Around the neighborhood, they were known as the Rascals. Or the Troublemakers, the Ruffians, the Hooligans, the Rowdy Younguns (especially among the older folks). The adults in the town all had different names for the pair of boys and each one referred to their squirrely behavior. Except, of course, their parents, who called them simpering names such as “sweetie” and “honey pie.” Parents always think their children are darlings, and even if they’re smart enough to realize the rotten nature of their offspring, they refer to it as “a phase.”
The boys themselves proudly wore many different nametags. Depending on the position of the sun in the sky, they were burglars, superheroes, explorers, astronauts, cowboys and/or injuns. They ran the streets wild, eyes crazed with whatever game they fancied that day. The adults shook their heads at the children’s antics, but the boys called it the Best Fun that Could Be Had. And they were probably correct, because in the eyes of these children this was a sorry Town.
Officially, the boys were known as Nicholas James Dillon and Russell Jeffrey Pike. However, they found their names to be pretentious, the phrase used was “sissy” but this formal setting requires more proper diction, and held council to rename themselves. The council was quite informal, which is a nice way saying there was no organization at all, and the names decided upon were Nicks and Russ. The parents found it cute, the townsfolk deemed it inoffensive, and the boys had themselves a pair of nicknames.
Nicks was eight years and seven months old. Russ was only eight years and 5 and three quarters months old. So Nicks deemed himself captain of their duo, a position which was continuously being disputed. Even so, humans have a tendency towards order, and it would be clear to any outsider that Russ was the follower.
The two looked so similar that many believed them to be twins, but the similarities came more from mirrored mannerisms than genetic traits. They were cousins and neighbors. They were both fairly short and properly round for boys that age, with hair somewhere between brown and blond, but never brushed. Nicks had blue eyes, and Russ argued that his eyes were green, though everyone knew they were hazel. Their arms were fast and wiry, and they were suntanned from hours spent outside. They had loud laughs that could wake the dead, and upturned noses above wide mouths. Their parents thought they looked charming. Everyone else thought they looked dirty, because baths were one of their least favorite activities, ranked right up with sitting still and staying indoors for long periods of time.
Today the boys were spies. They met in their spy den, which was a hollowed out area underneath the lilac hedge that served as a fence between their houses, fondly referred to as the Hideout. But today it was a spy den.
“Okay Russ, are you ready for Operation W?”
Russ nodded solemnly. “Shall we review the strategy once more?”
“Of course. Good thinking Agent–” Nicks stopped himself, leaned over, and whispered, “What was your code name again?”
Unfortunately, Russ had forgotten to invent this crucial part, and suddenly found himself put on the spot. “Uhh… Agent Kobra. Kobra with a K.”
At this point in his young, uneducated life, such tackiness did not grate on Nicks and he accepted the code name as kool. “Sweet!”
“What’s yours?” Russ asked, poking his cousin’s side with a branch.
“I’m Agent Viper.”
“Hey!” Russ exclaimed. “That is too close to Kobra! They’re both snakes!”
“They’re completely different types of snakes!” Nicks retorted.
Russ made a rude noise, and the boys found themselves rolling around the dirt hollow, fiercely battling for the right to their respective codename. After several minutes of grunting, ear pulling, and pouncing, Nicks climbed on Russ’s back and refused to let go.
“Lemme have it!” he yelled in Russ’s freckled ear.
Valiantly, Russ struggled, but to no avail. Nicks’ knee dug into his side and after a final buck, Russ gave in.
“Fine,” he said. “Have your stupid name!”
Much like a politician, Nicks sat back and grinned over his win which produced no actual change. Confident in his role of leader, he grabbed the all-important Writing Stick. It was a branch torn from an oak tree, the strongest tree the boys could think of, while on a camping trip. They had ceremoniously carved the bark from the branch with a pocket knife until it was smooth, then roasted it over the fire, convinced that trial by fire was the best way to prove a stick. The final touch was the dull point inflicted with the pocket knife. It was now used for drawing all important plans in the dirt of their Hideout.
Nicks drew a meaningless line on the ground. “Well the first part of the plan was research and observation. Now that we’ve done that–” the stick thudded hard against the floor– “the operation can commence!”
