The Headless Hooligan: My Mother Confesses To My Murder

My angry cop pursuers, a disappearing motorcycle, from our hiding spot we overheard the entire exchange. My panicked Mother confessing to decapitating her sweet, sleeping son. A bizarro adventure.

The secret of our love-nest hideout was about to be exposed.  We could hear every word spoken by the angry Roscoes (cops) pursuing me. “A 300 pound motorcycle doesn’t just f*****g disappear!”  First on the scene, Rookie Roscoe, was being barraged with F-bombs by his incredulous supervisor.  Now on scene.  Their anger, and voices were escalating.  Reverberating loudly off the homes in the cul-de-sac.  Warm, quiet night, windows open, this was a problem.  Alice and I considered the cops small trouble.  If they woke up her Father, big trouble.  Grande.  

“You f*****g idiot.  You’re telling me you ran the plates, make and model, then somehow it just evaporated into thin air?”  I’ve heard that voice before.  My nemesis from way back, DeerTeeth.  Antagonist in so many of the tales I’ve written.  I was trapped.  We had clear sight lines on each other.  There was no way I was climbing out that window without being busted in seconds. 

There is nothing so powerful as the euphoria of first truelove.  An all-consuming chemical reaction.  The ecstasy and agony.  Limitless joy and soul-crushing pain that only first love can evoke.  It feels life and death. 

My s**t-listing came out of nowhere.  Alice’s father handed down a decree, that we never even speak to each other again.  On threat of eternal grounding and loss of all privileges.  In a period of 48 hours, two events occurred that sealed the deal.  Her entire family, all ten kids, and a birthday party I had been invited to.  Her father, as his Porsche 911 custom plates read, “CDH.” My translation was “Certified Dick Head.”  CDH began boasting on his new rig.  “Man, that V8 Turbo, when I push the gas pedal, it’s like an F-16 taking off.  It violently throws you back into the seat. Fastest car in town probably.  Better than any ride at Disneyland.”  

Being a car enthusiast, I knew he was talking out of his tailpipe.  “Wow, I’ve never heard of a 911 having the original 6 cylinder replaced with a V8 turbo, aftermarket.   Tight fit.”  He looked as if I’d taken a s**t on the birthday cake.  Nobody questioned CDH.  Face beet-red, wide and wild-eyed, veins bulging in his neck and forehead, he gave me the evil-eye.  An enraged stare that seemingly lasted minutes.  Both Alice and her Mother wore a horrified expression.  CDH’s egomania and puritanical streak were legendary.   A heart surgeon, he openly spoke of how all the other doctors in his orbit were idiots.  Hacks.  Local congregation Church leaders, incompetent.  Unworthy. 

He was consistent with his condescension. It was directed toward all fellow humanoids.  No profession, race, color or creed was spared.  He was extremely skilled in the art of douchebaggery.  Fully committed to his cuntitude.  After the long uncomfortable pause, he barked at me.  

“So, you’re saying my car doesn’t have a V8 Turbo?  You think I’m some idiot that doesn’t even know what’s under the hood of a car I just purchased?”  I never give bullies the satisfaction.  I remained cool.  “Not at all, Sir.  I’ve just never heard of such a modification.  That’s what I said. That’s a very cool aftermarket modification.”  He wasn’t done.  Apparently, my response was found wanting.  “You’re claiming the salesman lied to me about the V8 Turbo?”  “No Sir.”  I should have stopped there.  “But, I guess it wouldn’t be the first time a used car salesman told a whopper.”  

Whoops.  Alice and her mother both cracked up.  I hadn’t really intended my comment to be humorous, but the damage was done.  He wasn’t a man who would be laughed at without a never-ending grudge.   He was the one who laughed.  Sneered.  But, never on the receiving end.  Another long stare-down and he invited me to leave.  “It’s getting late. I guess you better get home.”  “Dad, it’s 6:30,” Alice said.  He ignored her.  And began herding me to the door.  I guess it was also inviting me to walk the 5 miles home.  Alice’s house always had a dark cloud hovering whenever CDH was home. 

Alice’s Mother, “Olive Oil” suffered a major case of “bullied wife” syndrome.  She spoke in sentences of 3-4 words at a time.  Never breaking eye contact with CDH.  Carefully reading the signs of approval or disapproval, before continuing on.  It was usually the latter.  Grammar corrections where no mistake existed.  Tone, intonation, pronunciation.  He always found criticism to deliver.  Most often, it was “that’s stupid.”  “What are you talking about?”  “Who told you that?”  It was quite heartbreaking to witness, and it didn’t matter to him who witnessed the bullying.  Public or private.  Church or social, he seemed to live for destroying that last ounce of self-esteem that might remain after years with this man.  He seemed proud of himself, as opposed to embarrassed. 

The very next day Alice overheard her parents in a hushed tones conversation.  So much for Bishops honoring confidentiality, CDH spilled the beans.  “The bishop (head of Mormon congregation) told me Cameron (Alice’s best friend) confessed to fornication with her boyfriend.  Regularly! I would rather attend Alice’s funeral than find out she’s been immoral before marriage.  And Cameron?  With that half-a-w*****k boyfriend!  Mexicans were always ridiculed by CDH.  Once I made the mistake of sharing how hardworking all the Mexicans are that I know from my restaurant job.  How they had several jobs and sent home nearly every penny to family and even in-laws back home.  Big mistake.  

“Alice will never utter another word to that Matty boy.  They’re far too comfortable together, I don’t like the way they look at each other.  If I find out they’re still communicating, I will lock her in her bedroom until she’s 21.  School, and home.  Nothing more.  I promise you that.  How does it look?  A kid from a broken home, Mom can’t even keep her husband. Matthias will turn out the same way.  You watch.”  

