by Mike Morris
When we questioned Willie, he explained that he had heard my parents coming down the hall and escaped through a bedroom window. He told the delivery guy that the beer was a surprise for his father’s birthday, but his father had come home early. The delivery guy either bought the story or just did not care. He took the money and handed Willie the case of beer.
Leo and Willie also came up with the idea of late night drives. It began with us sneaking out at night, rolling our parents’ car out of the driveway, coasting it down the street, then starting it up and driving around for a couple hours. Not only did we not have permission to take the car, none of us had a driver’s license. Eventually, Willie started hot-wiring cars. In my limited vision, that seemed like a sensible thing to do – that is until he accidentally set one of them on fire and it completely burned up. Later at school, Leo heard an upset classmate complaining that someone had burned up his car. Leo did not offer any information.
We returned to rolling one of our parent’s cars out into the street and driving carefree into the night. After a couple of close calls, we decided stealing cars was not worth the fear. First of all, when I was driving, I almost crashed because I did not realize one had to slow down to make a 90-degree turn. I think that near-death experience awoke a dormant but sensible fear in some of us. Another time, we were cruising the brand new Washington, D.C. beltway when we spied a roadblock up ahead. There was no way to avoid the roadblock, so Willie, who was driving, reluctantly fell in line, entering a long procession of automobiles. We could see up ahead that the police were stopping each car, shining their flashlights into the vehicle, and checking licenses or something. We knew there was no way out and we were doomed. Jimmy Loance went into his, “My father is going to kill me! I’m dead! I’m dead!” routine.
As the line of cars moved slowly toward the police, our outlook was pretty tragic – five kids in a stolen car – nobody old enough to drive – it did not look good. However, while the rest of us were totally unnerved, Willie Wennett remained calm and cool. And miraculously, when our turn at the roadblock arrived, the police nodded at Willie and waved us through without checking anything! I think that incident may have been the cure for our illegal late night drives. I remember that being the last one.
27
Barbie Riskey
Due to the “Barbie Riskey” factor, the school hallways could be exceptionally warm. Barbie Riskey was the state strutting champion as well as the first girl I ever kissed. Barbie and I had often taken bus trips with the majorette and drum corps. She was very talented and very beautiful. I was very handsome and very cool. We were attracted to each other, but neither of us had a clue how to express it. Upon witnessing Barbie and I playfully punching each other, and recognizing it as an expression of our mutual attraction, some of the more mature and worldly girls in the group thought they would help us along the road to romance. They arranged for us to sit in the last seat of the bus, far away from the adult chaperones. We were still pretty helpless, so they gave us a bag of potato chips with special instructions on how to eat them. Barbie was to hold a chip halfway into her mouth. I was to take it from her using only my mouth. As we tried to follow their instructions, the older girls were leaning over the seat coaching us; we were giggling; the chips were breaking; crumbs were going everywhere; and I was thinking, “I don’t like potato chips.”
Anyway, it wasn’t producing the desired effect, so the coaches conferred and came up with a new plan. They took the bag of chips and replaced it with a Hershey’s candy bar. After instructing Barbie to place one square of the chocolate halfway into her mouth, I was again instructed to take the other half with my mouth. I have always liked chocolate, but as much as I liked it, by the second square, we were finished sharing Hershey’s chocolate, the coaches were turned around in their seats, and we were on our way to new and better things.
Like I said before, nothing in life lasts forever. For some reason I can’t recall, Barbie and I split up. It must have been a bad experience for her because from that day on, wherever I might go there was always this horrible, hulky guy on a mission to kill me. The face was different, the body different, but they all had the same apparent commission from my ex-girlfriend to physically abuse me. Their intention was clearly to introduce my young life to severe pain.
28
Hallway Rumble
When I strolled into the hallway, leaving the blood and gore of the art room behind, I discovered I was not alone. Crouched for an apparent attack was Barbie’s very first rebound boyfriend – her original, pioneer assassin. Apparently, he had been banished from his classroom as well. Unlike future assassins who were always horrible and hulky, this one was sort of pleasant and puny.
