnyhops and jumps. Alex and Scott were busy walking their heavier, more cumbersome bikes through the tall grass. Eddie was already seated on the table; cigarette in hand, cupping the match in his fingers with his other hand. Jake was sitting on his bike with one Kmart Traxx tennis shoe resting across a huge ornate carving of a skull with a snake coming out of its eye that adorned the bench of the picnic table. Alex and Scott came up huffing and puffing from their labor and collapsed onto the table.

“Better stop smoking them big black cigars”, Eddie said to the twins. “They’ll kill ya.”

“Hey guys, c’mon”, Morris screamed from the track.

Jake took a couple of turns around the track, skipping the big jump, which was just a large mound of dirt at the end of a long stretch of hardpacked trail. Alex and Scott just sat there at the picnic table reading all the scrawlings like an archeologist deciphering hieroglyphics. Eddie had finished his cigarette and was banking on the last berm before the straightaway. He pumped his legs, leaning his bike from side to side, picking up speed. He steered the Mongoose down the slight embankment and up over the jump. He hung in the air, crossing his handlebars and lifting the bike into his body to gain more height. He slowly, softly came down to the dirt standing high over his seat. He then leaned left and skid his back tire around 180 degrees and ended standing. It was a feat that only Richie came close to. Richie repeated the same moves that Eddie had just done, down to the lean on the skid, but while it might have been high in technical marks, it was low on the artistic scale. It didn’t have the same panache, the same ebullent bravado. Morris’ attempt was even worse, technically sloppy and artistically weak, straight sixes on a 10-point scale. They spent the better part of the afternoon repeating this pattern, alternately showing off for each other and smoking cigarettes.

That was until the Accident.

Eddie had just finished an awesome tabletop off the big jump and had nearly wiped out on the landing. Morris was already lying on the grass rubbing his crotch, recovering from coming down hard on the frame crossbar when his right foot slipped of the pedal. Alex and Scott had howled with laughter. “You want me to kiss it and make it better?” Richie had mocked Morris’ pain. Morris did want that, only later, in his bedroom preferably performed to the song stylings of Air Supply. Then Richie called Morris a ‘pussy’.

“I’m gonna kill you”, Morris managed between the groans of sheer agony. “I swear”.

This meant absolutely nothing. It never did. “I’ll fucking kill you”, was delivered with real emotional force every time it was said. The Sayer’s eyes would widen, his nostrils would flare, teeth would be bared, hands would clutch into stiff fists or claws, the face would turn red. With all the outward markings of rage showing on the surface of The Sayer, the words would resonate with an empty echo, lifeless, powerless. A phrase that would surely strike terror in the heart of any adult if said by one of their peers, was passed off by children as mere rhetoric, hollow and harmless. It was the spoken trope that meant that The Sayer was extremely displeased with you and you had better stay away from them for a while until they calmed down. These were life lessons that would hold the boys in good stead when they finally had intimate relationships with the opposite sex.

Jake had heard the interchange between Morris and Richie as he pedaled his ersatz BMX into the apex of the molded dirt berm. His bike banked low off the wall and shot out into the series of moguls that were between the banked turn and the approach to the jump. He cleared the final hillock and began to pick up steam for the leap. His heart was pounding, his chubby legs pumping away at the black tar pedals, the racing saddle chafing at the inside of his corduroys. He raised his head and focused on the jump. Behind this, out of his range of focus, Eddie was dragging his bike, head bent to light a cigarette, across the spot where Jake intended to land.

Jake tried at the last moment to pull up, but his sweaty hand slipped free from the handlebar in the effort. By the time he thought to scream he was airborne. The bike careened up and Jake separated from it, like booster rockets from the Space shuttle. The bike landed directly across the handlebars of Eddie’s very expensive, very pampered racing bike. Jake’s bike split in two from the force. The neck assembly, handlebars and frontwheel attached, snapped from the rest of the frame. The frame fell to the ground scraping its rough metal wound down the length of Eddie’s shin. The front wheel and handlebars went rolling off into a large elm tree dripping Dutch Elm Disease Puss down the front of itself. Jake hit the hard-packed dirt on his back with a meaty thud. He lay there motionless as his brain processed the fact that he could now no longer breathe.

Terror flooded into Jake. The fall had knocked the wind out of him. He struggled to get to his feet as he tried forcefully to intake the humid air. His vision swum into tunnel vision and his head began to throb rhythmically. He suddenly thought that he might actually die here on the moist ground, the rustling trees towering over him. The last thing he would see was Eddie’s face mouthing those soothing words of concern, “You’re paying for my new handlebars”.

Then the air began to work its way into his burning lungs. He labored to fill his rotund body until his heart rate slowed enough for him to stand. He stumbled to his feet and turned in time to see Eddie rise from the ground, holding his bleeding leg, eyes rimming pink with rage.

“I’m gonna kill you”.

This time, Jake believed him.

Jake’s heart sped up again, thundering against the sweaty inside of the faded iron-on transfer of The Blues Brothers that graced the front of his shirt. Eddie turned to Richie, The Twins and Morris, who was still rubbing his aching crotch.

“Kill him.”

