The Benevolent Lords of Sometimes Island

by Scott Semegran

  “Very funny,” Brian said, trying hard to catch his breath. “William, whose backpack you got?”

  I shrugged, then sat the backpack in my lap.

  “I think it’s Billy’s. It sure is heavy,” I said.

  “Open it,” Miguel said. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

  I unceremoniously unzipped the backpack and pulled out its contents. In my hand was a large, clear bag of skunky vegetation that was most likely marijuana, although we didn’t know for sure, having never been around marijuana, but certainly hearing about it. Underneath that in the backpack, thousands of dollars in various denominations of paper bills, some wadded, some rolled, and some just loose.

  “Oh shit!” Randy said, his proclamation echoing.

  Yep. What he said.

  2.

  What would you do if you found a bag filled with money? I imagine most people would fantasize about what they would do with all of it. Maybe they’d daydream about buying a fancy car (Italian sports car, fine leather seats). Maybe they’d imagine shopping for some fancy clothes (Nike tennis shoes, double-breasted suits). But the four of us—huddled and scared in that stinky culvert—we didn’t discuss any grand plans after I unzipped that backpack. All we could think about was how to escape. We knew, without a doubt, that if Bloody Billy found out we had his backpack, then he and his gang would pulverize us. And we didn’t want to get pulverized. So, when all the commotion above ground calmed down and all we could hear was the wind rustling the leaves across the dry grass and the exposed roots of the ever-watching trees, we quietly crawled out of the culvert to retrieve our fallen bikes. But rather than go the typical way home along that path, we cut through the wooded area to find a different street to ride home. We figured the Thousand Oaks Gang was leading the security guard on a wild goose chase through the neighborhood and would most likely come back as soon as Billy discovered he didn’t have his backpack. We wanted to be long gone by then.

  Brian suggested we ride to his house being that his family lived in Hidden Oaks, instead of Thousand Oaks like the rest of us, as well as most of the Thousand Oaks Gang. That seemed like a pretty good idea.

  “Besides,” he added, “It’s Taco Thursday at my house. You guys hungry?”

  Even better.

  The prospect of food was always convincing, and Brian was a persuasive host. He patted his auburn Afro some more, a habit that never ceased to boggle my mind since his hair never seemed to move or be out of the desired shape, no matter what he did. I always secretly admired his hair’s fortitude and resistance to change. It was his suave helmet, for sure.

  We followed Brian to his house, a massive, brick two-story monstrosity of luxury we all dubbed The Mansion, being that it was larger than the rest of our families’ more modest homes over in Thousand Oaks, and whose manicured lawn deemed it country club worthy. Brian’s parents were like The Huxtables incarnate, the well to-do fictional family lead by actors Bill Cosby and Phylicia Rashad on the NBC sitcom, The Cosby Show. Brian’s dad was a doctor—an oncologist more specifically—and his mother was a lawyer (what her specialty was, I didn’t know). And, if you can imagine that powerful TV couple, then you know exactly what Brian’s parents looked like: successful, amiable, and authentically African-American. We rode our bikes up the long driveway that snaked around The Mansion where a detached, three-car garage sat, with a winding cobblestone walkway slithering through the pristine, Bermuda grass to the house. We tossed our bikes on the ground like we always did and followed Brian in the back door. Inside, the smell of delicious food greeted us and we took our dirty shoes off in the boot room (which was almost the size of my family’s living room, just saying) and lined them up against the wall, as Brian’s mother had instructed us many times. I peeled Bloody Billy’s backpack off my sweaty back and held it at arm’s length. A stench clung to it like an apparition, a stinky reminder of the illicit package inside, underneath the adhered patches with band names like Judas Priest and AC / DC. I remember thinking to myself, I don’t want this anymore.

  “What do I do with this?” I said to everyone, and to no one.

  “Just hang it there,” Brian said nonchalantly, pointing to a brass coat rack attached to the wall.

  “OK,” I said, glad to be free of the smelly backpack.

  “Ugh, it stinks,” Miguel griped. He pinched his nose, then swatted at the air with his other hand, but the stench was cloying. The only thing to do was walk away.

