Polyester Fatigues
The cold metallic weight of the nine mm replica pellet gun feels like a joystick in your slick palm, a welcome comfort against the unknowns of this night. The chastity of the loaded CO2 canister not yet broken by the thumb-screw twist-lock. Pellets jingle in the spring-loaded feeder as you run to catch up with your companions.
“Leave that darn thing in the ditch, Toad,” Box yell-whispers at you. “You’re gonna get us shot by the police.” Gaze into his camo face paint that matches his military fatigues nicely, a result of months of practice. Your own face paint looks messy, a drab green and black smudge like a desperate clown. Drop the toy pistol. Worry about it later.
Your brother, Devon, is on all fours, crawling halfway through the drainage ditch under the main intersection of Belle Egress subdivision. Heavy stuccoed frames of steady mansions with gas-lit lanterns pock each side of the main drive. Inviting glossy, curving sidewalks juxtaposed with regal wrought iron fences that keep the riffraff at bay. The night is muggy, sticky, and sweet-smelling like damp honey and mowed grass. Something is magnetic about your compatriot, a charisma beyond his youth. You tell yourself you should have said no to Box.
*
An hour ago, you were playing Lords of the Realm on your Presario laptop. The CD-ROM buzzed and skipped, causing the buffer to jitter. When the game caught up to the lag, the town you were building fell under attack by the computer enemy, a parish to your Northeast. Peasant serfs run out of your burning castle, stained red by the blue swordsmen. It took you hours to amass enough resources to build a Norman Keep on the parcel of land you occupied, and now, it is all gone. A red, 3D “Game Over” graphic spins in a growing font on the LCD screen. MIDI keyboard trumpets laugh at your defeat through your laptop’s paper speakers. You smack the lid closed a little harder than you meant to. Your stomach rumbles. You could use a relaxing night with friends. Maybe a hot tub? Rush out of your bedroom, down the stairs, and out the door to go down the street to see what Box and Devon are up to.
Most Friday nights, Box’s father cooks a gourmet meal after a long work week. Sometimes he serves braised pork tenderloin with gravy, butter mashed potatoes, and steamed green beans. On any other Friday night, it is Yorkshire pudding with golden-brown, crisp batter served with home-made tart cherry pie. Or your favorite: marinated beef tenderloin filets finished in garlic butter, with bacon-and-chive loaded baked potatoes paired with steamed, crispy lemon-butter broccolini. You leave the twenty on the counter next to the note that says “Pizza Money. Love, Mom and Dad,” and burst out the front door without locking.
Run past five stone or brick mailboxes, your mouth chalky at the thought of food. Arrive just as the towering streetlamps blink to life overhead. The moon hangs low off the wooded hillside at the edge of the cul-de-sac, and you hear a faint buzzing, like electricity charging Friday night. Your Casio reads 7:30 p.m..
Turn into the sloping drive and walk in the front door of your neighbor’s, the Mandell’s. Enter with a soft double knock and yell out plainly, “Hey guys, it’s me.”
Run down the long entry hallway and enter the open kitchen and adjacent living room. The smell of savory rosemary, sage, and the unmistakable aroma of boiling chicken greets you. The oven is illuminated, and the scent roiling out is of something baking and cinnamon-y. In the dark sitting area, oversized yet cozy leather couches with hand-knit blankets and plush throw pillows lit by the glow of the evening news from their rear projection television.
Mr. Mandell stands over a cutting board working a butcher knife, apron tied tight over his work clothes. He glances up at you through the tops of petite readers and goes back to chopping carrots and celery without saying a word. He scoops bits of celery against the blade into a bubbling pot, rapidly stewing atop the gas-flame burner. Mrs. Mandell sets her glass of white wine with rattling ice cubes down on the granite counter. She slides down from her bar chair and saunters over to you in her plush night robe and rose-colored house slippers to hug you.
