Heywood Fetcher

by W.H. Harrod

  ~The Great Escape

  The first Heywood adventure to be recounted occurred when he was in the first grade. At the time, circa 1951, his family was living in one of the larger former Civil War border state communities where he attended class in an older inner-city school building. What Heywood recalled most about the aging nineteenth century three-story red brick structure was the fire escapes. If you can imagine all metal three-story circular grain silos situated on three sides of the school building, you’ve got the picture. But instead of being hollow to hold thousands of bushels of grain, these silos contained metal slides to allow school children to get out of the building’s upper floors as fast as possible in the event of a fire. No running over one another in a mad scramble for the narrow staircases. Instead they only needed to get in line, walk calmly to the closest emergency slide, and get ready for the ride of their young lives. Heywood couldn’t recall experiencing a fire, but he recalled the practice evacuations that occurred several times a year. Every kid in the school whose classes took place on the upper floors lived for those days. Heywood wasn’t the only six year old kid who actually thought about bringing matches to school to set a waste basket on fire so he could get more of that prime slide time.

  The next thing Heywood recollected was the teacher’s, what he considered at the time, too great of an emphasis on attendance. He often inquired as to just how much advanced education those martinets expected a first grader to absorb in a day anyway? Even at that early period of his existence he recognized the need for moderation in most things. How many times can a kid show enthusiasm over a fictitious farm animal jumping over a fence or a moon or whatever it was that got jumped over? He needed a break.

  Heywood took it upon himself to go do some exploring off the school grounds one morning while all his school chums went about squealing like little pigs whilst they played tag for perhaps the millionth time.

  Heywood had earlier become aware of the school’s proximity to the city’s then primary downtown shopping and movie theatre district. He had been there numerous times before in the company of his older brother as well as with his parents. In fact, the main shopping street was no more than five or six city blocks away from his home. Heywood had stood on the playground peering longingly towards the tall buildings in the distance on numerous occasions before one day finally deciding to make his move. It wasn’t hard to get away without being noticed. The teachers always gathered to one side, trying very hard for the short time available to them to ignore the shrieking adolescents romping with glee only yards away.

  One day Heywood simply walked slowly towards the schoolyard gate, running alongside the busy city street only yards away, slipped through and was on his way before anyone had time to take notice. Within minutes, he was a block away heading for a street lined with multiple movie theaters and department stores. Not once during his several block stroll did he notice a single person taking any interest in his solo venture. The whole world spread out before him, and he would not allow any of that pesky grass he heard adults talk about grow under his now unshackled feet. There were movie theaters to check out, department store windows to view, and possibly a bum sleeping in an alley to gape at. All considered primetime viewing opportunities to a young and adventure hungry lad.

  That is exactly what Heywood did for the next hour – he walked up one side and then down the other side of the busiest commercial street in the entire city. He checked out, in detail, what was currently showing on each of the five downtown movie theaters. Only a single venue listed anything that excited him to pester his older brother to condescend and let him tag along with him to the movies. Although he could not recall the title, he knew without a doubt it involved cowboys, Indians, knights on horses, tanks, pirates, WWII, or Lash Larue, his favorite cowboy. The man had a whip. Need one say more? Lash didn’t try to outdraw the bad guys, he merely flicked his long whip and the varmints shootin’ iron went flying.

  Heywood didn’t know how long he roamed the main shopping district street before his presence began to attract attention, but eventually it did. First, an usher, standing in the doorway of the movie theater where he lingered admiring all the movie posters depicting hirsute men bearing swords and shields glaring defiantly towards all the pedestrians on the sidewalk in front of the movie show, called out to him asking what he was doing there alone in the middle of the day. Heywood told him it was none of his business before he ambled on down the street to check out the next movie venue.

  Wouldn’t you just know it, another nosey usher standing in the doorway of the next theatre where Heywood stood for a time evaluating the merits of the current movie being offered for the public’s viewing pleasure also questioned his singular presence on the busiest shopping street in town. Heywood told him to take a hike also before deciding it was probably time to start heading back towards the school, some six or seven blocks away.

