The notion of waging a mock war on an actual battlefield was too tempting to pass up. Lewis took a break from painting, his excitement over the plan etching a grin on his face that would not subside. “Warfield Woods,” he uttered with great pride. “What if there's like an actual sacred burial ground or something out there? Or maybe skeletons of bodies that were never found.”
“That would be pretty cool,” Clinton said, concentrating on his touch-up of Honest Abe.
“Or maybe arrowheads. Or guns.”
“Speaking of,” Clinton said. “What should we use as weapons?”
Lewis’s first idea involved rocks from slingshots, but they both agreed that would probably cause too much damage. They wanted it to be fun, not deadly.
“Why don't we just throw swamp potatoes,” Clinton suggested.
“Don't you mean air potatoes,” Lewis said, correcting him with a giggle.
Clinton shook his head, his expression serious, his bright blue eyes intense. “Screw that. I'm calling them swamp potatoes.”
“We could,” agreed Lewis, “the woods are covered in them and they're perfect for throwing. We just need to get enough people to make it an actual war, though. Otherwise it'll just be the same old story—me and you throwing them at your little brother.”
“Don't worry about that. I know plenty of guys in the neighborhood that'll want to be in on it.”
Clinton came around the column to check on his friend's progress and pointed to the painting with the end of his brush. “Who the heck is that supposed to be?”
Lewis stopped painting. “What do ya mean? It's Benjamin Franklin, isn't it?”
“It was. Why did you give him sunglasses?”
Lewis shrugged. “It's Florida? And … well … I kind of messed up the eyes.”
Clinton laughed. “You turned him into a balding hippie.”
In the time it took the boys to finish the columns, clean the brushes, and return the paint to Mrs. Headley, they had a basic outline of rules for the war.
These rules were simple: two equal-numbered teams would face-off from opposite sides of Horse Crap River—the name given to the wide drainage ditch that fed rainwater into Horse Crap Lake. The boys hadn't a clue who’d named the lake, but it fit perfectly; a foul stench rose from its boggy bottom that had the appearance and consistency of its namesake.
Three whistles would be blown. The first signaled the combatants to gather as much ammo as possible before the second whistle blew five minutes later, warning them to get into position and prepare themselves for the final whistle heralding the start of the war.
Only swamp potatoes were allowed. Anyone caught using anything else would be ejected. If you're hit with a potato, anywhere on the body, you're considered dead and out of the contest. However, if you catch a potato—baseball mitts were permitted—then you're still in the game and can use the captured projectile on your foe.
The war ended when one side was massacred, giving the survivor(s) and winning side bragging rights for the rest of the summer.
Lewis and Clinton, with Justin tagging along, biked to every house on the list, successful in recruiting the required sixteen warriors to even the sides. Everybody agreed to show up the following day at high noon, prepared to do battle. This gave them a total of nineteen soldiers—counting Lewis, Clinton, and Justin—and when Jerry “Muttley” Harris showed up, it would give them the even twenty they needed.
6
Lewis felt sorry for Jerry. The poor kid's asthma and overprotective parents kept him from participating in any sports and activities; basically, they kept him from having fun in general.
Well, Lewis felt sorry for Jerry some of the time. If Jerry hadn't been such a tattletale maybe the other kids wouldn't be so mean to him, and maybe Lewis wouldn't exclude him from so many everyday adventures. The only reason Lewis let Jerry participate in the war was to keep the boy from spilling the beans to his parents; Jerry had promised to keep quiet if allowed to fight.
Lewis liked Jerry enough, and had tried to be better friends with the frail asthmatic over the years, but every time he let Jerry hang out with him and his gang, some slanderous information always found its way into the hands of the enemy—their parents. Not to mention, the boy's wheezing and the constant whoosh of his inhaler would become so annoying, Lewis had to rack his brain to invent a reason to be somewhere else, quick (his excuses were becoming more outlandish as the years passed and Lewis was sure Jerry was wise to the lies). Then the guilt would set in. Lewis would tell himself Jerry couldn't help his condition, and he would let him back into the circle, and the vicious cycle would start over again.