Russ whooped loudly. “So glad that’s over! I was getting real sore from crouching down in those bushes.”
“Quit complaining agent!”
Russ had valid reason for his objection. He had spent the last four days shoved into a bush on Mulch Street, and the bush had quite an abundance of small irritating sticks, not to mention the numerous insects. Nicks, of course, got to do surveillance on the patio area of the local ice cream parlor, Lafayette’s. The place boasted to have the best ice cream in town, which was true because the only other place to get ice cream was the locally run grocery store. In fact, the ice cream was rather average, and the selection disappointing, but that did not matter in the least as the citizens had underdeveloped palates.
Needless to say, an afternoon spent licking ice cream and lazily watching a church is much better than an afternoon squishing bugs trying to crawl up your shirt while trying to get a glimpse through a tiny trailer house window.
The house belonged to Phoebe Moses, though she spent equal parts there and at the church. She was what polite people called “eccentric,” though more honest folks called her “crazy” or “batty.” She spent an inordinate amount of time at the Trinity Baptist Church, but no one really knew if she worked there. Her trailer was slight and decrepit, with sagging siding. One side of it was slightly higher than the other, like a browning banana. However, she made an attempt on the yard and each year planted a bevy of cheerful zinnias. By the end of summer they were usually destroyed at the paws of her cherished terrier. The folks of the garden club shook their heads.
It didn’t help that she was an outsider. She moved to town before the boys were born, but after their parents had graduated high school. No one really knew how old she was, because she barely talked, and even then it was only in monosyllables.
Phoebe Moses looked like a witch, with a mouth that was continuously stuck in a frown and luminous owl eyes, exaggerated by large, thick glasses, that seemed to know everyone’s secrets. She wore garish dresses with large print and colors that looked like they were supposed to be bright, but were intentionally muted for reasons sensible people could not comprehend. And over every outfit was thrown a long, shapeless navy cardigan that reached her knees, no matter the weather.
The crowning detail of the crone was her wig. It was a shabby blob that sat atop her head, in the ever fashionable Dubious Non-Color No. 9. The popular story was that she scraped it off the road one dark Halloween night. Other versions claim it was stitched together from the skins of her past dogs, each one sacrificed on Halloween night.
In any case, the wig was the prize. And Nicks and Russ were the spies set out to collect their bounty.
“The first thing to do is get her distracted,” Nicks said, chewing on his lip in a thoughtful manner. He thought it made him look distinguished; it made him look constipated. “The best way is to mess with that mangy dog of hers. And the best way to mess with dogs is?”
“Cats.” Russ said solemnly. He was taking this plan very seriously.
“Bingo! We just need a cat.”
“Well duh,” Russ rolled his eyes. “Waldo.” The cat in question was a rather large, snarly tomcat that lived in the old barn behind Russ’s property. “He’s mean. We can catch him with some tuna and a sack, and then dump him on the lady’s house. Her dog’ll go nuts.”
Nicks nodded and frowned like he was considering the plan as it was the only plan proposed, it was going to pass automatically but he had to keep the ruse of gatekeeper. “I believe that will work just fine. You watched her house– when does she let it out?”
“Usually when she gets home from the church… Around 7:00. She stands on the front porch and smokes those gross long cigarettes and watches the dog. Sometimes she’ll talk to it. Says weird stuff like ‘you sure like those butts huh?’” Russ shuddered.
“Hmm. The only problem is: when does she take off her wig?”
Russ blinked. He hadn’t thought that bit through. “Probably when she goes to bed?”
The boys sat and nodded at each other for a minute.
“So,” said Russ. “What we gon’ do?”
“I’ll tell ya: we’re going to commence our mission!” Nicks triumphantly hoisted the stick into the air. Well, he would have triumphantly hoisted the stick into the air, but it hit the top of the bushes and fell out of his hands. This prompted a round of raucous laughter from Russ, which of course infuriated Nicks, who made his fury known by socking Russ in the mouth. Russ fought back and their plans were postponed yet again.
You see, they were rather rotten spies.
