--Welcome to the second edition of Real Life Series. Since this is a rather lengthy tale, I have elected to split it into three parts. Look for the second and third on Monday and next Wednesday, respectively. As always, this is a true story, although all names except my own have been changed. Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy the story of one of the most surreal nights of my life.
By Jonny Walls
Versailles, KY, October 1997
“Shhh, shut up! It’s ringing.”
“Won’t her parents hear the phone?”
“No, she said right at midnight she’d be on the phone with the weather hotline and be able to hear us beep in…Hello? Hi.”
It’s a pretty ingenious plan, I have to admit. I take in every word as my best friend, Jacob, talks to his girlfriend, Paula, who is on the other end of the line. My other best friend, Brandon, flips through channels on the muted television.
“Yeah…ok…we’ll see you in a few hours then.” He hangs up. A rare moment of silence falls as the television is turned off and expectant looks are exchanged. “So we’re really doing it then?”
“Hell yeah,” Brandon says. “But if my parents come down here while we’re gone, my Dad will whip my ass.” Far from looking worried, Brandon’s eyes flash, and I half suspect he would invite the scenario if only for the pure chaos of it.
It’s an old drill by now. Shoes and flashlight in hand, socks caress wooden floors. Up the stairs, silent as assassins. Out the door, close it slowly. Shoes on, cross the yard. Off free, into the night, our very absence the only evidence of escape. We leave fate in the hands of unknown powers and pray against a late night intrusion from parents and guardians, lest our absences call forth unthinkable wrath.
“The girls’d better still be awake when we get there,” says Brandon as we make our way down the street just in front of his house, an isolated Kentucky back-road by any and every standard.
“I wouldn’t put anything past them,” says Jacob.
They complain, but at least they have girls waiting for them. I, on the other hand, require no siren to call me forth from comfort and sloth into the unknown. My zest for adventure stands alone, a tribute to its own existence. (Untainted though said zest may be, however, I’d still rather have a girl waiting anxiously in her pajamas on the far end of this treacherous journey.)
Three and a half miles. Each way. On foot. Across genuine Kentucky back-roads in the dead of night. This isn’t well-lit suburbia replete with wide, flat streets and comfortable sidewalks. No, these are windy, one lane roads where ditch and shoulder are intimate, flanked not by well-trimmed lawns and white fences but by trees, fields, pastures and the wild, untamed bluegrass. (You’ve seen Deliverance, right?)
That is our path. That is our mission. And we’ve got to do it all in six hours.
That is this week’s insanity.
Four neighbors, four front porch lights, and four well-lit yards create an estuary of rural civilization between the comforting light of Brandon’s bedroom and the ocean of darkness waiting to swallow us. Once past them it’s dark. Pitch dark. The lone flashlight, borne by Jacob, provides little light and even less comfort.
Ten minutes into our trek, progress is minimal and the intimidating reality of our task, self-imposed though it may be, sinks in. It’s well over two miles just to the end of this road, and from there it’ll be over a half mile along the ditches of the most dangerous road in Kentucky, followed by another half mile across a cowfield. This will lead us right to the edge of small-town civilization, the edge of the subdivision where I live, and, more importantly, directly into Lainey’s backyard, host for the evening to the girls.
“What if we start cutting through fields now?” Brandon suggests, sensing the already threatening time crunch.
I immediately imagine shotguns, the menacing, searching lights of pickup trucks and the bite of ferocious bloodhounds. “Aren’t they private property?” I say.
“Who cares? It’s late and their houses are way on the other side, away from the road. We’ll never make it at this rate, not without a shortcut.”
“I’m game,” says Jacob.
I’m hesitant, but the thought of returning after Brandon’s parents rise spurns me on to greater risk. Deciding that I would rather attempt to reason with a shotgun wielding redneck than Brandon’s angry parents, I acquiesce.
We hop the hand laid stone fence and its considerably more treacherous barbed wire lining, landing in an unkempt field of weeds and hidden terrors for the shoes. We begin a straight line through the gut of the field which will effectively neutralize the main curve of the road.
“So who all is staying over at Lainey’s?” I ask as we adjust our gaits to overcome the knee high weeds.
“Paula, of course,” Jacob says, “Erika,” he nods toward Brandon, “Marla, Andie, and I think she said Karen was there.”
Karen. This is good news. She's good-looking and, more importantly, unspoken for. Ignoring the compromise to the integrity of my conquest, I imagine a possible rendezvous. Brandon watches me. “Yeah, I made sure Karen would be there,” he says. “Told her to come myself.”
“Really? But you're with Erika,” I say. He shrugs and picks up a stick, swinging and clearing a path for himself in the increasingly wild brush which is leaving uncomfortable moisture on the knees and ankles of my jeans.
Erika floats into my mind. I remember a scene that took place less than a year before. It was the first warm day of the year, one of those days when the renewal of spring coincides with the impending death of another grade, in this case, the eighth grade. I had been decidedly cold on Erika, despite, or possibly because of, her decidedly warm feelings toward me. I had shunned her for Kassie. She had moved on to Brandon. One look at her that day confirmed this to be a mistake.
She had spotted me from the top of the stairs and smiled the way she always did, but that day it looked different. It felt different. She had come down the stairs, gliding for all I knew, her eyes locked onto mine.
“Guys.” Jacob throws out an arm and stops us.
Rudely, I’m shaken from my warm-day memory and forcibly returned to the dark field of my reality. It takes a moment to see why we’ve stopped. Jacob is pointing the flashlight toward a small cluster of cows twenty yards to our right. I’m not afraid of cows, and I’m tempted to laugh off his warning and insult his bravery. However, the insult hasn’t made its way out before I see the second cluster of cows grouping to our left, and a third in front of us, and, sure enough, a fourth at our rear. They’re moving with militant efficiency and purpose. There’s no mistaking it: they’ve created a ring around us.
“What are they doing?” Brandon says, betrayed by the quaver in his voice.
“Shhhh…they’re forming a protective ring,” Jacob answers.
“I’ve never seen cows be aggressive like this,” I whisper. A smattering of snorting and stamping hooves confirms their ominous intentions. Every eye in their circle, red in the flashlight’s beam, is fixed on us, a mixture of fear and mania evident in each pupil. Warm breath, visible in the cold night air, rolls from their nostrils. Slowly, in formation, they move closer, tightening the circle and plugging the gaps in their ranks. We have a berth of fifteen yards, at best, to each side.We stand rooted to the spot, petrified.
“Cows can be protective if they have their young nearby,” Jacob says. “We’ve got to get someplace safe. Immediately.” There’s only one option. A rickety, tin shack eight feet high by ten feet long is close and, thankfully, inside the circle with us. Silently, subtly, Jacob nods toward it like a third base coach calling for a steal. We nod. He nods.
Suddenly my legs are moving, and the shack is shakily bouncing into focus. I get there first. There isn’t a question of how or whether or not I’ll make the jump. Half expecting at any moment to feel hooves in my spine, I leap, swift and smooth as lightning in one adrenaline fueled move, catch my forearms on the roof, and pull myself up. Jacob and Brandon are split seconds behind. Increased, nervous stamping and snorting tell me that the angry wall of bovine troops is ancy for battle, but not a one breaks rank.
We, the marooned enemies in a sea of territorial aggression, all breathe deeply. We’re safe, at least for now.
(To be continued...)
Remember to check back on Monday and next Wednesday for the second and third installments of this story. Thanks for reading.
By Jonny Walls
1 comment:
Holy cow, we can hardly wait!
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