“I haven’t seen them for a while,” she says in a soft voice. “They’re upstairs in Box’s room. You’re welcome to go on up. Dinner is almost ready. Twenty-five minutes at most. We’re having chicken chowder and baked apple fritters,” Mrs. Mandell backs into the stately chair.
Bound up to the third-floor split level and down the hallway. Burst the door to Box’s room open, and a yellow glow meets you. The room is a mess, even by your standards. A mattress and frame sit on the floor with wadded navy-blue sheets. Devon sits at the corner of the bed looking at a Maxim magazine.
“She’s the hottest one in this issue, by far,” your brother says, nodding to a brunette wearing a bikini on the worn page.
“Totally. She’s in the other magazine I told you about,” Box said with a wide, jocular grin. “Look who decided to join the party.”
Your brother looks up, frowns, and looks back at the magazine, edging closer to the page. Box leans over to you from the desk where he stands and calls you by a name you dislike.
“Ok, Toad, I’ve got just one question for you. You’ve got to answer, ‘I’m in’ or ‘I’m out.’ Are you ready? Those are the only two things you can say. Are you in or are you out?”
“What’s the question?” you ask, shaking your head.
“No. Listen again. Are you in or are you out?” Box says, flashing his teeth at Devon. Your brother sighs.
“I—I’m in?” you stammer.
“Good. You don’t need to know anything else.”
After dinner, put on the camo: baggy pants, shirts, and black beanies that Box tosses on the bed. Jockey for a spot in the mirror of the small bathroom to apply dark green and black face paint. Dodge a high shove from your brother. Depart around 9 p.m., taking only what you can carry, as you are instructed, behind your compatriots into the night.
*
From the dank, webby drainage ditch, you hear cars overhead. You toss the target pistol into a corner of the concrete tunnel and scrabble to catch up with the other two. After a mile of ducking through the city streets in the grassy runoff ditch, you ask Box for the fourth time in a frantic whisper, “Box, where the heck are we going?”
“Just tell him, he’s going to whine the whole way,” Devon says to Box. Climb over a wooden fence at the corner of an empty, darkened church parking lot, the white steeple illuminated from below.
“We’re going to my ex-girlfriend’s, Carly’s, house. She lives a few subdivisions down the main road.” He runs forward to where Devon climbed the fence. Your mouth is parched, and you regret not bringing water after such a rich and savory meal. A car passes lazily on the road in the cooling night. An owl screeches off in the distant woods. Across the street from the church are the familiar riding stables you and your family drive past on the way to high school, speech and debate rehearsals, computer club meetings, and freshman dances. At night, the painted jumps and obstacles take on a whole new, foreboding vastness. Like your fictional town laid waste only hours before.
“The technical part is going to be crossing the interstate bridge,” Box yells to the group as the last visible car for several hundred yards eases past. “We have to go when no one is coming. That means we’ve gotta run. Whoever can run faster than me gets one of my dad’s beers when we get home.”
Just the thought of beer makes you sick. At thirteen, you don’t like the taste of any alcohol, much less some of Mr. Mandell’s horse-piss Austrian beer. Your thoughts turn back to water. Surely there will be water along the way, you think. Box pokes his head out of the ditch like a meerkat scanning the edge of the interstate. The headlights of two different cars approach, with one coming from behind. It is even with the church. You wait for them to pass each other and your party. Box glances back at you, showing the whites of his eyes and a devilish grin.
“Now! Now! GO, GO, GO!” Box yells, and you scramble up after him and Devon. Box set the track record in his freshman year and plays Tight End for his football team. Even though your brother is a junior in high school and you are the same age as Box, Devon can barely keep up with him. You trail far behind, huffing hard through your gaping mouth. Box tucks a roll into the ditch on the other side of the interstate overpass as if ducking a tackle. You see headlights easing over the hilly road ahead.
“Come on!” Box yells. “Don’t let them spot you!”
You slide toes-first into the ditch where your brother and Box lie panting.
“Think they saw you?” Box whispered through a measured breath.