Unlike other kids in the neighborhood, Lewis and Clinton never called him “Muttley”—at least not to his face—even though Jerry didn't seem to mind the moniker, and even though Clinton had created the nickname.
On the day of the war, Jerry showed up as expected, and once again he showed up wearing his homemade Spider-Man mask. The mask, fashioned from red pantyhose, had been hand-painted by Jerry himself—a fact he stated with great pride whenever he got the chance. The eyes were a little lop-sided, but the webbing wasn't too bad. However, the boy's greasy hair stuck out in patches where the pantyhose had run, making him look like a bizarre Marvel Chia Pet.
“Hi, Lewis,” Jerry shouted, his voice muffled by the mask but the excitement behind it audible enough.
Lewis waved him over. “Hey, Jerry. You can be on my team again.” A fact both boys knew had already been decided, but made Lewis feel good to say it, and Jerry feel good to hear it.
“Killer,” Jerry said, using one of Lewis and Clinton's favorite words from last year.
“Maybe you should take the mask off so you can see better,” suggested Lewis, knowing all too well he wouldn't take his advice, but trying to save Jerry some dignity.
“The mask gives me better reflexes, kind of like a Spidey-sense,” Jerry insisted, crouching into a ready-for-action Spider-Man pose, laughing his wheezy laugh, a perfect impersonation of the cartoon dog he’s named after: Dick Dastardly’s canine sidekick, Muttley. As customary, he followed the laugh with a hit from the inhaler dangling on a string around his neck. Everyone—Jerry included—knew he had the reflexes of a dead cat.
Refraining from comment and checking his list, Lewis clamped his mouth tight to stifle the giggle begging to be released. He mentally penciled-in and checked-off Jerry's name. All warriors present, so far so good.
Clinton turned away from a group of kids perched on the edge of the ditch and strutted toward Lewis, an excited grin on his face. “There's no need to pick teams this time, everyone's already taken a side.”
“Is it even?” asked Lewis.
“Yep. Ten on ten.”
“Let's do it,” they chorused in unison.
They couldn't have chosen a better day to start a war. A brilliant blue sky pocked with lumbering white cumulus clouds shined down. A cool breeze rustled the trees, hinting at the approach of a summer storm. Lewis wasn't concerned; the war should be over long before the rain blew in.
Lewis, Clinton, Justin, and Jerry all crouched in silence next to one another behind an old fallen elm tree, awaiting the sharp trill of the third whistle—the honor of whistle-blower given to one of the younger kids sitting on the retaining wall separating the homes from the woods, eagerly awaiting the battle.
So much for keeping it a secret, Lewis thought.
The boys' cache of potatoes sat next to each of them, ready to be thrown; all except Jerry's, who cradled his ammo in his t-shirt, his right fist already loaded and cocked for action.
Lewis broke the tense silence. “Okay, when the whistle blows, peek over the tree to see where the enemy are before you stand up to throw. Hopefully they'll give away their positions.”
Clinton nodded. “Good idea.”
“Gotcha,” spat Justin, wide-eyed and antsy.
Before Lewis could get a confirmation from Jerry, the final whistle blew long and loud like the call of a maniac
al jungle bird. Lewis, Clinton, and Justin, their eyes bugging out, glanced over the tree to sight the enemy, when next to them roared a fierce cry, “DIE! DIE! DIE!” The boys' heads whipped around in harmony toward the scream. They froze, flabbergasted, as Jerry “Muttley” Harris hurdled the fallen tree, firing projectiles in rapid succession from the stash in his deflating shirt, screaming like a berserker through his home-made mask.
Lewis peeked over the tree again, following the possessed asthmatic, gawking in amazement as one of Jerry's potatoes hit Billy Keener smack in the middle of his ginger covered forehead with a dull thud.
The remaining enemy could only watch, also mesmerized, as Jerry careened pell-mell down the steep incline of the ditch without falling, and continued launching potatoes into enemy ranks, hitting one more stupefied opponent in the chest.
Lewis could not believe his eyes: Jerry “Muttley” Harris kicking some major ass.
