The Ant god

Sometimes when you a child you dream of being powerful until the life shows you different.

The Ant god

The Ant god

   

   In my front yard on a sunny summer afternoon, I again declared war on the ants and it was time they felt my wrath. I was their god yet they ignored me. They kept on about their business oblivious of my existence. 

     The colony was at the base of the huge, tree at the end of my unpaved, dirt driveway. It was not the biggest tree on the block but ranked among the taller tree clans. 

     Every day I ran outside to visit the kingdom by the tree and watched them from above trying not to intervene, but it was impossible. I was a child with limited power in my own life yet numerous problems a kid three years from puberty shouldn’t have to face.

      There were more questions than answers and more problems than solutions. The mental, verbal and physical abuse was overbearing, yet to these small black creature I was a heavenly being, almost like the same deity I read about in the bible forced on me from St. Matthew elementary where I attended school. 

     It was up the street two mile from my home. The same school my sibling and I had to walk from after the exiting prayer and the two-thirty school bell. We would have to beat home the bus-riding caravan of public school heathens, who paraded down Hessian avenue everyday without fail at three o’clock. 

     If we didn’t beat those vehicals, we faced the racial, verbal assault shot from hateful lips leaning outside of open, bus windows. My family were masters of the side street exploration: like Magellan, Lewis and Clark and a sober Columbus we found safe throughways, which brought us back to the two levels fixer up that never seemed to get fix.

     As we walked home, I thought about the same God taught to us every day in Religion class. I often wondered why this God didn’t come and save me from the pain. Why he cursed me with a broken leg and loneness, but in a child’s world thoughts are quick and fleeting. 

      My mind refocused on the ants and the destruction I had preplanned for them, because I wasn't a merciful god. I was the lord of pain and shy mirror glances. I was the god of uneaten peanut butter sandwich and untouched, powered milk. I was the god of plastic sheet and vicious, angry outbursts. 

     So on that day I had enough. These creatures by the tree acted as though they were safe and went about their days working and forgetting above was the Fuzzy haired Zeus.

      In Religion classes the foot long ruler wielding Polish nuns had filled us with biblical tales: from the Tower of Babel builders having their tongues changed, to the flood of all floods that destroyed the world with the acceptation of the drunk captain, whom doomed the blacks to slavery and second class citizenship forever (thanks a lot Ham.) 

     I studied with a young mind ripe for all types of impressionable stories such as the Christian being lunch for the lions. The destruction of Sodom and Gomorra always left a quizzical, stain on my Medulla. God, destroying a whole city and turning people to salt, visually it was very Spielberg on steroids.

 So, I feared this white, bearded man in the sky, along with the many other fears that kept my sheet drenched with urine late on cold, teeth chattering nights. For any moment in my young Catholic mind told me, he could and would send the young boy to hell for saying the F word or stealing cookies.

     I wanted to be feared as well, but these conceited bugs didn’t budge. Without warning, I sent flood with the green, serpent hoses to destroy them constantly. Nothing. 

    I sent fiery, coal from the grill when my father left the fire unguarded. Nothing. I captured them and put them in jars to fight, Praying Mantis, spiders and bigger, meaner ants. They always seemed to destroy the bigger foe. It’s like them were protected and my tactics were creating a stronger race of ant.    

     I had to teach them, a hard lesson. One time I tried to stick a firecracker in the main hole, but the quick fuse startled me and I ran with a lit little dynamite in my hand. The ignited fuse sounded like an angry snake chasing me.

      I panicked and sprinted into my front yard, holding my hand behind me. The explosive device went off and burnt the tips of my fingers but my hand was intact.

Thank you white bearded God.

     I was running out of ideas to destroy my subjects. They need to be eradicated for my pleasure, because I was the Fuzzy haired, skinny god of wet sheets and knew my father posed a firearm from his volunteer cop days.

      He had a thirty-eight in his top-drawer of a tall, brown dresser. I often invaded the dresser for loose change and then run to the store to buy Click root beer and a Twix candy bar. The tall, brown dresser had two small top drawers.  