“I—I don’t know—I think—it was a truck—from its headlights,” you stammer through ragged breaths.
“Here they come,” Box says as he ducks his face into the grass. “Trust your camo!” he mutters into the dirt. Sit low in the dark ditch, not moving, barely breathing. The truck whizzes past. Box is the first to look up and says the coast is clear. You resume your stooped-back hump through the tall grass in line behind the two. Box’s borrowed rough, oversized camo pants start to chafe your thighs from all the running.
Pass a row of young fir trees planted in a mulch mound framing the parking lot of the local community center. The glimmer of light from the exit signs illuminates the pool water through the glassed-in atrium. Your mouth draws at the sight of water. Jog to catch up with the outlines of Box and your brother through the edge of the parking lot. The grass is mowed short in the ditch leading up to the road. Notice the outline of a convenience store off in the distance, lit up with bright white lights—a train whistle blasts from the same direction, splitting the night in two.
“How much further?” you ask.
“Just a little bit. Don’t be such a wuss,” Box says.
“I told you we shouldn’t have brought him,” Devon says. Scrunch your upper lip at your hulky brother. You want to punch him from behind, but you know he would pin you on the ground and smack you in the face with his open palm to impress Box. Kick a loose wad of concrete at your feet.
The three of you draw closer to the convenience store. Subdivisions line the opposite side of the intersection, where it is darker, and you suspect you will have to cross the street to stay out of sight.
“We have to get around without being spotted. Cross the street so we stay undetected,” Box says, holding up a fist indicating the group needs to stop and listen to him. Chuckle as if Box has just stolen the logic right out of your head.
Run out of the ditch like a mad fawn chasing after Box and Devon. They run diagonally across and down the street. After your close run-in with the truck, you decide to go straight across and make up for lost ground in the safety of the shadows. Your stomach lurches as you run, full of chicken chowder and cinnamon apples from only an hour and a half ago. Water is all you think about as you speed up to catch the other two. They are ahead, crouched off in the grass, watching people come and go from the pumps at the convenience store.
“I wonder if we could talk somebody into buying us a case of beer on the way back?” Box says, grinning widely at Devon.
“I don’t know,” Devon says, a slight tremble starting to show in his voice. “Could be risky. Let’s keep moving. Stick to the mission.” Consider how it would be for you to say the same thing to Box.
“Roger that,” Box says. Lurch forward and manage to keep up with Box and Devon, who have noticeably slowed their march.
“Smooth sailing from here, boys,” Box says with his chest heaving forward. A car turns off a street up ahead and heads in your direction. Box lowers, and you take a second to follow suit. Notice the distinct outline of a Crown Victoria cruiser with a jutting bumper guard, overhead lights, and several antennas as it streams past.
“Whoa, that’s the police!” Box quietly exclaims. “Don’t move! Trust your camo!”
Your heart pounds in your chest. For a minute, you hope the cop turns around and comes back to pull all of you out of this night. Imagine telling your story in quick bursts, with hopes for mercy and a ride back home. Wonder if they would have anything cold to drink.
“They’ve gone down past the interstate. I only see taillights,” Devon says.
“That was way too close. They have night vision in their cars,” Box exclaims. “Toad, you almost got us caught! Keep your head below the road and in the ditch. When I say drop, you drop!”
Your chest churns with a tense, electric tingle. Face paint seeps into the corner of your eye, stinging you to tears. A heaviness wells up in the back of your throat. You dab the corner of your eye with the sleeve of Box’s camo jacket, borrowed for this stupid night. You wish you were back at home with a cold soda and under the glow of your laptop screen. Box is already headed toward the intersection where the police cruiser pulled out moments before.
It takes you fifteen more minutes to get to the intersection, as the ditch has lots of briars and is less manicured this far down the main road. Climb past a tangle of barbed wire fence that lies coiled in a sharp, coiled heap. Break free and jog to catch up to the other two.