Momentarily casting aside his pleasant puniness and scornfully swaggering through my small scrap of the hallway, flaunting and boasting, daring me to fight, his courage efficiently pumped; he finally began to throw punches. A flying fist approached my face ... then, another. I began to do what we called the “Ali shuffle,” named after the greatest boxer of all time: Mohammed Ali. I dodged, darted, and danced my way out of his reach. It wasn’t hard to dance out of his reach because he had this short, little reach. That was a problem in another way. It wasn’t cool to fight someone smaller than you. Being smaller than most, I usually did not have that problem, but this guy was smaller than I was. If you conquered a smaller opponent, it was expected; you were a bully. If you suffered defeat, not only had someone smaller pummeled you, but also the list of losers now carried your name; you were a wimp. Either way, more fights would await: those who wanted to pound a loser and those who wanted to take down a bully.
I hoped I could avoid a fight, but with each punch he threw, my anger mounted and finally erupted. I popped Barbie’s suitor hard and the slaughter began. When the smoke had cleared, Barbie’s now purple beloved blob slumped, pinned between the hall wall and an end locker. Barbie and the rest of her class had poured into the pupil passage to witness his wreckage. I don’t like to turn anyone’s beloved into a purple blob and I felt badly. However, I couldn’t show anything but “cool.” As I turned to leave, my path was blocked by a tall, blond Adonis-type. He growled, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, Mickus!” As I paused, my eyes met Barbie’s. With a pleading look, she mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.” To this day I’m not sure why she said she was sorry. Wasn’t she the one who had sent this goon after me? Was she sorry he hadn’t hurt me? Was it something she couldn’t control? Anyway, I pushed Adonis out of the way, and surprised my art class and Mrs. Swine by returning to class.
29
Corner Combat
Once, while mowing my lawn, I encountered Jimmy Idian’s bicycle blocking my path. Jimmy lived two doors up. For years before and after, he and I had been friends, but at that particular moment in time we were bitter enemies.
It didn’t matter that he and I had served morning paper routes together. Nor did it matter that on many early mornings we would feast on the donuts and pastries that had been dropped off in front of grocery stores by large, bakery trucks. Stealing women’s underwear off backyard clotheslines and hanging them up and down streets to welcome the neighborhood as it began its day no longer carried weight. The fact that we began playing drums together, performed on the Steel Pier in Atlantic City as part of the Boulevard Drumline or traveled to New York and Mississippi, eventually winning state and regional championships, was irrelevant. Sneaking into swimming pools at night, clutching our garments and running away after being discovered, and offering each other encouragement, such as, “Don’t worry; they sound like blanks,” while being shot at by night watchmen now held no bond. Even the great barbecue chicken heist was momentarily forgotten. And that was not easily forgotten.
Until this day, I believe that was the best chicken I ever ate. One summer’s evening, neighbors a few blocks up were having a party. Jimmy and I happened to pass by and smelled something deserving further investigation. We spied a smoking grill unattended in the b
ackyard. Looking at each other for a mere moment and without saying a word, we dashed to the grill, each grabbing a hot piece of chicken, then tossing it from hand to hand, we headed for a hiding place to feast. That chicken was so tasty, and even though it was not completely cooked, we were inflamed. We needed to get more.
When we returned to the scene, we noticed that the grill had been moved. It was now under the carport, sitting next to the sliding door. That presented a challenge but was not going to stop us. We sneaked up to a window and peeped in. We carefully watched the host entertain his guests with small talk then move to the sliding door to safeguard his chicken. We began to notice a pattern. He was going back and forth from his guests to the chicken like clockwork. He seemed to be telling them, “It’s almost ready. Just a few more moments and it will be ready.”
Man, it smelled good. Our nerves seemed to be fortified by the aroma. I looked around and noticed a small plastic container – possibly large enough to hold all the chicken on the grill. Using the host’s outdoor faucet, I quickly washed it out. Jimmy was directed to cue me when the host turned back toward his guests after checking the grill. I waited at the corner of the house, at the edge of the carport, a few feet from the grill. Jimmy gazed intently into the window. In a whisper he suddenly snapped, “Go!”