Finally, they settled down and developed a battle plan. First: captured the dreaded Waldo and place him into a burlap sack. Second: stake out the house, ensuring that all the inhabitants are asleep before releasing the cat inside. Third: while the dog (and hence the owner) is running after the cat, sneak in and grab the wig. Four: run like hell.
It was an airtight plan.
“You take the sack!”
“No you take it!”
The boys shoved a burlap sack back and forth between them. They were standing in front of Russ’s barn, getting ready to commence with part one of the plan.
“It’s your barn, it’s your cat, you should be the one to catch it!” Nicks said, forcing the sack into Russ’ arms.
Russ searched for a logical rebuttal, and decided to appeal to Nicks’ huge ego. “But you’ve got stronger arms, you can take some scratching!”
“Oh I’ll show you scratching!” Nicks yelled, rushing his best friend, nails and teeth bared.
After tussling in the dirt for a couple of minutes, the boys were tired enough to come to a consensus regarding the cat-catching: they would both take a corner of the sack and catch it together.
Cats were always a favorite animal of mine. They are passive observers, like me, always holding themselves a little aloof and considering all humans with a slight condescension that sometimes approached hostility, and sometimes expressed itself as lenience towards the human they lived with. Of course it would be a stretch to call this human their owner, because their independence was so fierce that they truly could not be owned. They are the most successful and subversive parasites, worming their way into your affections and therefore gaining food, toys, and shelter. Though many would claim it is a mutually beneficial relationship, due to the great love humans have for the little creatures. In the past, when cats were mainly tools for pest riddance, one could label the relationship mutually beneficial. But with the advent of the modern housecat, the scale has tipped and the humans are on the bottom. Now the scale for benefits tips towards the feline always, for sustainment of life outweighs warm and fuzzy feelings.
Russ and Nicks had no such fuzzy feelings towards their cats. They viewed them as pests, sometimes playthings. Cats to them equaled hisses, laziness, and sometimes sharp claws. So they took particular pleasure in capturing the old orange cat, hearing its yowls and the sound of claws scratching against the bag.
Russ tightly held the bag shut while Nicks wound twine about the opening, tying it carefully.
“There,” he said, stepping back and wiping his hand over his forehead. “We’ve got ‘em.”
Russ grinned at him and let go of the bag. It thumped onto the ground, earning another yowl from the tom. “Heck yeah we did!” He held out his hand for a high five, which Nicks returned with vigor.
“And now, Agent Kobra, we wait.” Nicks said, with considerable dramatics that far outweighed the mundanity of his statement.
“The second phase of the mission has been completed, Agent Viper,” Russ said, as he grabbed ahold of the cat’s bag and starting dragging it towards the front porch.
Nicks nodded gravely. “Yes, the first phase is completed.”
“Uh, second phase? First was the information gathering part. The spying part. Where we staked out her house,” said Russ, grunting as he dragged the bag across the lawn.
Nicks scoffed. “Whatever.”
What commenced next, was one of the tussles akin to ones that have happened previously. I find no need then, to describe it. Simply know that these boys, like many their age, enjoyed fighting each other and did it with regularity.
When they were done with their short tussle, they finished dragging the bag to the porch, sat down on the back steps, and waited.
“Shouldn’t we be in our secret hideout?” Nicks said.
Russ shrugged. “No point really. I mean it’s so hot out that it’s nice to have a breeze.”
Nicks nodded. It was hot out. “Maybe we should go get ice cream,” he suggested.
Russ was quiet for a moment before declaring “I’ve got it! Let’s stash the cat in our hideout and go get ice cream!”
Nicks rolled his eyes. “Sure, copycat.”
By this point, the boys were too hot to fight. So they simply started in on the plan, the second of the day, which was considerably less complicated and more delicious.
After they had gotten two massive waffle cones stacked high with ice cream, the boys walked home slowly, savoring the sweet sugary treat that was melting all over their hands. All the better though, as it made them able to lick their hands clean. They did so with gusto.
The rest of the afternoon they spent fighting each other, or playing poker, or sometimes both. The boys loved poker, and played it with regularity. It was a game that was severely outlawed in their respective homes, as gambling could become an addiction and was therefore a sin. They had obtained a deck of cards from an upperclassman in their school who smoked cigarettes and was infinitely cool because he was the oldest in the school. They hadn’t yet connected being oldest with being held back and being stupid. The chips they had gotten from a younger boy whose family was much more loose morally, and who was terrified of getting beat up.