There were even threats of a full OB-GYN examination to confirm Alice was still “intact.”  He never even considered his decree would be disobeyed.  That it would throw gasoline on a fire already burning white hot.  Add “forbidden” to that “true first love” equation and it becomes an unstoppable, immovable force.  Consequences be damned.  He had a whole network of spies and informants.  It didn’t matter.  Kids can be very cunning.  Alice and I were both shocked.  Equal parts panic and deep sorrow.  We were heartbroken as we held each other and sobbed.  I can remember how much it hurt, as if it were yesterday.  

Alice was always pleasantly surprised how much her Dad liked me.  That was before the V8 Turbo incident and Cameron news.  Regarding father in law relations, I subscribe to the belief that a balance of standing up for oneself and the occasional ego-stroke works best.  No humanoid with a full yam-bag respects the constant groveling a*s kisser.  However, none of that mattered anymore.  There was nothing that was ever going to repair the relationship, or change his mind.  His campaign for my destruction was only beginning.  The animosity I felt towards CDH stemmed 90% from how he treated my Mom. And, Alice’s Mom. 

The law of unintended consequences meant bad news for CDH.  Instead of hanging out during daylight hours, getting fast food or innocently hanging out in public, now, 90% of our quality time was nocturnal visits in Alice’s bedroom.  Several times weekly.  Over years.  Where the only furniture was her bed.  No amount of hellfire and brimstone,  or guaranteed damnation could tap the brakes on the tractor beam of physical attraction we shared.  Nothing about our relationship ever felt wrong.  She suffered from Mormon guilt, but it never had any impact on me.  Our bond was profound, sacred even.  And when that tractor beam of young love switched on, time, space, distance, inconvenience, or consequences, nothing could stop us being together. 

Especially if beckoned.  I would have crawled those 5 miles across broken glass and hot coals to be with my Alice.  A late night partial ring of our home phone was my call to action.  My invitation. 

I had the process polished to perfection.  First step, confirm little bro Hamilton, aka Hambo, was zonked.  Not that I didn’t trust him, but his moving around late would bring investigation from our sweet Mother.  Mary.  Our system for checking each others sleep status was simple, effective, and disgusting.  A booger chucked at high velocity at the poster above the others bed.  The “tick” noise was louder than you would think. Protest: “Duuude, stop throwing boogers = not zonked.”  No protest, check, Hambo is sufficiently zonked.  Hambo and I were as close as two brothers could be.  To this day, I would take a full clip from a .45 caliber for him.  Trickster hooliganism was hardwired into our DNA. One of the first memories of our shenanigans is quite telling.  A sign of things to come. And endless source of killer stories to share. 

I was 6 years old and Hambo was 4.  He had unwrapped, chewed, then spit out a piece of waxy, cheap Christmas chocolate.  It was so old, it tasted like mothballs.  Seeing that on the ground, the hooligan lightbulb appeared over my head.  We set about planning a stunt to spring on our nasty, and quite abusive Sunday School teacher.  Sister S aka Horse-face. We carefully practiced chewing up, then forming the chunks into perfect Hambo t**d replicas. 

Finally, the big day came.  Sunday.  During the pre-class screaming chaos, Hambo and I hunkered down in a corner and started engineering turds. The other kids didn’t notice why or what we were up to.  Per usual, the door flies open, Sister S begins class the way she always did.  “You are behaving evil.  This is the Lord’s house.  Do you scream and fight in the Lord’s house?”  Yes, obviously.  Before she finished, she looked our way.  Wide-eyed, she had already spotted our work, a grimace on her long, narrow horse-like face.  She was so quick, she almost put the kibosh on our glorious plan.  I quickly picked up one of the large turds between thumb and forefinger.  “Oh no Sister S, Hambo pooped on the floor!”  As I displayed the t**d for all to see.  The other kids laughed or shrieked.  She froze.  She had the same expression as if I were holding an angry rattlesnake. 

“Matty, do not touch……”  As she lunged for me, I matter of factly plopped the t**d-loaf into my mouth, smiled, chomped twice and swallowed it.  

“Hmmm, It’s actually pretty good.”  Half the kids screaming, the others fleeing the room.  It was on like Donkey Kong.  Sister S let out a guttural snort of “Noooo.”  She grabbed me by the hair with her right hand, and the last thing I remember is seeing the big ol’ painted fingernail on the index finger of her left hand.  Just as she began ramming it down my throat and scratching around violently.  She wasn’t trying to induce vomit.  She somehow thought she could intercept the Hambo log.  I’m surprised my tonsils weren’t under her nail as she yanked it out.  Instantly, my throat was rubbed so raw I couldn’t speak to deliver the punchline.  Hambo, recognizing this, stepped back, and with dual pistol fingers, pointed at Sister S, and nailed the big reveal.  “Haha, GOTCHA!  It wasn’t my poo-poo, it was chocolate!”  He kept doing the firing pistol fingers until Sister S grabbed us both by an ear and dragged us away.  Maximum punishment was sure to follow. 

That was the beginning of our trickster career. And we embarked on that career with the vigor and commitment kids today have towards video games and staring at their phones.  If we weren’t executing a wildling plan, we were scheming one.  Nobody was immune.  Parents, teachers, clergy, CDH or even Roscoes (cops).  Some of our most glorious successes were directed at Roscoes, or CDH. 

Hambo’s only role in operation Nocturnal Visit was to turn on the bathroom light to signal me if I was busted.  Broken arrow.  It only happened once, and was a contingency I had planned for.  Instead of creeping through the door, I stomped in loudly.  “Mom, come here, I need to talk to you.  I didn’t want to wake you.  Augie (my best friend) is losing it.  Talking crazy.   His girlfriend dumped him and I’m really worried about him.  She was secretly dating Mike Sorenson!”  

