Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  Mini ice crystals, far too small to qualify as snowflakes, sparkled in the glow of the streetlight. They had a purifying effect. Whitey watched as they danced in the light, and delighted as they touched his face. Little eddies of crystals were forming on the street, their sinuous strings instructed by the breeze.

  Whitey took his second hit. This one a subatomic missile that detonated in his brain. “Whoa!” he verbalized while taking three staggering steps backwards. This wasn’t Roberto, and though he had never tried it, he assumed that this could only be Mr. Robert’s all day amusement park ride.

  “Holy fucking shit!” The world became a landscape of ocean waves. Whitey walked forward and up, up, up one side of the wave, and then down, down, down the other.

  “Un-fucking-real!” The dealer must have made a mistake and given him the wrong baggie. Two hits? Just two hits!

  He looked speculatively at his joint. It waggled its head at him like an angleworm. “Bwah-ha-ha!” Whitey brayed uncontrollably at the mind altering trick.

  “You have got to be fist-fucking me with a studded leather glove drenched in Tabasco sauce, wrapped in barbed wire, and powered by an industrial strength jackhammer!” It was one of Slim’s expressions but Whitey didn’t think the cowboy would mind him borrowing it for this one special occasion.

  The thought of Slim did, however, bring the small portion of his still lucid mind back to the Transitions program. He needed to return, log in, and then find a good hiding place for his incredible stash. And if Mr. Lister happened to ask about his bloodshot eyes? Fuck him! He would say that he was crying in the confessional! Ha! The night was getting better by the moment.

  Whitey tried to get his bearings. Transition building? Umm, that way? The world was billowing like a blanket in the breeze. He mounted the next incoming wave and rode it 10 paces down the block, and sucked his third hit off the roach.

  The ice crystals toyed with his mind. One moment they were the outlines of ghosts, spirits long dead, seeking vainly to be at peace. The next moment they were a zillion albino wasps with deadly painful stingers. They morphed again, this time a civilization of diminutive eyes; all scrutinizing, piercing, seeking to discover what lay inside. Then they became an attack force of alien laser beams, the white hot lights searing into his brain.

  Whitey closed his eyes to re-group. Bad thoughts, he needed to stop them. He took another hit for relief.

  He was unaffected by the cold. To the contrary, he was burning up. He pulled off the Transitions program ski mask and let it fall unaccounted for to the ground. His other hand, confused by the signal from the brain, also unclenched. The half-smoked joint joined the ski mask.

  He was now in full drug-induced hallucination.

  The route he had taken was not intellectual, but gravitational. The Elm sloped down to the banks of the Minnesota river. Whitey’s mind told him to take the path of least resistance, and that meant down. He stumbled to the intersection of route 34 and Front street, his brain now a washing machine of colors, shapes and emotions. He was hearing shapes, seeing flavors, tasting colors.

  He felt he could fly.

  And what better place to fly from, than the route 34 bridge that spanned the river. Whitey’s subconscious saw the structure and a single word passed his lips: “Fly”

  An impulse of the fantastic compelled his body to the bridge. He knew that once he got there, he would have the gift of flight. His mind surged at the concept; rewarding him with a fireworks show of yellow, blue and red bursts of adrenaline. At the foot of the bridge he was greeted by the ice crystal ghosts, so many of them! All here to join him in flight. They spoke to him, but he could not understand their words, their larynx’s turned to powdered dust centuries ago.

  He achieved the middle of the bridge and looked out over the water. There, in the deepest parts of the Minnesota, he witnessed the gates of heaven.

  The gates were solid gold; behind them a spectacular aura. Cumulus clouds billowed in the background. Radiant light diffused through them, sending up spikes and rays of brilliant illumination. In front of the gate there were colorful flowers; rabbits and squirrels cajoled in the grass. And there, sitting sentry on a park bench, was the man himself, Jesus H. Christ; one moment wearing a white robe, the next a long-haired smiling savior in gray suit and tie.

  Whitey climbed one rung of the guardrail. It was as if he had risen 100 feet. He was seeing the world from above like a bird, like an astronaut, like a God!

  He climbed to the second rail. Galaxies were under his command, the entire universe was his!

  Immortal, untouchable, omnipotent!

  He extended his arms above his head, tilted his face skyward and shouted: “DOUBLE DEE DAY! I CAN FLY!”

  He reached up, and out to the heavens.

  And down he went.

  2

  Three days later, and 8 miles downriver, Zach Thorkleson was pheasant hunting with his dog Drake and his favorite bud- Budweiser. The banks of the Minnesota now featured a hemline of snow, but otherwise the river flowed free and dirty.

  The hunting had been a disappointment, but the beer drinking had not. Zack had drained the better part of a 12 pack and he was clocked. He bumped along the shoreline in his ‘74 Ford half ton, oblivious to the ruts and rocks concealed under last night's three inch snowfall. More snow was in the cast, along with 40 mph north winds that would drive the snow into the face of anything or anyone stupid enough to be out during the storm.