Dashing to the grill, I grabbed every single piece of that chicken and dropped it into the container. When I had them all, I turned to Jimmy and yelled, “Run!” In a split second we were in full stride. When we reached our hiding place, we gorged and laughed at each other as we tried to capture the host’s startled expression when he saw the empty grill. We mimicked what he must have blubbered to his guests in explanation for what happened to their chicken dinner after having repeated to them so many times, “It’s almost ready.”
But nevertheless, when I found Jimmy’s bicycle on my lawn that day, we were enemies. Of course, it had something to do with Barbie Risky. If I recall correctly, Jimmy had become friendly with Kip Faulter, who besides being a year or two older and weird, was the best friend of Barbie’s reigning boyfriend.
Kip liked to blow up animals with small explosives. Jimmy had once tried to convince me to chop the heads off mice as they finished the last leg of a homemade mouse maze. I like to remember that he didn’t succeed, and I fearfully imagined that his friendship with Kip might be based on the mutilation of animals. I didn’t really want to be any part of cutting critters. The crux of the problem though had to do with Kip’s friendship with “The Golden Boy” – a Greek God – an Adonis-like guy named Craig, Barbie’s steady. You might recall him from his brief appearance in the hallway rumble.
So, I threw the bike into the street. I think Jimmy, Kip, and Kip’s gang were right up the block at Jimmy’s because within moments my house was surrounded. Well, it wasn’t exactly surrounded, but there was no escape. Faulter stood proud and erect, a tall Napoleon among his army of young thugs, wearing his three-quarter length black leather and peering through dark black sunglasses – his trademark.
Three of my friends were invited to join me in my captivity. Linus Blabcock, Jimmy Loance, and Yakov Mordicai ben Gabriel were more poets than they were warriors, although I don’t recall ever seeing them write a poem or even recite one, so that sheds light on the type of warriors they were. Faulter’s gang let them through and soon the four of us were trapped inside. My mom came downstairs to suggest I go out and play with my friends who were waiting outside. When I tried to explain that I didn’t really feel like going outside right then and they weren’t really my friends, she insisted, “Mo, invite them in. Jimmy’s with them. You’re being rude.”
“See ya, Ma.”
She got the message and after my mom went upstairs, someone had an inspiration – call Roger Strayler. By this time, Roger had earned a reputation as one of the “badest dudes” in Hellincrest. Roger was so bad that he was often times known by his moniker – “Straybone”. Only the badest of the bad in Hellincrest had monikers. I am not sure how “Straybone” came about, and I never felt comfortable asking him, “Hey man, why do people call you “Straybone”?
I think Yakov called and Roger was on his way. We felt better and before we could really begin to relax, Roger was there. The troops had arrived. Unfortunately, it appeared to be only two troops – Roger and his sidekick, Bobby Hicupio.
“Did you tell him all these guys were here?” I gibed.
“Yeah...” Yakov grumbled. “He must have run. Maybe other guys are coming.”
We peered out the back door and I could see that except for his trusted and dedicated sidekick – Bobby Hicupio, Roger had come alone.
As we hustled outside, we could witness Roger pushing toward Kip Faulter. Bobby Hicupio was at his shoulder, looking for someone to hit. Roger had to be careful about the way he looked at people because Bobby Hicupio would hit anybody he thought Roger wanted hit. That was the big, brawny imbecile’s mission in life – cover Roger’s back and hit anybody who needed hit. Bobby, to whom I don’t think I ever spoke and who never spoke to me, was geared for a strike. Actually, Bobby Hicupio did speak to me once, but that came years later.
Faulter’s gang warily settled around the heroic duo. Obviously, the unexpected presence of Roger Strayler unnerved them. Faulter began an attempted explanation of why this was no concern of Roger’s, but was interrupted by Roger’s curt demand, “Take off the glasses.”