“Boys, we made it,” Box says at last. Sigh in relief at the thought that the night is at least half over. A marble subdivision sign reads “Foxtrace Estates.” Box retrieves a small canister from his cargo pants pocket and presses down on the lid, spinning it open. You recognize it as his dad’s shoe polish. Box waddles up to the subdivision sign, dabbing two fingers across the polish held in his other hand as he walks.
“This’ll teach that little stinking brat,” Box says as he begins to write with his mucky fingers on the smooth brown marble.
CARLY IS A TRAMP
Your brother stands, admiring, with his arms folded across his chest.
“What did Carly do?” You ask.
“She’s a complete witch. She broke up with him because her parents were getting a divorce, or some lame crap,” Devon explains. You don’t understand but pretend that what he just said makes sense. You don’t know anyone personally who has been divorced, but you still don’t know what that has to do with ending the relationship. Feel a strange longing to protect Carly. When Box finishes writing, he unzips his fly and, with his back turned to you, takes a leak all over the sign. You hear a steady crackling stream as Box covers the length of the subdivision sign.
Devon takes his place and follows suit, further marking the sign. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he turns to you. This is too much. You regret not being able to say no. You unzip and piss on the base, where the mulch lies spread. Box faults you for not hitting the marble. You adjust higher.
After the deed is done, rejoin the other two, who are busy giving each other high fives. You hold a hand up in the air, and Box pulls away as you go to slap his hand. He bends over laughing, pawing a hand at Devon. Look down at your feet and kick loose mulch.
“Too slow, Toad,” he says to you before saying you all need to get home before midnight. Box wants to call Carly’s house and tell her to go read the message he left for her in the dead of night. The dried mulch feels like it is in your mouth. Your forgotten thirst rages back with a powerful need.
“Do we have any water?” You ask Devon at last.
Box cuts in with a gentle response. “I think we can get some out of a faucet on the side of a house. Let’s see if we can’t find one.” Stay quiet and wonder if Box is applying some sort of team-building technique he learned from his father.
The first house in the Foxtrace subdivision is brick, and the lights are off inside. You press the light on your Casio, and it displays 10:52 p.m.. Box feels along the side of the house and around the whirring air unit. A dog barks in the neighborhood, echoing twice. Box slides around to the front and creeps to the other side, staying close to the bushes by the house. The neighboring house has a hose spooled in the flower bed, and Box lurches across the open grass.
“I found a faucet, come on, over here,” Box says, waving his arm at you and Devon. He unscrews the hose, opens the tap, and water shrieks out with a whine. They both cup their hands, pull water to their faces, and sip. You are the last to drink and lower yourself on your knees and look up over your shoulder to the mouth of the faucet to drink. You guzzle a mouthful of water and air. A light turns on in the bay window above. Box whisper yells at you to cut off the water and get the heck out of there. In a panic, you leave the water running and run gangly through the yard, wiping your mouth with your sleeve, smearing your face paint even more. The front porch light comes on as you round the corner of the first house. Your brother and Box are already running out of the subdivision and back toward the main road.
It takes you another hour to get back through the ditches, across the commercial district, across the interstate when no cars are coming, and back to the subdivision you call home. A sprinkler dampens freshly laid sod in a neighbor’s yard, and your instincts kick in as you stop to get cool refreshment. Box and Devon continue their athletic jog ahead, in the safety of the now mostly darkened Belle Egress subdivision. The subdivision is quiet and hollow, except for the glow of the half-moon winking overhead.
Back at the Mandells’ home, the kitchen is illuminated only by the glow of the stove’s hood light. The chowder simmers on a low blue flame with a note next to it that reads, “Clean up.” As planned, Box and Devon call Carly. You hear the plastic receiver slam into the cradle with a prolonged ding. They howl as they crack open two cans of Mr. Mandell’s beer and cheer to the best night ever. Your insides rage and your head spins against your skull. It is too late for you. It is too late for Carly. Scoop a bowl of sticky chowder from the bottom of the boiling pot.