Immediately, her concern went to Augie.  “Oh no, is he okay? Is he going to be okay?  Poor kid.”  I always felt a bit guilty when it was necessary to take advantage of her compassion and big heart to create a smokescreen for some trouble I had landed in. 

Step 2 in the Nocturnal Visit mission was Enos.  A dummy so skillfully constructed, Mary would pat him on the shoulder, wish him sweet dreams, and never be the wiser.  A coconut inside of a gorilla Halloween mask. With curly dark hair that bore an uncanny resemblance to my own locks.   Just enough hair protruding to look real.  Various other materials formed the torso and limbs, stretched out in the same position I often slept in. Facing away, towards the wall. 

Step 3, listen for the thunderous log-sawing audible from Mom’s room.  It was more like a deep vibration than sound waves.  My Mom snored like a 400 pound Sumo wrestler.  Check, she’s zonked.  I slowly crept down the stairs just feet from Mom’s open bedroom door.  Carefully avoiding squeaky steps 4 and 7.  The two story duplex’s front door was WD-40’d weekly to guarantee maximum stealth.  Once outside, again I scanned for the reverse alarm that was Mom’s snoring.  It never ceased to amaze me. Being a warm summer night, the open window broadcast her snoring for a 100 yards in every direction.  I giggled softly.  I’m surprised it didn’t keep the neighbors up.  I guess it was background music, like the crickets.  That such power and projection could emanate from such a little lady, violated all laws of physics. 

The cricket chorus and warm summer breeze always felt like glorious liberty.  Freedom.  Anything is possible adventure.  The magical whimsy of youth.  Decades later, whenever I visit Utah, the combination of those two things still brings a rush of deep emotion and memories.  As if I were right back there.  My 15 year old self.  Without a care in the world.  Many sneak out and feel anxiety until they sneak back in.  Not me.  I always operated on the premise I was free and clear.  No worries until there was definitive evidence there was something to worry about.  Not a bad policy for life in general. 

The anticipation of soon being with my Alice only added to the elation and anticipation.  The garage door was the riskiest step.  2 inches at a time, and the noise was still too loud.  Every few inches, I paused to confirm Mom was still snoring.  I slid between the wall and Mom’s car toward Maggie.  My baby.  I don’t know if the spotlight and angelic choirs from the heavens were real or imagined.  There she was.  My new pride and joy. Just in time for summer shenanigans.  A 1987 Honda XL 600.  Dual-purpose machine.  Road or dirt.  600cc was more than enough to propel my long and lanky carcass at speeds sufficient to elude any Roscoes in pursuit for the quick dash to the mountains, never far away.  Once off-road, fat cops on 125cc clown bikes weren’t much competition.

With the beautiful red, white, and blue paint scheme, if it could speak, it would roar: “‘Muricaaa, Fuuuck Yeeeaaaahhh!”   I carefully rolled the bike out.  Leaving the garage door open.  If she discovered the open door, it was already too damn late.  After a long push, I mounted the beast and coasted 100 yards down the street before firing it to life.  “Vrooooom, vrooooom.”  In addition to the cricket chorus and warm breeze, the bike’s deep bellow, and the wind now whipping by brought the best sensation a young wildling can achieve in this lifetime.  And within minutes I would be in the arms of my Alice.  Our secret, forbidden love-nest hideout, it felt as if we were the only two humanoids on earth.  Nothing else existed. Nobody else.  Only us. 

I still had to keep my head on a swivel. Being 15, I wasn’t exactly legal.  At that hour, in our small town, when you saw headlights, there was a high likelihood it was a Roscoe.  I was ready to escape and evade like I’ve been doing since I was 11 years old.  I knew every path, trail, and  escape route to the foothills, then mountains of the Wasatch range in ten miles either direction.                       

Anyone who has flown into SLC knows the towering beauty of those mountains.  100 miles, from Brigham City in the North, to Provo and beyond in the South.  Home to some of the best powder skiing on Earth. My humble opinion anyway.  When I visit family in Utah, the majestic beauty, and memories within those mountains illicit deep emotion from within me.  The moment they come into view. 

 If a Roscoe dropped in behind me, he didn’t stand a chance of catching or stopping me before I squirted up a trail and into the darkness.  Gaining elevation and invisibility, where no 4 wheel vehicle can follow.  Depending on how pissed off they are, they often set up roadblocks at exit points from the mountain.  I was undefeated when it came to high speed chases on two wheels.  My go-to trick, hide the bike in brush and branches and walk down off the mountain.  Walking stick in hand.  Instead of bush-wacking, I prance right through their roadblock.  Solely for the immense satisfaction of it.  I learned early on, wear two different color t-shirts. Mandatory element of the trickster uniform.  They get tunnel vision re; the punk “wearing a red t-shirt.”  I politely strut by in my blue t-shirt. “Have you seen a motorcycle?”   “Oh yeah, you’re after that guy?  He’s headed north.  Looked like a serial killer or something.  Was that an AK-47 he was carrying?”   Or whichever direction was opposite of the truth. 

My contempt for Roscoes wasn’t borne out of being an ill-tempered or bad kid.  I wasn’t.  I was very respectful to all adults.  Unless they behaved in some hypocritical manner that triggered my sense of fairness and justice.  I had not discovered the simple fact that most adults regularly behave like immature, insecure, petty High School kids.  I admired cops. Until age 11, the day I bought my first motorcycle.  A magical day.  The Roscoes began bullying us for no other reason than riding a motorcycle on the pavement for a few hundreds yards.  Necessary to reach the mountains.  Pushing it up that hill wasn’t an option.  I’ve been roughed up, pushed around, smacked upside my helmet with violent force.  It was something much worse that sealed the deal.  The 3rd degree burn incident.   