  We followed Brian to the kitchen where his parents were happily preparing dinner. At that moment, we caught them slow dancing to a song by the Commodores. Brian was not pleased with their show of affection for each other.

  “Mom! Dad!” he said, turning his head with disgust.

  “Sorry, son,” his dad lamented. “It’s our wedding song.”

  His mother pulled away and dusted herself off, as if particles of her husband’s love and affection clung to her denim apron. She shook her head as she snickered at her son’s protestations. Whenever I was at Brian’s house, his parents were always clinging to each other, their love too strong to be contained by decorum. To be honest, I thought it was sweet. But I don’t blame Brian. What kid likes to see his or her parents necking, especially when their friends are around? Totally disgusting.

  “Do your friends want to stay for dinner?” his mother said, frying succulent ground beef in a gourmet pan on a fancy restaurant-style stove. “It’s Taco Thursday.”

  “Yeah!” we collectively replied. Who would turn down free homemade tacos?

  We grabbed some leather stools and sat around the massive island which took up valuable real estate in the middle of the kitchen—its shiny, glistening granite top cool under our sweaty forearms. The smell of dinner cooking was intoxicating: ground beef frying, beans stewing, and tortillas warming in a large skillet. Brian’s father, who preferred to be called Mr. Johnson, beamed as he stood next to the island, his fists pressing against his hips, his growling belly pressing against his cashmere cardigan. He still wore his pants from work and looked like a super hero in repose, a few droplets of red on the front of his pants, which could’ve either been blood or ketchup. It was hard to tell.

  “I know Brian has been busy writing letters to congressmen for a recommendation for Eagle Scout. What have you boys been up to?” he said.

  Brian feigned embarrassment.

  “Dad!” he protested.

  “What?! I’m proud of you, son,” he said, winking at his boy. “William, what keeps you busy?”

  “Oh,” I started, a little embarrassed. I didn’t like to be the center of attention. “Just working on art. And writing.”

  “That’s wonderful!” Mr. Johnson bellowed. “Art and writing are good for the soul.” He turned to Randy. “What about you?”

  Randy’s face lit up. Unlike myself, Randy loved the attention, and took any and every opportunity to talk about himself.

  “I’ve been working on my comedy act.”

  “Comedy act? You mean jokes?”

  “Yeah, jokes.”

  “Like Richard Pryor? You hear that, honey?!” he called out while thumbing at Randy. She continued without looking at us, pushing the ground beef around in the pan with a spatula. “Randy wants to be like Richard Pryor!”

  “Well,” Randy said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “No one’s like Richard Pryor.”

  “That’s true,” Brian’s dad agreed. “He’s an original. Tell me a joke then. Wha’ cha got?”

  Randy looked at the three of us, sort of perplexed, as if his brain was riffling through all the jokes he’d been consuming, and all the other functions his brain controlled seized up like an automobile engine after burning off all its lubricating oil. Then his face lit up.

  “What did Helen Keller’s parents do to punish her for swearing?”

  “I don’t know,” Brian’s dad said. “This better be good!”

  “Washed her hands with soap,” he said, then extended his own hands as if to say Ta-da!


  Brian’s dad burst out laughing, a loud, booming laugh that shook the kitchen like thunder.

  “That’s good. I like your enthusiasm, too.” Then he turned to Miguel. “What about you?”

  “Me?” Miguel said, pointing at his chest, the upturned collar of his shirt an added bit of emphasis to his surprise.

  “Yeah, you. I’m not talking to anyone else,” he said, chuckling.

  “I’ve been studying ancient rulers.”

  “Ancient rulers? Ya mean, like Napoleon?”

  And with this question, Miguel’s face lit up. “Yes, but more like the difference between benevolent and malevolent rulers in history. I’m curious as to why the rulers of history chose to go down one path or the other. Very fascinating.”

  “Really?” Brian’s dad replied. He was caught off guard a bit. “Seems a little heady.”

  “Yeah,” Miguel quipped, smirking. “Heady.”