  Heywood had just about made it to the corner where he knew to turn back in the direction from whence he originally came, when he couldn’t help but take notice of a black automobile fender pulling up just to his left and inching along at the same pace that he walked. He knew something was amiss. He may have been young, but he regularly took notice of those things that looked out of place and this black shining fender creeping along beside him looked very much out of place. Heywood didn’t stop to look nor did he hasten his pace or start running. He decided to wait and see what happened. After all, he was walking along the single busiest street in the entire city. If someone bothered him, he would yell like crazy.

  The standoff, or maybe more correctly the walk-off, continued for another minute before the black fender made its move. In a split second, the fender moved up to a position just to his left. That’s when Heywood figured he would take a quick look to see if he needed to hit the afterburners and leave whomever it was behind. He didn’t get that chance because as soon as he turned to look he was met with the bemused smile of a policeman. Heywood didn’t exactly stop walking, but he did slow down to see if there was anything in particular about his person that attracted interest.

  The smiling officer riding shotgun asked the first question as they crept along together. “Are you by yourself, young feller?” the officer asked politely.

  “Yes, I am,” Heywood replied, having nothing to hide. He wasn’t a fugitive after all, just a kid who had gotten tired of playing the same stupid, you chase me and I’ll chase you games back at the school yard. He had determined a long time ago that if he went to all the work of chasing something down then he at least wanted the option of hitting it with a stick. Why else would you chase it? There has to be a point in doing something. Simply saying, “Okay, now you chase me,” just didn’t work for Heywood. In all fairness, getting hit with a stick when they got caught didn’t seem to work for all the sore losers who refused to play his game more than once.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school right now?” continued the inquisitive policeman.

  This was a trick question. Heywood knew that a simple yes or no would not work. If he said yes, he would be in trouble. If he said no, he would likewise be in trouble. This kid didn’t just ride into town on the rear end of a tobacco truck, he decided.

  “I am in school. I’m heading back now. I’ve been on recess,” Heywood declared without blinking.

  “Recess?” asked the befuddled officer.

  “Yes,” Heywood responded before the officer could continue. “I wanted to see what’s on at the movies. I got tired of playing their stupid games so I took a walk.”

  The officer had heard enough. “Get in the car!” he said rather loudly as he opened his door to get out so he could tower over a kid who barely came up to his waist.

  “I’m not lost; I know where I live. It’s down that way,” Heywood said to the officer while pointing directly to his right, which is to say he pointed towards a retail store right in the middle of the block.

  “In the car,” the officer said again as he opened the door.

 
“Well okay,” Heywood responded while doing as told and getting into the back of the car. “But I’m pretty sure my mom’s gonna be mad at me for gettin’ in a stranger’s car. I’m not supposed to do that.”

  By this time, the officer was reseated in the front of the vehicle. “Where do you live? What’s your address?” he asked in a tone of voice that came nowhere close to resembling the polite voice he first used when the police car initially drove alongside.

  “What about school? Shouldn’t I go back?” Heywood inquired in the politest tone of voice he could come up with.

  “Do you want to go to the jail so we can call your mother from there? Is that what you want?” asked the officer driving the car.

  “I live in the house next to the dry cleaners at Brook and Walnut streets. You can drop me off there,” Heywood politely answered, having become fully aware of the seriousness of his situation. If at all possible he did not want this to go any further than this little group. He already had several priors on his mother and father’s homemade rap sheet. If they got wind of this, one of his parents might just go ahead and follow through with one of the several previous threats to render his rear end incapable of enjoying a real sit down for many weeks if not months.

  Heywood didn’t just sit there like one of his classmates, the goofy knock-kneed fat kid who liked to eat boogers and always came to class each morning with the residue of several jelly sandwiches bearing witness to his being the most fortunate son of probably the nicest parents in the world. Heywood got the same bland oatmeal every single day with but a single half spoon of sugar to mask the forever coagulating concoction’s criminally bland taste.