  “Piffle!” He snorted as the Ford lurched over a hidden chunk of stone. At the word Drake cowered. When the master said ‘piffle’ things were bad. Very bad indeed.

  “Probably bent a tie rod on that one Drakey-drake.” The dog relaxed. Drakey-drake was a term of endearment. Whatever had angered the master was not of his doing.

  “Why don’t we try us this spot over here. Can’t be any worse than the ones we’ve tried so far.” Zach Thorkleson brought the Ford to a stop, the bald tires sluicing on the hard wet surface. “You ready to taste some pheasant boy?” Drake knew this one well. He let out a happy bark and pawed at the passenger side window. “That’s right boy, I shoot ‘em, you bag ‘em, and then we both eat ‘em.

  The hunter reached for his 12 gauge, and then signaled the dog. Drake bounded out the driver’s door and danced happily at the master’s feet. “What do you say we walk the river a spell, but remember,” he put a finger to his lips. “Quietly.”

  The dog knew the routine but delighted in the attention.

  The master wobbled unsteadily, the dog trotted in confidence. “Looks like a good area just ahead” Zack whispered. “Corn stubble on one side, lots of trees on the other. Them pheasants like corn and trees.” Drake understood. He stood sentry, unflinching, while the master crept toward the target.

  Suddenly three pheasants, a cock and two hens, took frantic flight from the field. Even liquored up, Zach Thorkleson was an ace shot. Perhaps even a better shot when he was juiced.

  He swung the barrel artfully, disregarding the hens and drawing his bead on the cock.

  The 12 gauge shattered the silence and the bird went immediately limp. It nosedived through the trees and landed dead with a shallow splash along the bank.

  “Go get him boy!” Drake was already 20 paces ahead of the master’s command. He ran forward about 50 yards and then turned toward the bank.

  “By golly we got us one, that deserves a celebration!” Zack retreated to the truck to get a fresh tallboy. He popped the top, took a long draw, and then settled in the driver’s seat for Drakey-drake to return with the prize.

  He took another gulp and waited. No dog, no prize. He started to speculate that maybe the bird had fallen into the current and was already down river. Drake was a good swimmer but he knew better than to mess with the Minnesota river. “Well piffle.” Zach said to himself, “maybe we lost him.”

  He was about to hit the can again when Drake popped his face up from the bank, looked at the truck and began barking. The dog looked back at the river, asse
ssed it, directed three more barks at the truck, and then ducked back down out of sight.

  Just as the dog had understood the tone of the master, the master recognized the tone of the barks. Something was wrong, seriously wrong. Zack illegally and dangerously propped his shotgun on the floorboard, fired up the truck and bounced his way as close as he dared to the river’s edge.

  “What is it boy, what’s the matter?” Drake gave two quick directional barks. One to indicate his location, the other to designate the source of the trouble.

  Zach moved cautiously now, not out of concern for his dogs discovery, but for his own self preservation. He was dangerously close to the crumbling bank. Ducking under a skeletal bramble bush, then skirting a small cluster of trees; and there was Drake, in classic pointer position. He didn’t see the object of the dogs concern until he navigated his line of sight around the last tree.

  Then it was evident. “Drakey-drake you foolish dog, that’s only a Halloween scarecrow.” But the dog would not budge. Ten feet from the shore, tangled in a fallen poplar tree was a flannel shirt sleeve. By the looks of things, a man’s arm occupied the sleeve but it was bent at such an awkward angle that it just couldn’t be real. And bobbing right below the surface, a head of hair. It bopped up, revealing the scalp, it bobbed down. It bobbed up, it bobbed down.

  Zach watched the floating mystery object loll in the water. The 8 ½ beers he had put away roiled in his stomach. And then he noticed the most compelling evidence of all; the wristwatch. The poplar branches lined up with the wrist, and save for a step to his left or right, he would have missed it all together.

  A few alcohol-saturated brain cells decided to make an intellectual contribution. And only then did he remember the news: The jumper, dragging the river, the search downstream.

  It clicked.

  “Holy shit.” Drake didn’t respond. He didn’t recognize the words or the tone. A second set of words made him jump. “Drake, now!”

  The dog returned to his master. They scrambled into the truck and the two of them hauled ass perpendicular to the river until they hit gravel. “We gotta mark it. We gotta mark the spot Drake.” Zach whipped his head around the truck looking for something, anything to mark this spot on the road.

  Nothing.

  Then inspiration. Zach Thorkelson took the final three cans from his 12 pack and planted them in the gravel. Three red and white aluminum pylons on the side of the road; even a drunken pheasant hunter would be able to spot them.

  He raced toward town with a bellyful of booze, but otherwise stone cold sober.

  Double Dee Day

  A lone figure walked the snow-covered grounds of the Elmwood cemetery. Another time and another day it would have been necessary to consult with the superintendent about the location of a specific marker. Not so with this one.