     The one to the left was filled with neat things almost like a time casual. Old stop watches, money clips, handkerchiefs and coins that were big and brown and could buy nothing unless I ran away to Canada. 

     In the other drawer was a heavy, silver gun inside a thick, leather holster. On rare occasions, my brothers and I would grab and fondled the hand held casket filler, as nosey children will. We never pointed, loaded nor took it out of the thick, leather holder.   

    Also in the drawer were bullets, smooth, bright sliver hole makers almost seductive to the touch. I was ignorant to the mechanics of hand weaponry, but knew the bullets had gun power, gunpowder exploded and could force these disrespectful citizens of the tree kingdom respect me. 

     I ran upstairs and into my parent’s room. I did a double and triple take to check if the coast was clear (I know cliché but a good tension builder.) 

      I entered with one thing on my agenda: find bullet. I reached inside the drawer and located the object I was seeking. My hands came across the smooth metal. I thought to myself: how could something that felt so good, cause so much pain and death? I was too young to connect the two. I seized it in my hand, pulling it toward my face. 

The prize!

     I sprinted down the stairs at top speed, hit the landing and was out the door like a bolt of destructive lightning. I went down into the basement and grabbed a hammer from my father’s workbench. It was big, heavy intimidating tool. I pictured myself as Thor ready to release the gun power from It’s little steel prison. I could taste it and could felt the power coursing through my young, ripe for power veins.

       I took the operation into my neighbor’s yards: the Native American man with the large tractors trailers that roamed the block, like large, metal monsters. I found the base of a fallen tree stump. A large tree I remembered was chopped down a few years prior. I can recall watching from my upstairs window as the men from the block gathered to fall it.

      It could not give much of a fight against three axes manned by drunken truck drivers cutting into the woody base. It was one of those beer wet Friday night activities often done in the Rivertown. Every major task, turned into a boozed up festival on my block. The burning of a bee hive formed a small party of drunken pyromaniacs, stumbling off Bud, attacking a massive wasp nest with broom handle torches, aimlessly swinging at the flying masters of pain and swollen, stung limbs. There was the time lighting struck our neighbors house and all gathered to put out the fire with garden hoses and a bucket brigade. And then there was the bullet retrieval party, but we will get to that in a little bit. These events were captured by my quizzical, young eyes.

     I put the bullet on the tree and whacked it two solid times. The metal sparked and a large dent appeared in the side. Suddenly, the visions of the firecracker exploding in my hand came to me. An uneasy feeling took over my body, as the idea turned and ran the other way.

       I threw it into the high grass, abandoned the mission and returned into the house. In a child’s mind it was over. There would be no more drilling for black powder. I left the plot in the tall grass and decided to stop molesting the ants for at least that day.

     A couple days had pasted and I heard a commotion in the side yards. The same side where I had tried to do the gunpowder extraction. I went to my sister’s room that’s had two windows facing the yard. It was like being in the press box for some important event, trial or firing squad.

      It seemed everyone on the block was in the side yard, including my father. All of the men were gathered around something.  They made a circle and Dennis my neighbor’s flaccid, funny son on the older half of twenty raised a shinny object.

They found the bullet!!!!! It did not disappear into thin air when I was thrown!

I knew trouble was soon to follow and started to run through other suspects and alibis I could throw at them. My brothers were out of the equation, I knew the repercussion would be harsh and my guilt could damage my weak, Catholic mind. The name flashed to me as the light bulb must have hit Edison’s Medulla. 

Frankie Z!

     The neighborhood bad boy: he was already breaking several commandants and was an easy mark. I would have to wait and time it right. I knew my father would be in soon. He was a major league BS talker and could make a mob believe anything. 

     Someone in the pack, probably noticed it was one of his, because they remembered the model of gun he would brag about daily. My father loved to  boast and tell stories with broken time line it would take several noted historians to connect. He too was probably looking for a scapegoat and couldn’t tell that posse of Riverats that the clean-cut, hardware store manager, was unaware his children were playing with death. 