The boys hid their cards and chips in a cigar box, and buried it in their hideout whenever they weren’t playing. And they always played in the hideout, because they knew that if they were caught, their lives would be (metaphorically) over. Sometimes they also hid snacks in the box, though that was highly unlikely as they had both the metabolisms and the appetites of young boys.
Finally, it was getting close enough to dusk that the boys were ready to start the journey to Mrs. Phoebe Moses’ house. From their close surveillance, they knew that Phoebe Moses always went to bed as soon as the sun went down. And then, they would attack. Or at least, they would let the cat out of the bag. Literally.
The boys waited in the bushes across the street, kicking the burlap sack whenever the tom cat hid inside meowed. Which was frequently. Finally, the last light in the house turned off and the boys knew they only had to wait a couple of minutes before Phoebe Moses was asleep and dreaming. They moved close, hiding under her bedroom window and listening to hear her snore.
This particular part was a favorite pastime of the youth of the town. Phoebe Moses was a terrific snorer. Her drones leaked through the window, to the delight of the children who made it a game of rapping on the window, seeing who could be the boldest in their knocks without waking her up. Of course, waking her up was always the best part, because they’d scurry around the house and Phoebe Moses would throw open her window, screaming to the night about tanning everyone’s hide. So the boys were well practiced in the art of waiting beneath her window for the snores to come.
Finally when they did, Russ and Nicks snuck around to the back down.
“Okay,” Nicks said, “we have to be careful now. We have to let the cat through without letting it get out. Then, you need to run around to the front and open the door so that the cat will run out the front and her nasty little dog will follow it. I’ll then sneak in and–”
“Hold on!” Russ exclaimed. “You get to sneak in? What about me? I wanna help steal the wig!”
Nicks sighed. “Yes, but you need to open the front door.”
“Well I’ve got legs, I can run around to the back too!”
Nicks sighed again, this time more exaggerated. “Fine. Fine. You run around to the back after you let the cat out the front and then we’ll both go in and steal the wig.”
Russ grinned. “Great.”
They had to wait a couple more minutes, then it was time to strike. Stifling giggles, the boys carefully opened up the door and ever so gently lodged the mouth of the burlap bag in the doorway. Then they let the cat out of the bag.
Russ was off to the front door, his legs pumping, excited to hear the scratching and yowling of the cat. And then they heard the dog.
Despite the fact that he was about the size and shape of a large shoebox, the dog could make a considerable amount of noise. Spurred on by the intruding tom, it yelped and growled, barked and whined, creating a ruckus that not even the strongest snorer in town could sleep through. And she didn’t.
Just as expected, the boys heard Mrs. Phoebe Moses struggle from her bed, yelling at the little rat dog. Huffing and grumbling, they heard her footsteps thud from the bedroom to the hallways. Nicks, eyes glued to the window, waited until the perfect moment before he poked his head around and yelled at his accomplice in an urgent whisper: “Now!”
Russ threw the front door open with certain ferocity just as the dog and cat reached it, allowing the two animals to continue their brawl down the street, which was being dominated by the cat. Russ jumped over the porch rail and bolted for the side of the house. Nicks met him quietly and they waited with bated breath for Mrs. Phoebe Moses to chase her dog.
The old woman emerged in a ratty bathrobe, hands to the side of her head, straightening her wig.
It took every ounce of self control the boys possessed not to yell in frustration.
“Foiled!” Nicks cursed, after Mrs. Phoebe Moses was halfway down the street.
Russ had his head in his hands. “It was a perfect plan.”
“The opposition had the upper hand,” Nicks said darkly.
Russ nodded. “Yeah. Upper hand.”
The boys walked back to their respective homes abjectly, their heads hanging and their feet kicking at the dirt. They mumbled their goodbyes and retired to their beds where their sleep was plagued by restless unhappiness.
The next morning they convened to fix the problem. A new plan was concocted, and they slinked off, satisfied, to the ice cream parlor. The operation would resume that very night, after a stop at the butcher’s shop.