Tired of never catching any of the bikers in my circle of friends, they often became abusive in their frustration.  Once, while sitting on my 1984 KX80 on a hot summer day, engine running, with a red hot exhaust pipe, DeerTeeth earned my eternal hatred.  Chief dickhead among police in our small town, named for his little brown DeerTeeth that looked like they had baked beans caked in them.  He didn’t dig my non-cooperative response and not narcing on a bro.  Violating the bro biker code circle of trust, it was better to be dead. 

Forcefully, he shoved me over.  Slamming me and my bike on the ground. My leg trapped under the bike, the large 2-stroke exhaust pipe seared into one with my calf.  Augie lifted my bike off me, but I was still stuck to the  sizzling exhaust pipe.  I had no choice but to physically yank my leg off. Taking several layers of skin, all the way down to the muscle.  The smell alone was nauseating.  Rage must equal endorphins, because pain was down the list of what was running through my mind.  I expected panic, but his reaction caught me very much by surprise.  Augie as well. 

DeerTeeth thought it hilarious.  As did his partner.  Obviously he hasn’t seen the damage he had just done.  It was horrific.  Augie got one look, and puked before he could even turn away.  DeerTeeth slowly walked around the bike, smiling, chuckling, to get a better view.  I fully expected him to freak out a bit.  Or at least an “oh s**t” expression, considering the possibility of a lawsuit or loss of his job.  Nope.  He looked at my heinous, oozing, bleeding leg up and down. 

“Wow.  Ha, now that is a burn you can be proud of.  If there was a 6th degree burn category, that my friend, would qualify.  Are you gonna cry? Run and tell your Mommy?  You don’t have a Dad, right?  You have terrible balance boy.  You gotta be careful, or fall right over for no reason.  Just like that.”   I didn’t even wince or whimper.   “Nah, I’ll probably rub a little dirt on it and go back out riding.  You could cut off my arm and leg and I’ll still outrun, and outthink your fat a*s.  Hey, have you ever heard of a dentist? Or even a tooth brush?  Your breath smells like you had a bowl of diarrhea for breakfast.”   All lines I’ve used before, but due to the pain I was in, I was quite proud of myself for delivering.  Augie looked as if he wanted to cave DeerTeeth’s face in.  I felt the same. I signaled it was time to leave.  I kicked my bike to life and took off.  Defiantly riding right down the center of the street.  Augie followed.  While uncorking a beautiful rolling double bird for the Roscoe twins.

For the next month, my leg was a source of pain I had never imagined possible.  Oozing, bleeding mess.  I never missed a day of school.  They wouldn’t let me wear shorts, so my pant leg rubbing against the wound was a f*****g nightmare.  I never even told my Mom or any adult what DeerTeeth did to me.  I knew it wouldn’t matter.  His partner was clear at the incident, just before parting company.  “Nobody touched you.  You lost your balance.  Who is going to be believed?  Two respected police officers serving the community, or two piss-ant lawbreaking punks?”  Declaring all Roscoes my mortal enemy probably wasn’t a rational response, but it’s the path I pursued.  Even as an adult, I haven’t experienced much to convince me I was mistaken.  I can imagine what it would be like if I had a police record.  An incident in 2008 aggravated my opinion further.  A “fill-in” Davis County Sheriff sniper killed my buddy.  That night, they held a news conference and announced he committed suicide.  The documentary “Peace Officer” covers the whole incident.  A brilliant, and fair-minded film by the former Sheriff of Davis County, Utah.  Dub Lawrence.  Documenting just how out-of-control and dangerous it has become for law abiding citizens to even carry a cellphone. 

Pulling into Alice’s neighborhood, I made a terrible decision.  Impulsive.  Lazy.  Broke my own security procedures and protocols, for the first time. A friend from school lived in a cul-de-sac a short walk from Alice’s house. Her dad was a cool guy and we always talked motorcycles.  Knowing the situation between CDH and I, he had a suggestion.  “Hey, if you ever need to park here late at night, that’s cool.  On the street or even in the driveway if you want.”  The old man apparently knew a little bit about forbidden love.  I would gladly accept his offer, several times a week.  On this night, the 5 minute walk seemed 5 minutes too long.  Two doors down from Alice’s, there was a home under construction.  I killed the engine and coasted the final distance into the driveway.  Maggie wouldn’t be there too long.  Surely it would be okay.  Bad call.

As always, I bribed the night watchman.  CDH had no worries I could infiltrate his security perimeter.  “Alfie is the best guard dog in the neighborhood.  Nobody gets within a 1/4 mile of my yard without Alfie letting me know,” he once boasted.  Alfie was a bit distrustful of most people, but he and I were bro’s from the beginning.  I creeped over, paid Alfie his Scooby snack, rubbed the base of his ears and belly a bit, and proceeded.  Alice had the window open, I carefully removed the screen.  “What took you so long?”  She said.  “It felt like forever,” as she hugged me like it was both the first and last time she ever would. 

Within minutes of entering the window, it happened.  Headlights.  Creeping by at 2 mph, instinctively I knew it was a Roscoe.  I jumped up and went to the window.  My heart sank as he pulled in the driveway behind Maggie. His headlights painting my poor baby, left to fend for herself.  Alice and I both winced when we heard his words echo off the homes in the cul-de-sac.  Calling in my plate to dispatch.  “Dude is shouting,” I whispered. “This is bad, my dad investigates when the crickets stop for a minute.  This is very bad.” 

Rookie Roscoe spoke loudly into his radio, far too loudly.  “I better run.” “Matty, there is no chance he doesn’t see you climbing out that window.” Rookie Roscoe “RR” then called in for backup.  Small town, slow night standard operating procedure.  “Send a supervisor down.  There has been numerous theft of tools and materials in houses under construction.  I think we found our guy.”  In near perfect unison: “S**t,” we whispered. Before we could say another word, our luck changed.  Instead of waiting, RR got in his cruiser and slowly backed out.  Creeping back past Alice’s house.  Without a word, I kissed Alice and leapt out the window, sprinting toward Maggie.  With his taillights in the distance, I couldn’t wait for him to leave altogether.