  “Well, I’d offer you boys some brewskies, but I wouldn’t want to offend your parents. So, how about some root beers?”

  “Yeah!” we answered.

  He pulled four cans of Barq’s Root Beer from the giant Amana refrigerator.

  “Now, you boys keep up these fine hobbies and don’t get yourselves into any trouble messing around with drugs or anything like that.”

  When he said the word drugs—drawing out the ‘u’ in a throaty uh sound—we cocked our heads back and looked at each other, a little surprised at even the mention of the word, as if he knew what we discovered earlier in the backpack of Bloody Billy while huddled in the culvert, the same stinky backpack hanging on the wall in the boot room.

  “Dad?!” Brian said. “You can’t be serious right now?”

  Mrs. Johnson agreed with her son’s lament. “Leave them alone, dear.” At which time, she turned the stove off, poured the ground beef into a serving bowl, then placed it on the island with the rest of the taco fixings. “You boys eat up now.”

  The four of us and Mr. Johnson made ourselves decadent tacos, piling beef, shredded lettuce, and mounds of cheese on top. It seemed to please Mrs. Johnson that we all were enjoying a meal together. She lovingly watched us without fixing herself a plate, probably still on the Elizabeth Taylor Diet or something (she was always boasting about starving herself with one strange diet or another in 1986).

  “Dear?” she said to her husband. “You should invite Brian’s friends to join us this weekend.”

  “This weekend?” he said, his mouth already filled with food and bits of beef showering the island.

  “Ya know? Camping?”

  “Yes! Camping,” he stammered, deliberately chewing the rest of the food before continuing. “Good idea. Would you boys like to join us camping? We’re driving the camper up to Canyon Lake for the weekend. It’s nice to get away from civilization for a few days. You boys don’t need to bring a thing ‘cept yourselves. What do you say?”

  “Yeah, guys,” Brian continued, finally pleased with something his parents said. “It’ll be fun! Plus, I can show you all the stuff I’ve been learning for my Eagle Scout.”

  The three of us were generally agreeable, except I was worried about asking my parents. Sometimes, they could put a damper on things, especially if it was anything I considered to be fun. They could be real sourpusses. Randy could sense my reluctance and he already knew what I was reluctant about.

  “It’ll be fine,” he said, putting his hand on my back. “Tell them we’re all going.”

  “All right.”

  “Yeah,” Miguel chimed in.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “I’ll ask them as soon as I get home.”

  When we finished eating, it was getting late. I thanked Brian’s parents for feeding us, which they agreed was simply the right thing to do, and said goodbye to my friends. I went into the boot room to retrieve my shoes and was reminded about the backpack from its lingering stench. As I slipped on my shoes, Randy appeared next to me. It seemed he also remembered the backpack—including the illicit items it contained inside—and was curious what I was going to do with it.

  “I don’t know. Put it in my room somewhere,” I answered.

  Randy nodded. Most people would’ve been suspicious with a friend running off with a backpack full of money, but not Randy. We trusted each other. We had an unspoken bond. And stashing the backpack in my room seemed to be just as plausible an idea as any other.

  “Cool. See ya tomorrow!” he said, then bolted back to the kitchen, probably for some dessert.

  I took the back-way home, just in case any of the Thousand Oaks Gang was out and about. The back way consisted of a short ride to the end of Brian’s street which turned into a cul-de-sac. A handy cutout for a yet-to-be-laid cement driveway for a future custom home was the portal to a wooded area that separated Hidden Oaks from Thousand Oaks, and I rode my bike through it as fast as I could. I didn’t see anyone from the Thousand Oaks Gang on the way, which was quite a relief, although I could hear the bellowing exhaust of their sports cars somewhere in the distance. That sound was a frightening reminder that they could appear at any second to terrorize us.