Then the unavoidable happened—Jerry’s ammo ran dry. Stranded in the open, he spun and crawled as fast as he could back up the sloping wall of the ditch. The dirt wall crumbled in his grasp, hampering his ascent. For the first time ever, Jerry resembled the character his mask portrayed him to be, as potatoes thumped into the dirt next to him, the opposition fully recovered from their brief astonishment. Lewis's soldiers launched a barrage of their own, trying to protect their brother in arms, but to no avail.
The first potato hit Jerry in the back, halting his frenzied climb. He punched the dirt once, calmly stood, and began his slump-shouldered walk of shame to the wall, where the dead soldiers could watch the rest of the war unfold.
That's when the second potato hit Jerry.
The baseball-sized potato caromed off the boy's skull, whipping his head back and sending him on his ass, the rocks at the base of the ditch crunching beneath his jeans.
Wincing, Lewis sucked in a breath as if he could feel Jerry's pain. The action paused as everyone focused on Jerry sitting at the rocky bottom of the ditch, one hand to his masked head. Lewis knew Jerry would run home crying for sure this time, bringing his paranoid, overprotective mother down here to end their fun. He realized he had to stop the boy, to somehow keep him from spoiling the war. Before he could call out to Jerry—tell him to walk it off, everything would be fine—the boy stood, muffled sobs leaking through his mask. Then, just as predicted, Jerry did run; however, to the surprise of everyone, he fled up the opposite side of the ditch and vanished into the woods, his sobs consumed by the dense foliage. This unforeseen act shocked both sides so much it took several seconds for the violence to resume.
7
Jerry had planned all along to go out in a blaze of glory, to shock everyone watching. He'd known he wouldn't last very long, that he would be an easy target right away, but he didn't give a damn about winning; he only wanted some respect from the neighborhood kids for once. He chided himself for crying, but pride flowed through him for not running home to his mother.
Walking now, his anger fading, Jerry smiled beneath the mask, remembering the stunned faces of the boys he’d pegged. He had killed not just one, but two of the enemy, much better than he had expected. He tugged the mask above his mouth and inhaled the bitter spray, calming his agitated lungs. Jerry gasped as he touched the tender lump on his head. The pain energized him.
He exhaled his signature smoker’s laugh, and thought, I won. I finally got the better of them.
Jerry stared at the perfect summer sky, the sun warm and diffused through the pantyhose. He felt good for a change. His adrenaline had leveled out, and the pain in his head had subsided to a dim throb. Believe it or not, he felt amazing.
He peered down the trail he’d been following; he didn't recognize this part of the woods. This didn't come as a shock—his mother forbade him to go too deep into the woods. In fact, she didn't let him stray far from the house at all. In his anger, he must have ventured further than he ever had before. He stopped and turned, deciding to head back before he got himself lost, and to watch the rest of the battle unfold, show them they couldn't beat him. But an all too familiar voice stopped him short, freezing his muscles.
“Hey, Muttley. Oops, sorry … Hey, Spidey.”
Looking up, Jerry's eyes widened beneath the mask when he saw Andy Reed blocking the path, his fat arms crossed, a huge grin on his cruel face. Behind Andy stood his twin brother, Jason, with the exact expression. Jerry's good mood deflated and he wondered how long the twins had been following him, sending a chill up his scalp.
“Where ya headin', dipshit?” asked Andy.
“Just going home,” lied Jerry.
“Bullshit, you’re goin' back to hang out with your faggot friends,” Andy said, his grin turning to a sneer. “They stopped playing their gay little game when you took off. Guess they knew you’d rat them out to your faggot dad.” Obviously proud of his inventive use of the English language, Andy's smug, shit-eating grin returned.
Jerry's mind raced. The twins must have heard the whistles and been watching them all along. He made a mental note to tell the gang when he saw them again, and stiffened, realizing his predicament: he was deep in the woods with the evil Reed brothers blocking his way back.
Trying to mask the shaking of his voice, Jerry asked, “What are you guys doing way out here in the woods?”
“Huntin',” they both said, as if they shared the same insidious brain as well as the same hideous face.