I pushed Maggie up the sidewalk.  Hoping I wasn’t visible in his rearview mirror.  As I was parallel with her next door neighbor, RR began a slow U-Turn at the end of her street.  There was a big-a*s RV parked on the side of the neighbors home.  At the front, there was a two foot gap between the RV’s grill and the chainlink fence.  I quickly rolled Maggie in this little slot, and sprinted across the lawn towards Alice’s window.  With about 2 seconds to spare, I did a Superman dive in the window and landed on the carpet with a dull thud.  RR now had his supervisor in tow.  They pulled in the driveway, illuminating the now empty space.  The excitement of my victory was quickly replaced with dread once again.  The decibel level was ramping to an even more unacceptable level.  Alice’s face was sheer terror. 

“What the f**k are you talking about?  You must be the dumbest son of a b***h I’ve ever met.”  Supervisor Roscoe was displeased in the extreme.  Loud voices are one thing, but F-Bombs?  In CDH’s view, that was tantamount to rape and murder.  Hearing RR being hammered, I couldn’t help but smile.  Alice didn’t share my sentiment.  “Matty, it’s not funny. You’re trapped, and we’re screwed.”  “Hey, if your Dad comes down here, I’ll hide in the closet.  Make sure you turn on your light and open your door ALL of the way.  If you were hiding me in here, you wouldn’t do either of those things.”  She gave me a blank stare.  “Listen, seriously, do that!”  She nodded impatiently.  Supervisor Roscoe “SR” continued his rant.  Wait, I knew that voice.  My nemesis, DeerTeeth.  On the nightshift?

“A f*****g 300 lb. motorcycle doesn’t just evaporate in front of your eyes. You’re lying.  You didn’t see it.”  “Sir, how would I call in the plate and details if I didn’t see it.  Why would I make that up?”  “Because you’re a f*****g dumbass.  Obviously!  Something doesn’t smell right.”  Timidly, RR began to provide a few more details.  “Well, Sir, after I called it in, and called for you, I left for 30 seconds. Well, I didn’t leave, I drove up the street and turned around.  To meet you.”   “SON OF A B***H.  You let this scumbag get away?  You let him get away!”  

“No, no way. Not possible.  Theres one road in, and one road out.  There is no way he got past me.  I had to see what the cross street was, so I went to check, and came back seconds later.  No way this guy got away.”   “Then you find this a*****e.  Now.  Well, go.  What the f**k are you looking at?  You don’t know whether to s**t or wind your watch!  Go.”  RR headed toward his car.  Wrong answer.  “What the fuuuuuuck?   You said he didn’t escape.  Didn’t ride away.  Why the f**k are you getting in your cruiser?  GO F*****G FIND HIM.”  

This is what my Grandma would call a pickle.  I would call it a s**t sandwich.  Being a man who believes in compromise, a s**t sandwich with pickles.  We froze as something began to stir upstairs.  CDH’s bedroom was directly above Alice’s.  “Certified Dick Head” was my translation, based on his vanity plate initials.  Vanity indeed.  I prepared my path to the closet.  A nice pile of clothes therein would help.  I was gonna make this dude earn it.  

“It sounds like he got back in bed,” she began to say, but was interrupted by the sudden “thump thump” of feet on the stairs.  Unexpected, and speeding.  I dove in the closet and buried myself in laundry.  My concern she would act all sketchy and nervous was allayed.  She turned on the light, opened her door, and feigned sleepy eyes.  “What is going on?”  He demanded.  “Why are you asking me?  There is police, talking to some kids on skateboards.  I think it’s that Durrant kid.  They’re loud.  But, I gotta go back to sleep, I have Cheerleader practice early.”   She shut him right down. 

“Okay.  Goodnight.  That Durrant kid.  Why is he skateboarding at this time of night?”   She handled it like a boss.  But, the danger was not over.  If he exits the house and walks toward the Roscoes, there’s a high likelihood he sees Maggie, or is tipped off about the motorcycle.  Guaranteed, if he walks toward the window or Alfie.  I stealthily reached out and put the screen back over the window.  Not locked in, but close enough.  It would pass a quick inspection.  RR and DT were still bickering back and forth. Alice and I listened, straining to hear every footstep upstairs.  “Is he headed toward the door, or back to bed?”  As the squeak of him getting back in bed confirmed which it was, Alice softly said: “Oh, thank you.  Are those idiots gonna stay out there shouting all night?  Pissing me off.”  I just hugged her and held her tight. 

Just when it seemed the danger had passed.  We would overhear what was surely the most comical murder confession in history.  My murder.

Outside, RR was also prowling around.  DT was communicating with the dispatcher.  At the window, RR suddenly appeared just feet away. Searching for the possible escape route or hiding spot.  He approached the window and we ducked down.  He was now 10 feet from the RV and Maggie’s hideaway.  As he walked closer to Maggie, Alfie let out a growl, startling RR.  He made a business decision.  Tangling with an unseen canine wasn’t worth pursuing his search further.  He quickly turned around, walking right past Maggie.  Alfie’s vocalization likely saved Maggie from being discovered.  As he approached DT, the bitching continued. “Are you f*****g kidding me?  Rookie?  Nothing?  What a monumental cluster-f**k.  Charlie Foxtrot!” 

“Matthias and Mary Gregory.  The owners on the bike’s title. I know that little s**t.  He’s been a pain in the a*s punk from birth.  Matthias is 15.  I doubt Mary is out for a night cruise.  Time to make contact.”  He engaged the dispatcher.  “Call them.  I bet you anything that little s**t isn’t home. This is totally Matty’s wheelhouse.  Probably thieving or up to no good.” DeerTeeth’s communication with the dispatcher continued.  “What? Yes, wake her up.  Now.”   