Once again, the dog was central to their plan. However, the distraction this time took the form of a large shank of meat, instead of a large angry cat.
Nicks snuck onto the porch and laid the offering upon the doormat. Then, cracking the door just a smidge, whispered, “Come!”
Just as the padding of little feet started across the floor, Nicks performed his signature move: the jump across the porch. He crouched by his friend, their ears straining to hear a noise indicating that the sleeping giant had been awakened.
When they heard none they high-fived and Nicks jumped on Russ knocking them both into the dirt.
“Hey! Get offa me!” Russ whisper-yelled at Nicks, having been caught by surprise, “We still have a mission to do.”
The two got up out of the dirt, forgoing a dusting off because a little dirt never hurt anyone at their age, and made their way into the house.
The house was entirely and utterly too pink on the inside, although this was dimmed slightly for the boys because the lights were off. They didn’t pay much attention to the pink floral cover on the couch in the living room or the wallpaper to match. The boys crept across the pink flecked carpeting, silently praying in thankfulness that the flooring wasn’t hardwood as they approached the old woman’s bedroom.
“Almost there…” whispered Nicks, who was leading the charge. They could see the light poking through the door and could hear the snoring much more clearly than they ever did hiding underneath the windowsill.
“You remember the plan?” Russ didn’t quite understand the subtlety of whispering and Nicks turned over his shoulder to shush Russ putting his hand over Russ’ mouth.
Russ responded to this by batting Nicks’ hand away, “Cut it out Nicks.”
Nicks shook his head and turned back towards the door and inched forward with Russ, still pouting about having Nicks put his hand over his mouth, silently in tow. When they reached the door Nicks reached his hand out and pulled the door, shutting it, “Oops,” Nicks whispered pushing the door this time, “There we go.”
The two boys poked their heads into the door frame and stared at the lump of blankets that was Mrs. Phoebe Moses, the blankets rising and falling as she breathed heavily, this room seemed to shake with the forcefulness of her snoring.
“No wonder she didn’t hear the dog and cat.” thought Russ, as they both entered the room, still walking cautiously.
Russ received a sharp elbow to the side and almost yelled out, until Nicks put his hand on his mouth and pointed towards a bust on the opposite side of the room upon which was mounted the thing they had come here for.
Nicks desperately wanted to let out a slow whistle, but restrained himself in the name of secrecy. Instead, he whispered under his breath, “Gee whiz…”
There was their prize. It was old, decrepit, shapeless. A great imitation of a wet dog just sitting there at the edge of the room.
The boys exchanged a slow smile, then crept forward, side by side.
Suddenly, the lump in the bed uttered a huge, disturbingly loud groan. The spies hit the floor, their hearts pounding, and they heard the bedsprings creak as the old woman turned over. A collective sigh of relief flitted towards the ceiling.
Now, the boys moved fast, more concerned with getting the hell out of joe than with breaking the silence.
Russ was the one who actually grabbed the wig, and Nicks was the one there to catch the stand as it fell. Incongruously, the stand was a marvelous thing. It was made out of a beautifully polished wood, dark and deep and rich. The polish was practically luminous, reflecting a beam of street lamp that shone in from the window. Despite himself, Nicks couldn’t help letting his hand linger just a moment over the silky wood before pulling away and shoving Russ towards the door.
Russ, on the other hand, was not having a great time. The wig was scratchy, and very dusty, and the dust or powder clung to his fingers and wormed its way in between them. It made everything very unpleasant, and he was glad when they finally got outside.
“Here,” he said, holding the wig out. “You take it.”
Nicks made a face. “No way. You can carry it back to the house.”
“No! We’re equal partners then!”
“Well why didn’t you think to bring a bag, if you didn’t want to carry it?” With this sentence, Nicks’ voice raised just above a whisper and he caught himself. Noise was deadly to an operation like this one. “Let’s go,” he said, with a quick jerk of the head.
“But–”
A good glare from Nicks shut him up.
They made it home all in one piece, with the sacred prize dangling between a forefinger and thumb. Crawling beneath the hedge, they promptly retrieved the plastic bag they had stashed there and gingerly placed the wig inside. They then buried the wig.