  The recentcy of the burial made it easy. There had been a light but driving snow the night before, and a few mourners, based upon the fresh road tracks, had come by to pay their respects. The visitor traced the tracks with his eyes. Most of the tombstones were barren of remembrance offerings, but he saw one with a respectable wring of flowers and plastic greenery.

  The man walked silently, respectful of the dead and deep in thought. He followed the tracks and when they stopped, he stopped. Even under the snow, the area had a matted down look, as if dozens of sets of feet, mourners, pallbearers, and backhoe trench diggers had recently walked or driven over this very spot.

  Closer to the tombstone, he pondered his actions. Where there should have been a name on the stone, there was a scrim of wind-driven snow. All of the bone-yard stones that faced north had suffered the same, the white shroud making their owners illegible.

  Like the stone, the grave was covered with a crust of snow. The man toed at the mound with his foot. Freshly turned dirt appeared. It crumbled freely and mixed with the powdery white.

  Convinced, the man straddled the grave, stood facing the headstone, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate.

  He aimed his stream at the top, the hot urine melting away the scrim. As letters emerged, he concentrated on the carved notches, and sensed satisfaction as rivulets of yellow water streamed down the stone, opening more glimpses to the words beneath.

  He urinated until he was out, the last few drops being forced with all his will. The job was incomplete, the stone only partly revealed.

  “Here. Let me help you with that.”

  The newcomer had surprised but not alarmed him. He stepped away from the stone and let the second man have his turn.

  The urine flowed again, the snow retreated. The letters became names, first and last, the combination an identity, an identity that forever now would be confined to the Elmwood cemetery.

  The second man showered the carved name, and with the last of his liquid, vainly tried to melt away some clarity to the date of death. But he was out. He shrugged, shook off on the grave, and zipped.

  They stood there examining their desecration; yellow urine now freezing to the face of the stone and the words they had revealed:

  Father Gustavus

  Milliken

  B_ _ _ M_ y 16, 19_ 2 Di _d N_ v. 11, 1977

  Eventually, the second man spoke: “You’re lucky about what happened at the bridge. What were you doing there anyway?”

  “I guess I went down there to see what all the excitement was about. Then I slipped on the rail and conked myself a good one.”

  “Lucky for you” the second responded. “Some people on the scene thought they were dealing with a copycat jumper and would be dragging two bodies out of the river.

  The men stood for a moment absorbing.

  Then Whitey placated: “I waited for you at the church.”

  “I know” the second man said.

  “You know?”

  “Yes, I saw you come in and go directly to the bathroom. When you didn’t come out for so long I thought you had gotten scared. But I really couldn’t blame you. What you planned to share was some heavy, heavy stuff.”

  “And now he’ll never know.” Whitey lamented.

  “Oh he knows” The second man replied. “I made sure of it. I made your confession for you.”

  “Mr. Thelen!” Whitey’s brain was in a cartwheel. “You confessed for me?”

  “Yes.” Scott Thelen replied. “Just like we had talked about back in Broward county. In fact, I’m glad it was me; you’ve been through enough already. And it’s not about the messenger, it’s the message.”

  “But how could you say… I mean why would you…” Whitey couldn’t complete his thought.

  “Trust me” the therapist confided. “I have my reasons.” A bitter smile shadowed his face.

  They stared at the stone and the grave beneath it. Mr. Thelen then turned to Whitey: “Are we done here?”

  Whitey considered and then added: “Just one more thing.” He pulled the baggie of pot from his pocket and dumped it wastefully on the grave. The wind took the empty plastic from his fingers and tumbled it across the cemetery grounds.

  “It makes you forget.” Whitey explained as they walked off. “And I’m finished with forgetting.”

  “That’s good.” Mr. Thelen encouraged. “Now do you think you can start remembering?

  Whitey brightened: “I’ve already started. When I was young I had a nickname, they called me Corky.”

  “Corky eh? That’s better than the one I used to have.”

  Corky bit on the offer: “And what was that?”

  “Ronald McDonald.”

  “Ronald McDonald!” Corky blurted. He started to ask the man about the story behind the moniker but Mr. Thelen cut him short: “It’s something I would just rather forget.”

  Corky nodded in understanding. They walked in silence a bit further and then Corky offered a solemn suggestion. “If it would help, we could go back and salvage some of that pot.”

  Scott Thelen wheeled on the younger man incredulously. Corky's face was stone cold serious, then melted into a shit eating grin.
Scott Thelen realized he had been had, and the two men burst out laughing.

  And together, their spirits light, Corky and Ronald McDonald departed from a place of bitter remembrance and entered a world where it was okay to remember.

  September 22, 2012

  Lincoln, Nebraska

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Steve Walz, Ralph Wall and my wife Leigh Stepanek for your initial readings and wise recommendations.

  Thank you beta readers Hollie Case and Anna Kokrda, and to the many betas who were too disturbed by the content to continue beyond page 40. I gave great consideration to your suggestions to soften the imagery of the initial attack, but in the end decided that the horror, and what we learn from it, must remain in pure form. The truth is in the story.