“Uh oh.  They’re calling Mary.  You are so busted.  She’s gonna be pissed,” Alice said.  I just stared, realizing my options weren’t looking so good. Escape routes none.  “Okay, you have Mary on the phone?  Ask her if Matty is home.  Ok, standing by.  What?  He IS home?  Ask her if his bike is there?  It must be?  He doesn’t let anyone ride it?  Well, if he’s home, then he let someone borrow it.  Or it’s stolen.  Wake that little s**t up.  Yes! Wake him up, now.  She doesn’t want to?  Then go check if the bike is there.  No, no.  Just wake the little precious prince.  I don’t give a s**t if his beauty sleep is interrupted.  Alice and I chuckled at that line.  “At least he admits my beauty.”  Alice rolls her eyes.

“Okay, standing by.”  Then, all hell broke loose.  DT’s voice shot up several panicked octaves.  “What?  What’s happening?  She’s screaming bloody murder?  What the hell is going on?  He’s dead?  She killed him?  Why? His head?  Came right off?”  

Having seen my dummy engineering skills, Alice knew exactly what was happening.  She herself had been fooled a few times.  Not responding to Mom’s calls, nor a gentle tapping, Mom gave me a vigorous shake.  Bleary eyed and awaken from a deep sleep, dimly lit only by the hallway light, she thought she had decapitated her sweet boy in repose.  My head bounced at her feet, then across the floor.  We both busted out laughing.  Trying to suppress it was pointless.  We buried our faces in the bedding and laughed and laughed.  The more we tried to stop, the harder we laughed. Everyone has 4 or 5 lung-buster belly laugh sessions per lifetime.  This was top 3. 

My stomach hurt, my face hurt, and tears were streaming down my face. “Dude, stop laughing,” she said.”  “You stop laughing.  Holy s**t.  Mary murdered me by decapitation.  The bouncing gorilla head, oh dude.”  “Imagine her pulling that stupid carved face coconut out of the gorilla mask, bwahaha,” she added.  The Roscoes weren’t quite sure what was unfurling. 

"Is she being attacked?  Still screaming hysterically?  Well, send assistance.  What the hell is going on?  Huh?  Repeat?  That little s**t? He’s not dead?  She didn’t kill him?  He’s in big trouble?  A gorilla head? Coconut?  What are you talking about?”  Then, he figured it out.  “Haha, that little s**t made a dummy and it was his head who fell off and bounced on the floor.  Oh man, that’s classic.  She’s okay?  Just pissed off.  Haha. Ha, that little hellion is in deep s**t all the way around.  The bike is gone?  I knew it.  What is wrong with that kid.  Welp, tell her to get dressed and get up here.  Ask her why he’s up here?”  Even in their grim mood, they found it quite humorous. 

Our laughter was replaced with the terrible possibilities.  Would Mary confess to my true mission.  There was no doubt she knew exactly what and why I am here.  Admitting that would bring a knock on CDH’s front door.  “I’m gonna have to bail, and run through the creek and up the cliff onto the golf course.”   “Will she tell them?  I mean, she can’t tell them.  My Dad will lose his freaking mind.  I won’t see the sunshine for years. I don’t see any reason she won’t tell them. Right?  I’m so screwed.”   

“I dunno. She doesn’t really appreciate the way your old man has treated me.  All the s**t-talking he’s done, trying to get the world to believe I’m Lucifer himself.  He’s been totally condescending to her too.  Blaming her for the divorce.  She doesn’t know all the details, but your Dad was cringingly condescending when he quizzed her about her divorce.  She might just play dumb rather than get both of us busted.  I don’t know.  We’ll know very soon.”   

Alice was horrified, her heart thumping.  Without warning, both Roscoes jumped in their cruisers and left, but this wasn’t over.  It made my stomach turn, picturing the victory DeerTeeth was about to celebrate.  The wheels were turning quickly, as I strategized how best to play the s****y hand I had been dealt.  Before I could make my escape, we heard the front door slam. CDH was now outside.  Cruising the perimeter.  I hunkered down at the base of the window.  “Get in bed, you’re asleep.  Hurry.”   

Just as she climbed in bed, a shadow passed by her window.  S**t, CDH is gonna stumble across Maggie.  “Alfie, everything okay buddy?  Yeah, good boy.”  After checking in with Alfie, CDH suddenly appeared in the window.  Looming.  Ominously.  Would he realize the screen was just laying over the window, half-assed.  He paused and stared in the window. It was creepy.  Feet from Maggie.  He turned, and walked away.  We heard the front door slam, and CDH climbed back in bed.  I went over to the bed to lay down next to Alice.  We shared a long embrace.  Relief, victory, as much as was possible, regarding CDH anyway.  “We’re lucky you put that screen back.  Dad would’ve seen that thing on the ground and we would’ve been deep-s**t busted.  Nice thinking,”  Alice said.
“It’s always the small details,” I said.  I knew what my game plan was.  I gave Alice a kiss and carefully climbed out.  Replacing the screen. 

I began the walk-of-shame to the roadblock showdown.  If DeerTeeth didn’t witness me riding Maggie, he couldn’t give me a handful of tickets and impound her.  I turned the corner and the mass of cars came into view.  4 Roscoe cars and Mary’s little black Honda Accord.  She was already there.  I dreaded every step of my approach.  I jogged to close the distance.  If today, they probably would have dropped me with 2 dozen 9mm rounds. 

As I approached, DeerTeeth and his buddies were smirking and relishing the bust they were about to deliver.  Yet, a flicker of concern that Maggie wasn’t with me.  I approached Mom sheepishly, gave her a hug, and whispered: “I’m sorry Mom.  So sorry.  The only chance I get to see Alice nowadays is her late visits.”  Implying my visiting her was a first. 

