A Halloween Tale

A nightmare? A memory? Fodder for thought.

Four black rubber knobby tires rolled swiftly over the damp fall streets of my home town. It was after eleven p.m. on Wednesday, October 31, 1979 and I was racing my best buddy Danny to his house. The two of us were inseparable in those days and tonight we were dressed like characters from a movie that had just come out earlier that year called “The Warriors”. Danny was dressed like one of the Warriors with a red leather vest, no shirt and black jeans. I was dressed like the leader of the Baseball Furies, with white pancake makeup, black lips and a big black eye. I wore my little league uniform and used a stolen bat from the old sea bag our coach used to haul the team's equipment. We were both twelve that year but I was one day older and never let him forget it, but he was faster than me. I pedaled my butt off and cut through backyards to try and catch him, but to no avail. When I finally reached his house I saw his bike laying in the front yard at the same time I heard his front door slam. I stood in the shadows of the big cypress trees across the street and watched his house.

Earlier that evening, after going through our bags of candy and eating the best bits, I told him I had an idea.

“What are we doing down here?” Danny asked when we reached the edge of the creek behind the Weeping Willow bar.

“Look!” I said in a loud whisper, and pointed to a silhouette down on the embankment.

“So? It’s an old wino. Who cares. Lets go, I’m cold.” Danny whined.

“Nah. I wanna see something first. Are you a chicken, Dude?” I prodded.

Danny didn't say another word in protest until I grabbed my Louisville Slugger and made my way down through the tall anise and sawgrass.

“Wait, Dude. What are you going to do?” he half giggled out of fear and disbelief.

My first swing just clipped the soused old man’s crown. It was dark with only the light of the moon reflecting off the rippled surface of the creek. The old man just leaned forward a bit but didn’t fall over. I had a good trajectory now and made my second swing count. It struck him square on the crown of his head.

"HOME RUN!" I yelled to the frost ringed moon, now directly over us.

That delicious "crack of the bat" sound traveled up my arm before it did my ears. There was a satisfying crunch and a slight give of the skull that changed me that night. I only wish I could have enjoyed the moment longer but my partner in crime, so to speak, found his voice.

“S**T!”

“F**K!”

“S**T S**T S**T F**K... S**T!” Danny said, just staring at the body on the blood splattered bank.

With a two handed grip and the bat raised high above my head, I brought the hickory down on the old man 3, 4 and 5 more times. Brain matter stuck to my shirt and bat in little gray chunks. I couldn't get the grin off my face. I turned and looked at my friend. He just stood there with his mouth open. Danny pointed at what was left of the old man’s head and then to my bat, his face was drained of blood.

“I know, right? Did you see how easy his head came apart?” I asked Danny, genuinely surprised.

As I bent over, to more closely examine the man's ruined head, I heard Danny move up the embankment. At first slowly but then in a frantic hurry. Always the calm one, I said

“Where ya going, Dude?” in an even tone.

Danny SCREAMED and sprinted the rest of the way to his bike.

Now, from my vantage point across the street, I can see him through the big picture window in their front room. His large breasted big sister is holding his shaking body, trying to calm him down. Her honey colored blonde hair, perfectly feathered back, framed her round beautiful face. I thought she was an angel. I watched this scene for awhile and then rode home.

“AHHH!” I screamed into the dark bedroom as I jolted awake.

“Honey! Are you okay? Was it another nightmare?” my sweet wife asked.

I shook all over. My heart was pounding on my rib cage and I soaked through my John Tesh concert shirt with sweat.

“I’m fine, dear, and yes, it was another bad one.” I said.

Thinking back, Danny and I never talked again after seventh grade. I guess we just grew apart and then he moved away. It's been 39 years since I was a sloppy twelve year old with impulse issues, but you know... it’s true. You never do forget your first murder.