     I figured he would be elated to hear the fabricated Frankie Zee story. Besides, Frank already had the fear for me due to the fact I beat him with a pipe a few weeks during a game that got out of hand.  

He would be my pasty. He would be Lee Harvey Oswald.

     Things didn’t stay quiet in the Rivertown long. The supposed story was Frankie Z went into my parent’s room, while on a visit with his mother. He crept away and made his way to bedroom where he found the bullet, stole it and tried to open in the side yard. In the process the bullet could’ve gone off killing many!

     Even though I dodged that bullet (please excuse the weak pun for I use them often), I was not out of the woods or high grass.

     At dinner that night, my father interrogated us mildly but we didn’t break. My brothers never knew. I kept my Ant god status undercover. They themselves were gods of snakes, frogs and all things slimy that bit and wiggled far from my world. I hid my story and pokerfaced but deep down I figured he knew.

      My father himself was a master of the story, so he knew one, especially a bad one. Our family finished dinner and we went to bed. My middle brother had the feeling, I was also lying but would never out me for fear of thrashings and beatings. Deep inside my heart, I knew something was coming.

      From out of nowhere my father told us on a Friday night to be up early we were going shooting on Saturday morning. We where excited. I had never shot a really gun but had seen it done on TV and it looked so cool. I could see myself as Clint Eastwood with an Afro chasing down bad guys through the Rivertown and blasting holes in them while saying some witty like. 

‘Feel lucky punk?’

   In the morning, my father grabbed his shotguns, pistol and loaded up the truck.   

     It was I, both my brothers along with a guy I had never seen before. He was average height with a semi, serious expression. He had brown hair with a generic everyday face. The only thing I remember unique was his Turkish rife. 

      My father drove deep into the wood of Paulsboro. He followed a small, dirt road until it came to a clearing. The adults unloaded the guns and Milk jugs filled with water. Nervousness struck me as, the two men lined up the targets.

        The man with the Turkish rifle shot and it sounded like controlled thunder. The early morning overcast hid us from everything but the noise snapped me back into the here and now. There was no daydreaming:  I was awake on all levels. That man made thunder shook my insides to the core. 

     My father was next as he unsheathed the double barrel shot gun from the cover. He pointed it at he the plastic target. He stood at least a fifty yards or that was what my young mind could register and fired. The pellets hit the object and exploded. Water and jug pieces went everywhere.  Droplets escaped and landed on my skinny forearms.

“Come here I want you to try.”

     He called me over. I moved slowly with a zombie like gate. I was reluctant: the Clint images disappeared. The gallows were ahead 

What had I gotten myself into? Run you fool! Too late!

     My father handed me the shotgun. It was heavy: man heavy, what I mean it was solid like the objects men carry, nothing for a foolish boy god. I picked up the weapon and pointed toward the water jugs. It was hard to steady and control. Father commanded,

“Okay raise the gun and point it. Now aim by the tip of the gun. That’s it. Now before you pull that trigger have that end tucked in or when it kicks it will break your shoulder.”

Break my shoulder! What the hell! I did not know there would be shoulder breaking!

     I did as my father commanded like a good solider should. I pulled the trigger. The forced of the kick jolted me backwards about a foot. The boom from the barrel left a ringing in my ears. I never saw where the shells went. I stood in shock with my mouth wide open and the horror deep within my soul. I couldn’t move. 

“Okay now take this.”

My father put the thirty-eight into my already quivering hands. I felt the sweat trickling down my forehead.  I held the gun loosely in my palms.

“Don’t gold it loose like that. It will come back and hit you in the face! You have to watch then kick! Watch the kick!”

     My whole body trembled as though a seizure grasped me. I was horrified.

I squeezed the trigger and the pistol barley missed hitting my face. I was officially done. I handed my father the gun and sat on back of the green truck. The gun life was not my life. In the Wild West I would have died automatically. I would have lost every dual and been out drawn by armless men.