Not very deep, of course, because they were still children and it was still very dark and they were beginning to tire. But they knew the evidence had to be buried, and so they dug a hole behind the barn and covered the small mound of dirt with a larger mound of rocks.
They walked back to their respective houses together, parting only when it became very necessary. In this moment, they looked at each other and said, with a courteous nod, “Pardner.”
There is no word for the hidden language that occurs beneath the words spoken aloud. It’s some magical combination of twitching facial muscles, scents dancing in the air, musical tone, and hundreds of elements we haven’t put names to. But every human becomes versed in this underground communication, and in that moment the boys were putting it to good use. One word became many sentiments passed between them, the very essences of childhood and of good romps and sunshine. There was pride and friendship and love mixed together with competitiveness and fatigue and simplicity. Boyhood saturated the air for just a moment before the two broke it off and headed to their beds where the same hidden language would influence their dreams.
The next morning was a Sunday, and the boys submitted themselves to the weekly cleaning up with less protest than usual. Despite the fact that the brush and rags were just as rough, and tensions and voices were just as high, and clothes and smiles were just as stiff as normal, the boys were quiet. Internally, they were lit with anticipation and the delicious feeling of having done something naughty.
And, interestingly, for the first time in their young lives, they could wait. Boys are, by nature, impatient things. This Sunday marked the moment in which they discovered the simple fact that anticipation and pleasure compound. With each minute that passed, their anticipation grew, and in some way, that was a gift in and of itself.
The two families left their houses at approximately the same time to drive to church. Normally, they would simply head out with no more than a nod to each other, but this Sunday was different. At the behest of the boys who had been so good that morning, Nicks’ father asked Russ’ father if the two could ride together.
The parents complied.
Russ and Nicks chose to sit in the very back of the car, unencumbered by seats. They hummed with excitement, eyes meeting every couple of seconds in tantalizing anticipation. The ride to church had never seemed so long.
After confidently marching up the steps to the church, the families headed to their pews/ Usually Mrs. Phoebe Moses was the first person in church, but this Sunday she was conspicuously missing. The boys knew that she would never miss church unless she had died, so they decided to take up watch. They ran to the front windows.
Gluing their foreheads to the panes, they watched.
“What do you think happened?” Nicks whispered, worried.
“She probably spent the whole morning looking for her wig,” Russ said. “But she’ll show up. There’s no way she won’t.”
The boys spent a few agonizing minutes staring out the window. A lifetime seemed to pass. But then, off in the distance, they saw something.
A flash of color caught their eye. At first, the boys dismissed it and turned to look the other way down the street. But as the color grew closer, the boys turned back. An almost simultaneous gasp filled the windowsill.
The color was, simply put, Mrs. Phoebe Moses’ head. She strode down the lane, bald as the morning sun, but instead of the dark coffee color that one would expect her bald head to be, it was fuschia pink. Her head was the kind of pink that could only be found in tropical flowers, thousands of miles away from the dusty town where the boys resided. They had never seen such a color, and its brilliance mesmerized them.
But then, when the wonder of the fuschia wore off, the boys were struck with an awful, sickly feeling. The same thought was running through their head: we did this.
Nicks and Russ slunk to their seats, trying to pretend that they had never witnessed such a color and that they, of course, had no role in the invention of such a thing.
When Mrs. Phoebe Moses entered the church, a silence fell. The old woman walked slowly to the front of the church, as she did every Sunday, and gave a nod at the altar. At this point in time, the whole congregation was transfixed by her appearance. Her notorious wig and Sunday hat were missing, something that would have caused a stir in the first place. But added on to that was the intense fuschia glistening on her head. And it was glistening. As she had walked down the aisle, everyone noticed that the source of her plumage was paint, not yet dry.
She turned around and began walking towards her pew. But before she arrived, she made sure to flash Russ and Nicks a smile. Her white teeth were almost as brilliant as her fuschia head.
The next morning, Mrs. Phoebe Moses awoke to find her wig on her bedside table, beside a half used tube of paint.
Submitted September 21, 2018 at 07:18AM by _Antaric_ https://ift.tt/2MQtgWn
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