This was where, Jake thought, Eddie went too far. He required the utmost loyalty from the kids gathered around him, unquestioned loyalty and, up until this day, untested. Oh, he could get other kids to do things for him. Each boy had a special talent, his own modest form of super power. He could get Morris to lick anything. He could get Richie to shoplift anything. He could get Alex to beat up Scott or vice versa, at the drop of his Tigers hat. These were things that were in their nature. These were things they would readily do without incitement. They were also essentially harmless, victimless crimes. Even the paltry slapfests that the Carson boys engaged in lacked any real danger. But, what Eddie was now asking was for them to turn on one of their own. Jake knew that each individual would weigh their decision heavily, as heavily as if they were in Jake’s position. Jake trusted them to make the right decision and defy Eddie’s orders. Justice and Truth would prevail in the face of abject tyranny. This thought made Jake feel safe.

They turned on him like a pack of rabid dingoes.

Richie broke toward Jake first. Morris followed, rising in a bolt, forgetting completely his own pain throbbing between his legs. Alex and Scott looked at each other and then back at Jake. Eddie ran through them, barking “C’mon” at them over his shoulder. Jake spun on his heels and ran, his legs turning to warm, wobbly Jell-O. It was the fastest that he’d ever run in his life, well except the time he was chased by the angry mother bluejay that he’d terrorized into a frenzy, but this was a very close second.

Richie grabbed Jake’s shirt and pulled him back, ripping the seam. Jake spun quickly to wiggle free from his grip, elbows flailing wildly. His right elbow contacted Richie’s jaw. Richie released his hold and his hand flew to his face as he slowed his pursuit. Morris, lumbering a good 7 or 8 yards behind Richie, was the next closest posse member. Jake knew if he kept his pace up he would make it to his house before anyone would gain enough ground to pummel him. He jumped the orange dead-end barrier and fell into the street, scraping the soft flesh on the pads of his hands and his right elbow. He scrambled to his feet and continued his run. Morris had split the distance and was approaching the barrier. Jake was now only three houses down from his house. This is where he began to scream.

“Maaaaahhhhhhhmmm”.

Kay was at the door, of course, smoking the remnants of a cigarette she had put out so she could check if the laundry was dry. She looked up from her crossword to see Jake crossing the Bell’s lawn, with what looked like a scrawny balding boy in hot pursuit.

Eddie had leapt the barrier and was now high-tailing it toward Jake. Morris started to slow down, admitting defeat because Jake had reached his property. There was no way he would pursue him onto his own property. That was the Safe Haven. That was the De-Militarized Zone.

“What’s goin’ on here?”, Kay said in her smoky growl.

Eddie followed Jake onto his property and grabbed him.

“Get off my property”, Jake said.

“Ask me if I fuckin’ care”, Eddie spat in to Jake’s face. He reared his hand back to clock Jake.

“Do you care?”, came from area near the backyard gate. It was Craig, his arms, black with grease, crossed leisurely over the fence, dangling a Vantage Menthol from his lips.

Eddie turned and reflexively said, “Stay outta this”. Then he actually saw Craig. Eddie physically jerked from the surprise.

“C’mere”, Craig beckoned with one greasy finger.

“What?”, Eddie said.

“C’mere. I wanna tell you something”

Eddie edged over to the gate. “What?”

“Closer”, Craig smiled to ease Eddie’s fear.

Eddie had barely moved within Craig’s range when he was off his feet and flying towards the gate, his shirt gripped in the one balled grease-stained fist.

“You see that?”, Craig pointed to Kay. “That’s a lady. You watch your mouth around them, you hear me?”

“Yeah”, Eddie struggled out of his grip, wincing slightly from the smell of black grease and cigarette smoke.

“I don’t want you on this property again”. He dropped Eddie’s shirt and straightened it out, adding more and more grease with each pass of the hand.

“Now, run and tell your Mom she wants you.”

Eddie walked slowly down the driveway. When he reached the end, he turned toward Jake.

“You’re Dead”, he grimaced halfway between rage and embarrassment. “You’re so fu...You’re Dead”.

Morris fell in behind Eddie as he walked past him. Richie, Alex and Scott had pulled up the rear and joined the exodus. Jake stood, panting slightly from his run, barely able to contain the pride he had in what his brother had done for him. This pride was slowly replaced with a sinking, aching feeling of emasculation and a deep dread that someday soon he would have to prove himself without his brother’s help.

“See ya round, you Fat Little Mama’s Boy” Eddie yelled as he crossed the street. “I’ll be seein’ ya real soon”.

Craig made a quick grab for the gate latch and Eddie ran the rest of the way across the street, with Richie and Morris in tow. Alex and Scott stood on the driveway apron and looked silently at Jake.

“You comin’?”, Eddie asked them.

Alex and Scott crossed the street and made their way into Eddie’s backyard.

* * *

Jake was finishing off his second glass of ice-cold water from the bathroom sink when he heard the crash of metal against cement. He choked down the last swallow of water, dropped the cup and headed out the back door to where he was sure he’d find Craig crushed beneath his beloved olive and gold-metal-flake Duster. Jake saw Craig getting up from the ground and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“You hear that?”, Craig asked.

“What was it?”

“Came from out front”.

Craig wiped his hands on a faded red shop rag and opened the gate. He saw what had made the noise and called to Jake:

“You’re not gonna like this”.

Jake followed his brother into the frontyard.

There, lying in the front walk, were the remains of Jake’s mangled bicycle. It was split in two, true, but Eddie had done some of his own work on it to complete the rest of the demolition. The spokes were cut with wire cutters, “tin snips” his father called them, and bent in every direction. The tires were slashed, the rims were bent out of round, the seat was missing, as was the chain, and the frame was dented and gouged, the cheap paint peeling away from the metal. It was only when Jake got closer to what use to be his bike that he could make out the smell of urine.