      I faced reality that guns and I would never get along. The thunder from the Turkish rife filled the background like bombs hitting the Earth again. I sat in the flat bed truck, with my head hitting the top of the cab. I watched as my brother took to the guns like fat children to chocolate candy.

      I never saw my sibling so joyous and filled with glee. Did this mean my days of bullying were over? Did I have to give up my two-boy beat down due to the fact they had become proficient in the use of a deadly weapon? It was all down hill that day. It seemed my father had found another way to emasculate me.

      On purpose or not, I will never know, yet on that day I would have rather played with a Barbie Dream House, then ever pick up another thunder stick.

What kind of god was I? At that point I guessed a sub-god or Demi-god.

     That day I was more like the ants: scared, fearful in an uncontrollable situation. 

     After an hour we left the wooded clearing. My inside jumped with excitement. I had never been happier to leave any place, then I was that day. I would have sat in a thousand doctors offices being abused by Easy listening tunes and the smell of something chemical seeping under the receptionist door.

     We returned home. My brother filled with blood lust of the double-barreled kind and me filled with an inter-melancholy that: homosexuality and dance classes might be in my distant future. The day stayed gloomy, as did my boyish soul.

     After a couple of years, my fascination with the destruction of the tree colony came to an end. I had discovered: sports, girls and teenage sleep. Sometimes I wondered about the colony and my past subjects.

      Did they have myths and legends about me? Did they save a brave hero ant to kill me? Did they erect a statue and tell horrible tales to their larvae? Did they ever pray to the Fuzzy headed god they would sometimes see limping down the street with watery eyes trying to figure out: were was his God and why did he create so much pain?

 

 

 

  

Author's Note

This is another story from Backpfeifengesicht due out hopefully in the fall. Please comments and any words of advice would be great. Thank you.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I want to have this book. I enjoyed the story. You had it all. Kids love the mystery of nature and guns. The good description took me into the mind of the boy. Boys have active and wild minds. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote

[Judas Hammer]

I want your book! Thanks for the read and reviews and the comments. Always thankful my friend.

[Phantom Heart]

I like the descriptions and the way you wrote this!

[trainwreck]

Great job with this narrative! watch the beginning to make sure it doesn't sound too much like the movie The Ant Bully. other than that, I really enjoyed your story.

[Dayran]

A close perspective of the complimentary views on ' me and the ants ' and then ' god and me.' Its illustrative and informative as regards the relations.

[Judas Hammer]

Thats sounds important. I'm going to have to find a smarter man to translate those words

[Dayran]

Which part don't you understand?

[Judas Hammer]

All the big words...LOL just playing with you grand masters. You're comments are very wise and thoughtfully delivered....

[Dayran]

As a fighting man Judas, you have my admiration. Hang in there ...

[Ency Bearis]

Enjoyable story and well told.

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you very much for the read and review. Always thankful for your visit

[Decanter Red]

Your content and description is great, very nicely done. However, it is a little difficult and daunting to read the entire passage with the cramped paragraphs. A little spacing and larger fonts will make it more comfortable for prospective readers and reviewers.

[Leslie Philibert]

And I like this very much, a piece of work that deserves a better review than I have time to write. To put my impressions together ; the idea great, the style fits exactly the theme, full of humour and energy; excellent !

[Judas Hammer]

much thanks my friend. I'm glad I can hold your interest.....always nice to see you here

[TL Boehm]

he destruction of Sodom and Gomorra always left a quizzical, stain on my Medulla. God, destroying a whole city and turning people to salt, visually it was very Spielberg on steroids.
Oh that made me laugh out loud! Once again you bring that spark of wit and quick writing - a slice of lifew story with a flavor and a kick to it. Well done!

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you. I try to add more spiritual stuff the older I get. TL again thanks for the read and review

[Chris]

A well thought through story... needs proofing, reads well.

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you very much for the reviews