  When I got to my house (tinier and simpler compared to The Mansion that Brian’s family owned), I tossed my bike into the unkempt grass next to the broken lawn mower by the back door, and ran inside. But instead of greeting my parents in the kitchen—where they were finishing their own dinner of Hamburger Helper accompanied with iceberg lettuce salad and cherry Kool-Aid—I went straight to my room and closed the door. It was my sanctuary and I knew my mother wouldn’t come in. The décor was pretty much unchanged from my early elementary school years and I liked it that way. On the floor were my precious possessions: Micronauts action figures, Hot Wheels race cars, Star Wars action figures and vehicles, Evel Knievel doll and motorcycle, Shogun Warriors in various sizes, and a pile of Legos intermixed from various sets. My art supplies were spread across the floor as well and, as I scurried to my desk to find a screwdriver, I stepped over the various markers and coloring pencils strewn on the dingy shag carpet as well as my latest obsession: coloring the black and white pages of a pocket book copy of The Amazing Spider-Man.

  “Billy!” my mother called from the kitchen. Remember, she liked to call me Billy even though I preferred being called by my real name: William.

  “Yeah, mom?” I replied. “What is it?”

  I opened the top desk drawer and found a flathead screwdriver. “Yes!” I enthusiastically whispered to myself.

  “Are you going to eat with us?” my mom called out.

  “Be right there!”

  With the screwdriver in hand, I opened my closet, shoved the hanging clothes to one side, which revealed what I was looking for: a metal plumbing vent. I unscrewed the vent cover from the dry wall and set it on the carpeted floor. Inside the gaping, rectangular hole in the wall, I could see plumbing pipes and pine wood studs connected with cob webs, dead bugs clinging to the white strands like Christmas ornaments. I quickly shoved the stinky backpack into the gaping hole, propped the vent cover back over it, and screwed it back to the wall. Satisfied with the hiding place, I slid the hanging clothes back and closed my closet doors.

  My mother continued to call from the kitchen. “We made cheesy Hamburger Helper. Your favorite!”

  “I said I’ll be right there!”

  I put the screwdriver back in the desk drawer, then joined my parents at the dinner table in the kitchen. At their insistence, I ate a huge helping of Hamburger Helper, then had mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert. I didn’t mention a word about the Thousand Oaks Gang but the knowledge of what I was hiding in my room gnawed at my insides. I hated the idea that my mother might snoop around in my room the next day while I was at school, so I thought of better ways of concealing what was hidden in the wall of my closet—maybe stacking some dirty clothes in front of the plumbing vent or piling up sets of toys and boardgames—while finishing the last of my dessert.

  3.

  The next day during lunch, the F. D.
R. cafeteria was abuzz. Summer was around the corner and all the kids were chattering about their vacation plans with their families over lukewarm tray lunches (Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes or pepperoni pizza with corn) and brown sack lunches. The smell of bleach and reheated meat products always mixed into a noxious aroma that permeated the walls of the loud and raucous cafeteria, along with the stench of teenage hormones and body odor. My three best friends and I chattered, too, about our camping trip that night with Brian’s parents. Brian wanted to make some things clear about his parents and their unique set of rules for camping, mostly that there really weren’t any rules except to respect their “alone time.” It seemed his mom and dad were looking forward to this trip just as much as we were.

  “They like to reconnect on these camping trips,” Brian said. “And when I say reconnect, I really mean hump.”

  “Ewww!” we all agreed. The idea of discovering Brian’s parents in the throes of passion was terrifying to our young minds. I think we would’ve preferred traipsing across fresh roadkill to viewing any of our parents doing it.

  “But on the other hand,” Brian continued. “That also means we can do whatever we want! Just remember, when my dad says, if the camper is a rockin’..., then you know what he’s talking about. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “That’s disgusting but 10-4!” I said, then pointed at a desirable lunch item in front of Brian. “I’ll trade you my Capri Sun for your Little Debbie cake.”

  “Duh!” Brian agreed. That was a good trade between us.

  “I don’t think I can go,” Miguel said. “My mom said she doesn’t want me to miss church.”

  “What’s missing one Sunday at church gonna do?” I said, unwrapping the Little Debbie cake, then shoving it whole into my mouth, which didn’t impede my ability to communicate. “How many-thh have yoouu missed-thh? None-thh?!” Spittle and Little Debbie bits rained on my friends as they attempted to swat them away.