Neither boy carried a gun, but Jerry spied the large hunting knives strapped to their belts. “Hunting what?” he ventured, his mental gears winding, calculating his options: attempt to dash past the big goons? Or run deeper into the unknown forest and hope they tire before they catch him. Jerry removed his mask, stuffing it in the back pocket of his jeans, opting for the latter course of action.
“Huntin' spider-chicken,” Andy responded, forcing a cackle from his stupid brother, which in turn made Andy laugh. Snorting like pigs and slapping high-fives, the brothers failed to notice their quarry taking flight deeper into Warfield Woods.
En route to his meeting with the tree.
Justin sat on the cinder block retaining wall, watching the battle. Several of the other “dead” boys sat next to him, cheering on their respective sides. Justin's death had come just moments after Jerry's heroic kamikaze attack and subsequent flight into the wilds, but not before he had killed one of the enemy himself. Unfortunately, that one enemy happened to be Katy Lee, the lone girl in the battle, and Justin knew he'd just earned a lifetime of smart-ass remarks from his older brother. He glimpsed over at her, sitting on the wall. She turned and met Justin's gaze, offering him a sweet smile. He quickly turned his face away, grinning uncontrollably. Maybe it was worth a lifetime of heckling after all.
Soon, several “ghosts”—as he liked to call them—joined Justin on the wall as the fight whittled its way down to a stalemate. Two combatants were left for each team: Brian and Paul on the enemy side, Lewis and Clinton on his side. As it turned out, Jerry's surprise attack had taken care of the opposition's best warrior with a beautiful head shot, giving Lewis's side the advantage from the outset; Billy Keener sat on the wall, separate from the group, still fuming, a blooming bruise on his freckled forehead.
From his position on the wall, Justin could see his brother and Lewis as they hunkered down against the protective rim of the ditch, their lips moving, discussing a war-winning strategy. Justin could only imagine the tactics they were dreaming up.
“We're screwed, dude,” Clinton whined.
“No we're not,” Lewis whispered. He lobbed a potato across the ditch like a grenade to keep the enemy distracted while he thought of something. “But we can't sit here throwing blindly all day, we're gonna run out of ammo real soon. We have to do something.”
“Like what?” Clinton asked, catching an enemy grenade and adding it to their dwindling pile.
Lewis took a deep breath. “I'll draw their fire and you sneak around and surprise them from behind.”
Clinton nodded. “Good pl
an, but you’re much faster and smaller than me.”
“Not that much smaller,” Lewis argued. “What's your point?”
“You should sneak around, and I'll take the hits.”
Lewis stared at the ground, pondering the plan, when Clinton pushed him and blurted, “GO!”
Lewis grabbed some ammo and moved to his left as fast as he could go without being seen by the enemy, bent over, hidden by the weeds choking the lip of the ditch. He halted at the flattest and widest section of the trench—the part he had to somehow sprint across unnoticed. Behind him, he could hear Clinton shouting as if possessed, and took that as his cue to brave the daunting stretch of exposed battlefield.
Taking a deep breath, Lewis scurried across, focusing on a clump of bushes on the far side. No shouts or potatoes came his way, indicating that Clinton's distractions were a success. Still hunched, Lewis crept up the enemy side, careful to stay out of eyesight of the spectators on the wall. A warning from them would spell his demise.
The exposed backs of his enemies came into view just as the “dead” boys on the wall gave away his position. Lewis let loose with a ferocious flurry from the stash in his shirt—a nod to the fallen Jerry—all the while thinking a new rule should be implemented to keep the “dead” warriors silent. Lewis pegged Brian in the back with a small potato as the boy pumped his fist and yelled, “Gotcha”—making it clear Clinton had met his end.
I’m the last man standing. Our last hope. He thought all of this with an air of melodrama, as time did something strange—it slowed to a crawl. Lewis watched himself—as if through the eyes of a stranger—throw a potato at the final obstacle to his victory: Paul.
After seeing Brian’s shocked expression, Paul spun just in time to dodge the potato. The lone enemy crouched, Lewis’s shot sailing harmlessly past, and launched a potato of his own, larger than his fist.
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