Faulter was a big talker, which was not a good thing, especially when Roger Strayler had just given a command. Cutting off the first word to some cowardly speech, a sudden cacophony exacted by a violent blow to the chest erupted from Faulter’s throat. The force jarred his black sunglasses, launching them to the street at his now unsteady feet. That was the last sound I ever heard Faulter make. As his chicken-hearted pack faded away from the scene of their tearful leader’s trauma; and their shaken and tearful leader tentatively touched the air that his lungs couldn’t seem to find, then, Roger must have looked at Mike Smith the wrong way. Mike Smith was a nice guy who probably just happened to be hanging out with the wrong neighbor that day. Without any apparent provocation, Hicupio launched a barrage of pounding fists, pummeling Mike into a helpless, bloodied heap. I felt bad for Mike, but not too much, because the prettiest girl in the school, a full-blooded Cherokee – which was way rare in those parts – was not my girlfriend … she was his. As he crawled away, my sensitive nature could envision this beautiful princess lovingly nursing him back to health.
30
A Bubba Story
In those days, we spent very little time talking on the phone. I don’t remember the phone ringing very often at my house, and if it did, it was almost always not for me. However, one evening the phone rang, and a few moments later I heard my mother yell downstairs, “Mo, pick up the phone!” With some hesitation, I picked up the downstairs phone, waited to hear the click of the upstairs phone being hung up, and sort of asked, “Hello?”
A low pitched voice gravelly growled, “Is this Mo Mickus?”
“Yeah,” I hesitated.
“Ya ever heard ah Bubba Aroararoar?”
“No.” I didn’t quiet catch the last name, but it wasn’t Bubba Brock, and it wasn’t Bubba Bloyer or Bubba Prader, and they were the only Bubbas I knew.
His growl persisted, “Ya know Barbie Riskey?”
Uh-oh. I knew what this was about, but what the heck. “Yeah,” I confessed.
“Well I’m gonna kill you!”
I agreed to meet him in his neighborhood, so he could kill me. I was to come alone.
When the momentous occasion arrived, I brought a couple of friends, not so they could watch me die, but for protection. Actually, one of them was a guy named Leperly. I don’t think I brought him; I think he just came. Leperly was a tall, cowardly guy who liked to see other guys beat each other up. He tried to associate with tough guys and at that particular point in time, I was a tough guy. At least in Leperly’s mind I was. In reality he was afraid of my friend, Linus Blabcock. Linus was a pret
ty good athlete, a master at bluffing, but not that tough. However, he had bluffed Leperly into thinking he was, and since Linus treated me with respect, which Leperly interpreted as fear, Leperly thought I must be a major bad ass. So, he had come to see a major bad ass beat someone up.
Bubba brought a couple of friends, too. We met on this dimly lit corner and Bubba began removing his black leather jacket. We were all wearing black leather jackets because everyone wore black leather jackets back then, even in the summer. As he removed his jacket, Bubba began hedging, “Listen man, I didn’t know you were from Hellincrest. I don’t want to mess with anyone from Hellincrest.”
It happened that Hellincrest had a potent reputation. In truth, there was a “Big Hellincrest” and a “Little Hellincrest.” I was a member of “Little Hellincrest.” We lived off the notoriety of “Big Hellincrest” who had built this excessive standing among all the surrounding neighborhoods by being extreme zealots totally dedicated to the violent conquering of others. By this time, almost all of them were dead or in jail, but we carried their infamy like it was our own.
Anyway, because I was concentrating on his arms, which were as big around as my waist, I was only half way listening to Bubba and silently whining to myself, “This guy is going to kill me!” Somewhat recovering from the initial shock his muscular arms had caused, I realized he was trying to back out of the fight. Anxious, internal skirmishes began on several fronts. First of all, look calm! Look cool! Don’t drop to my knees and shout, “Thank you for not killing me!” Secondly, how could I respond in a way that would allow him to back out, but wouldn’t look like I was totally thrilled? Then again, if I was too harsh he might get angry and change his mind. Thirdly, I had to get Leperly under control. He was calling Bubba names, raging, “Ah man, he’s trying to chicken out! This punk’s trying to chicken out! Kill em! Kick this chicken chump’s butt!” And finally, while Leperly was foaming at the mouth, he was also frantically trying to pull my jacket off, and I was frantically, although somewhat stealthily trying to stay in it so Bubba wouldn’t see what a scrawny little runt I was.