“Okay.  I know honey, let’s just deal with this and get home.  I have to get up in less than 2 hours.”   

“So, where’s the bike?”  DeerTeeth barked.  His first move in the chess match to follow.  “Bike?  Oh, my buddy dropped me off.  He rode it home, right past your man here.  Well, the backside of the loop, when your guy left his post.  He’s of age, and licensed.  I’m only 15.  It wouldn’t be legal for me to drive on the streets.”  His smirk and sense of imminent victory melted away.  His lackeys looked around, confused.  They thought the boss-man had me all nailed down.  Signed, sealed, and delivered.  They believed the visual of my bike being loaded onto a tow-truck was all theirs. Not so fast my friend.  A flash of anger showed on DeerTeeth’s face. “Bullshit.  You don’t let anyone touch your bike.  Where is it?  Now!  It’s late, I don’t have the time or patience to waste any more time out here. You little punk.”  “Ouch.  Why so angry?  I’ve broken no laws.  Committed no sins.  Being beautiful isn’t a crime.  Your work here is done ossifer.  A 300 pound motorcycle doesn’t just disappear.”  The last line caused the vein in his temple to bulge, recognizing I was mocking his very words.  

“Hell no, this is not over.  I want to know what you are doing in this neighborhood.  We know you were trying to steal tools and materials from the building sight.  That’s a felony.”    “A felony?  Theft?  Dude, you’re so full of crap.  I did steal a candy bar once.  In 3rd grade.  To give to a starving homeless guy.  Robin Hood type s**t, ya know.  He closed the distance, and stepped right into me.  Face to face.  On the razor’s edge of completely losing his temper. 

“I’m impounding that bike.  You’re never getting that thing back.”  “Impounding it?  For what crime?  What’s that saying, possession is 9/10ths of the law or something.  Do you have possession?  Or know where Maggie is?  Or have any charge that could possibly justify impounding my beautiful baby?  Nyet, Nein, nope.  We’re wasting our time here ossifers.  My Mom has to get up at 5:30, let’s wrap this up.  Please.”     

“Where the F**K is the bike?  And what were you doing up here at 3 am?”  “I told you, the bike is safely tucked in, at my buddy’s house. Legally, via public streets.  You saw the plate and proper registration and insurance, right?  I was visiting a friend.  Visiting my bro’s is legal in all 50 states and Puerto Rico, if I’m not mistaken.”  One of the Roscoes let out a slight chuckle.  Apparently approving of my line.  DeerTeeth's face was further reddening, jaw clenching, veins throbbing, clearly ready to blow a gasket.  He knew it was all slipping away.  “Who?  Who were you visiting?”   Mom looked pale.  Like she was about to vomit.  She hated confrontation. She believed cops were all good guys.  Protect and serve, always tell the truth, and all that.  That one has to do whatever they say.  However, she had come to recognize DeerTeeth was an immature and petty scumbag.  It didn’t make the confrontation any easier for her to witness up close.  “We’ll catch you for all those other burglaries.”  

My Mom was losing patience with the theft accusations.  “Yeah, that’s my brilliant scheme.  I bring a motorcycle to load up all that lumber and massive heavy tools.  I just hide it under the seat.  It holds as much as a cargo jet under there, and you can’t even see it.  I bet if you find Maggie you’ll find all the stolen stuff.  You should get looking Columbo, it ain’t here,” I said checking my pockets.  Pulling them inside out, I asked: “Have you ever kissed a rabbit between the ears?”  It went right over Mom’s head.  RR cracked a smile as the group looked at my rabbit-ear inside-out pockets. 

“Then who the f**k were you visiting?  I’ll just take you to jail right now.”  His F-Bombs were draining any patience Mom felt toward DT, and causing me to wanna start throwing elbows.  “Ohh, like take-it-in-the-tailpipe jail?  Don’t tempt me.  If you curse again in front of my Mother, we’re done here.  A friend.  That’s all I have to say.  Also, mix in a toothbrush or breath mint once in awhile dude.  I’ve seen better chompers on a decomposed rat.”  “Matty, please,” Mom pleaded. 

“Okay, we can do it the hard way.”  “Oh I’m hard just hearing you talk so rough, Sir.”  He ignored me.  “Tell me who you were visiting, or I’ll assume you are the burglar.  We’re gonna drag you to go knock on every door in the entire neighborhood.  I WILL find out, one way or another.”  

“It’ll have to be ‘another,’  Sounds fun, but no thanks.  But, you should get right on that.  You’ll be finished by sunset, next Thursday.  I won’t be joining you for that adventure.  Also, maybe look into any rapes or murders nearby, that was probably me too.”  Restraint was never my thing, and I was letting anger drive the ship.  “Throw in kiddie-fiddlers too, musta been me.  In your lingo, have you ascertained Maggie’s whereabouts?  Are you proceeding with tactical pursuit to locate and apprehend the suspect wanted for questioning in the matter of visiting bro’s in the first degree?”  My main weapon, my smart-a*s was running amok and the meter was redlining.  

“You know what.  I’m done.  Either arrest me, ticket me, or give me a big wet kiss, I’m leaving.  Right now.”  The Roscoes looked back and forth at each other in despair.  They couldn’t keep me another minute.  “Mom, let’s go.”  She looked toward DeerTeeth for approval, I was having none of it. “Mom, please, let’s go.  Been fun, but this party’s over.  This is simply harassment at this point.  I’ve done nothing wrong.”  I got into the passenger seat, she slowly, somewhat reluctantly got behind the wheel. “Breath mint,” I said with a wink.  If looks could kill.  DT wanted to curb-stomp me right there. 