  Anyway, his woefully undeveloped brain immediately went into high gear. He needed to think quick or it would be no “Howdy Doody” for him for a month or even longer. He really didn’t know that he could go on living if he didn’t get his daily fix of Howdy Doody, Buffalo Bob, and Clarabell the Clown via their brand new black and white television set with the huge twelve inch diagonal screen. No telling what that crazy clown might do to his main man, Howdy, without his daily support. Wasn’t he the one who always screamed to tell Howdy when that pesky clown tried to sneak up and blast that infernal air horn in his ear? That clown was a menace.

  It didn’t take long for his captors to deliver him to his place of residence - a brick, three-story structure originally built back during the gilded age when wealthy families occupied mansions along the broad avenues radiating from the bustling city center that now were partitioned into smaller apartments occupied by working class families recently arrived in the city to seek employment. Heywood worked feverishly to concoct a story that just might have the slightest chance of lessening the butt whooping he expected was awaiting his arrival.

  “Well, thanks for the ride,” he said to his captors as they pulled to a stop right in front of the once stately residence now showing signs of urban decay. “We live around back, but I’m tall enough to open the gate, so I won’t need any help from here,” Heywood added as he waited for someone to open the back door from the outside.

  The officer riding shotgun eventually turned to the driver after checking out the premises and informed him he would take the kid back and let his mother in on Heywood’s little escapade. Before long Heywood stood beside the officer outside the police car, his strong hand holding tightly to the collar of Heywood’s shirt.

  “Show me the way, kid,” he said, not bothering to even look down to see Heywood grimace at the realization that his mom was going to have to stand in front of a public official and explain just how thoroughly she was going to apply the big belt hanging on a hook in the living room for such occasions to his rear end.

  Heywood started to say something, but he never got the opportunity as the stout-armed officer started them walking in the direction of the six foot tall gate located on the far side of the structure, beyond which the rear apartment was located. If he had not had to practically skip along with the toes of his shoes barely touching the sidewalk, Heywood might have been able to come up with a few more suggestions as to how they might resolve this small matter without bringing it to his mother’s attention. The gate required the officer to reach up and unlatch it, opening the way to the rear of the house and in Heywood’s estimation, another one of those flaring nostril, steam coming out of her ears, bug-eyed, butt-spanking events that would in later years probably get a parent put in counseling.

  His mom must have heard the squeaking gate or seen them coming through the kitchen window because Heywood heard the screen door slam as soon as his feet touched down on the other side. He knew it was going to be bad because not once did his soon-to-be wild-eyed assailant look to see who had brought her wandering child safely home.

  “Hi, mom! Guess what I’ve-” was a far as he got into his flimsy account of his newest escapade before the rubber hit the road or, in this instance, before his mom had one of his ears twisted so far it could have been mistaken for an attempt by an inept three year old to put together one of those Mr. Potato Heads where the ears can be put on backwards.

  What happened next went on way longer than necessary, if anyone would have thought to ask Heywood what he thought. His mom and the grinning police officer stood facing one another discussing the prolonged torture session that Heywood expected awaited him as soon as he was securely inside the house where no other human could see what went on or hear him scream. Moments later the satisfied officer headed back to the cruiser, obviously pleased about the prospects of Heywood being beaten to within an inch of his life and also being denied his day’s most important activity, spending time in front of the TV with his main man, Howdy Doody.

  It was with heavy steps that Heywood preceded his mom through the door into the foreboding residence. He could tell from her forceful grip on his shirt collar that something special awaited him for this most recent offense. He had certainly taken notice of the near desperation apparent in her voice as she embraced him upon his initial arrival. Whatever awaited him would most likely be memorable. His instincts told him something he would probably recall far into the future was about to happen, and he was right. For as soon as the front door closed behind them, his mother turned abruptly to face him. Then she dropped to her knees and embraced Heywood with all the strength her trembling arms could muster and cried for the longest time. She did not have to say another word, for this was much worse than a spanking. Heywood knew right then he never wanted to see his mother cry like that again.