They just stared daggers as we began to pull away.  It was a bit menacing.  I wondered if my mouth had written a check that was about to bounce hard.  “Matty, why do you have to be so harsh.  Disrespectful.  So angry.”  “Mom, I need to tell you something.  Remember that nasty 3rd degree burn I got 3 years ago?  The oozing, ugly, painful burn from my motorcycle exhaust?  The entire inside of my calf, a footlong.”   “Yes.  That was horrific,” she said.  “That’s the man that gave it to me.  He violently slammed me down while I was sitting on my bike.  Then laughed and mocked me, AFTER seeing how ugly the burn was.  After smelling the burnt flesh.  Said he and his partner would deny it, and it would be my word against theirs.  That’s why I never told you how it happened.  A lawsuit, or punishment for him would have never happened.  I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.  Or you the worry and aggravation.  I never said a word.” 

“Matty, we have to do something.  A lawsuit, or formal complaint, at least. You suffered for weeks.  That isn’t right.  Surely justice would be done.”  

“Mom, not a damn thing would’ve happened.  I would’ve been labeled a liar.  Wasting time or money on lawyers was pointless.  He would’ve probably framed me up for some stupid charge.  But, to answer your question, that’s why I hate cops.  I’ve been bullied and abused for absolutely no reason since I got my first motorcycle.  I wasn’t a smart-a*s until 3 or 4 incidents occurred.  Now you know the full story.”

She  began to cry softly.  “Matty, I’m so sorry.  That I couldn’t protect you. Or do anything about it.”  Then I began to cry at the very thought she felt bad.  Or responsible.  Or negligent.  “Mom, you’re the best Mom a dude could ever have.  You get up at 5:30am every morning.  Wait in the freezing cold or roasting heat at the bus stop.  Then come home dead tired and head off to a 2nd, 3rd, even 4th job.  You’ve been screwed over by Dad in a manner no human should ever have to endure, I hear you sob late at night.  After 25 years of selfless commitment.  And deserved absolutely none of it.  I saw you handing out samples at the grocery store, while people treated you like crap on the bottom of their shoe.  You never dropped your smile.  Your manners, humility, and kindness.  You took it all. For $3/hr, as a 4th job.  You did it for your kids.  For me.  Please, never, ever apologize to me again.  For anything.  Ever.  Okay, you’re not going to like this, we have to turn around.”

 Confused, she looked at me.  “Mom, we have to go back.  My bike is parked next door to Alice’s in plain sight.  Her dickhead dad will see it the moment the sun comes up.  Those cops are gone, and there’s absolutely no way I can leave the bike there.  You know this.  It’s not even a possibility. Right?  CDH, which stands for Certified Dickhead, by the way.  He’ll freakout.”   She snickered as she slowed and pulled over.  Even Mom couldn’t disagree with my version of CDH.  “No. You’re right. That isn’t acceptable, is it.”  “I’m right about Certified Dickhead or the need to rescue Maggie?”  She smiled, but said nothing.  “If there’s cops around, we’ll wait 20 minutes, but I guarantee they’ll be gone.  We’ll make sure of it.  There is zero chance they aren’t at 7-11 already, trust me.”  

I could feel her fear and tension as she drove back into the neighborhood. The Roscoes were long gone.  Already crushing donuts and Mormon coffee (Mountain Dew) at the 7-11.  “Yep, they’re long gone,” she said. “Just let me out here.  I’ll be home in 10 minutes.  I’ll probably even beat you home.  Mom, I love you.”  “Matty, you’re a pain in the butt, but you know I love you.  DO NOT GET CAUGHT by the DeerTeeth jerk!”  “Mom, that’s not very nice. To make fun of someones dental deficiencies.”  “The man makes my skin crawl. Seeing him play Mr. Righteous Mormon at Church always irritates me. When I know what a vulgar bully he is.  Same with Certified Dickhead.  It must be true, his license plates say so!”  I let out a laugh, observing her expression of satisfaction at speaking the truth.   

I crept toward Maggie’s hiding spot.  Once again, I rolled Maggie down the street, and fired it to life.  Head on a swivel, I took the backroads home.  I was worried DeerTeeth would try and ambush me.  He was as pissed off as I’ve ever seen him.  Within 1/2 mile of home my pulse quickened, adrenaline spike.  Bogey at 3 o’clock.  On a parallel side street, a Roscoe cruiser appeared to be shadowing me.  Ready to escape and evade, run to the hills, I thought my Mom would have to wait and worry.  All over again.  That I would break my 10 minute promise.  But, Roscoe was probably balls deep in donuts and distracted.  He never even noticed me and I rounded the final corner and darted into the garage.  Awash in a rush of exhilaration. 

No CDH consequences.  No Roscoe consequences.  And nobody lost their head, that mattered.  My faithful stand-in, Enos, would recover, and forgive me.  My Mom was standing at the door.  Relieved.  She gave me a bear hug.  “You’ve always stood up to bullies.  Since Kindergarten. Defended anyone getting bullied, and I’ve always respected that son.  It’s easier to join the bullies.  Even when you gave both middle fingers to that teacher mocking the autistic Thompson boy.  His Mother told me that boy cried when telling how much he appreciates you defending him.  How nobody messes with him anymore.  I was proud.  Adults never get to see that side of you.  I figured that teacher probably deserved the middle finger, both of them, I just could never say it to the 5th grade you.”  You gotta love Mothers.  Always able to find the positive, even in a half brain-dead hooligan like I was.  

We stood on the porch and looked up at the stars.  “It’s a beautiful night.  I don’t think I’ve ever looked at the stars at 4:30 am before.”  “Well, now you see what you’re missing.  It pays to be a night-owl like me.  “No, Matty, your night-owl days, well, nights, are over, right?  No more night-rides?”   After the beautiful bonding and discussion we had just shared, it didn’t feel right lying to her.  With a little sidestep deflection, “And you’re not gonna murder me by decapitation ever again, right?”  “Oh Matty, you are a little s**t.”  “Language Mom, language.”