Live it Again

by Geoff North

  The two kids ran off toward the fence. Panic surged through Hugh at the memory of his fourth grade teacher, and he giggled again. The old battle-axe still scared him after all this time. “Don’t be ass—don’t be jerks, you guys!” He called out. “I’ll buy you some chocolate bars if you tell her I went home sick!”

  Billy grinned back at him as they scaled the fence and gave him a thumbs up.

  Good old Billy.

  He’d make things all right, or at least he’d smooth the punishment out a bit.

  After they’d vanished from sight, Hugh took a closer look at himself. His arms were skinny and pale, covered with freckles and fine peach-fuzz hair. There was a nasty, dry scab on one elbow that stung when he bent his arm. He remembered getting that from a spill he’d taken on his three-speed bicycle. He’d bawled like a baby when it happened, and cried even harder when his mom cleaned all the loose gravel out of it.

  The yellow tee-shirt he wore had a faded cartoon image of an Indian on horseback with the words ‘Braedon 100 Years’ printed above. He’d loved the shirt as a kid. All the children had them in various colors to celebrate the town’s centennial in 1973. No one ever explained the significance of the Indian and Hugh had never bothered to ask. He admired his sneakers again and ran his hands over the grass stains on the knees of his pants. They felt as thin as tissue paper, ready to tear open after a bit more wear.

  He remembered the mangled remains of his adult body and started to run. He followed the chain link fence to the corner of the school yard at full speed. It was a fifty yard sprint that would’ve killed him all over again if he was still forty-seven. He marveled at how refreshed he was, how strong his small body felt. The lungs circulating fresh summer air that had never once inhaled cigarette smoke. Hugh rubbed his brow and felt warm, dry skin. Not a single bead of sweat.

  Little kids don’t sweat; I’m few years away from that.

  Hugh dove forward and completed an effortless somersault in the remaining grass just short of the cement curb. He’d forgotten how wonderful it was to be so young, so full of limitless energy. He jogged across the street, past the staff parking lot and up onto Main Street.

  So many houses had been torn down and replaced over the years. Most had been long forgotten, but one in particular came instantly back to mind when he saw it looming ahead on the corner of Main and Third. The big, three-storied McFarlane mansion stared down at him as he approached. He ran his fingers along the rusted, green iron-gate and looked up into the round, stained glass attic window that had been busted out for as long as he could remember. He would always run by the brick monstrosity or at the very least, cross over to the other side of the street before getting too close. It had scared the hell out of him.

  It had burned to the ground on Halloween night of ‘78 or ‘79. Hugh recalled the relief he’d felt as the school bus toured by it slowly the next morning. The kids gaped at the smoking remains, and the bus driver had even stopped to take a few pictures. Now it all made him a bit sad. The spooky old place had been a mental landmark from his childhood, a dim spark from the past that had ignited his imagination.

  Kids need scary things like this…gives them character.

  Like the old school, he often wished it was still there.

  But it was here again, casting a long shadow against the ground. Imposingly complete with attic window before Bob Richard’s older brother had broken it in with a stone throw. Hugh recalled breaking a few things himself; vandalism was a senseless act that seemed to prove a point amongst teenagers, but there were some things you didn’t mess with. The McFarlane house was one of them.

  He stopped in front of the gate entrance and toyed with the idea of going inside. It was something he’d never done, a missed trespass always regretted. Rumor was the last owner had hung himself back in the early fifties, and it had been enough of a deterrent to keep most young thrill seekers away. Billy once said he’d gone in on a dare, seen the shadow of a hanging body cast on the dirt floor of the cellar. Billy had an overactive imagination and feeble bullshitting skills. He hadn’t even the balls to go in the attic where the hanging was reported to have taken place.

  Still, Hugh thought, all rumors and legends had some basis in fact, didn’t they? He lifted the latch and pushed the gate in. He checked both ways along the street and walked into the yard. The concrete path had long since been reclaimed by wild grass and weed, just a few patches of cracked grey could be seen as he crept closer.

  This is crazy.

  He placed a small hand over his thumping chest. Why was he so goddamned afraid? He looked toward the porch, to the shaded front door. Old boards were nailed over the small window near the top.

  Probably locked.

  No way could he force his way through, not with this little body. There was an oak tree off to one side with great gnarled branches clawing out over the second storey balcony. The tree looked as dead as the house. It would be an easy climb, an even easier job to open one of the bedroom windows from the outside.

  What if he fell out of the tree? What if the wood on the balcony was rotten and he crashed through? What if he broke the window trying to get in and cut himself?

  He backed out of the yard slowly and shut the gate. The house could wait. Hugh crossed the road to the other sidewalk and continued his walk down town.

  Would he have been scared to enter the house as an adult?

  Of course not. I’m forty-seven-years old.

  The voice in his head didn’t sound very convincing.

  Chapter 4

  “Why aren’t you in school?” Mrs. Friedmont asked. The old lady had stopped Hugh in front of Nelson’s Grocery. She held a paper bag filled with goods beneath her massive breasts.

  “Mrs. Stimm sent me downtown for construction paper. He may have been ten again, but he hadn’t lost the ability to tell an instant lie with a smile on his face. When she’d been alive, Mervina Friedmont had been a friend of his grandmother’s. “We have to finish a history project this afternoon.” He showed her the dollar bill.

  She stared at him through her pointed, steel-rimmed glasses, the arms held by a small chain. At an even younger age, Hugh had been terrified she would wrap them around his neck and choke the life out of him. She was a kind-hearted woman, with a high-pitched, contagious laugh, but there was something about her beady dark eyes that concerned him, like a rat studying cheese.

  “Well, you’re not going to find any in the food store, silly boy.” She ruffled his hair.

  Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I figured for all my hard work, maybe I deserved a chocolate bar.” Another easy lie. He’d perfected the skill on people a lot smarter than Mrs. Friedmont. It came naturally enough and she believed every word of it.

  She laughed and her entire body shook. The head lettuce near the top of the bag threatened to spill out, but her left boob kept it in place. “Tell your mother I said hello, and do come down to the senior’s home more often. Your grandmother just loves to show you kids off.”

  Hugh nodded appreciatively and slipped inside the grocery store. Mr. Nelson glared at him suspiciously, but remained silent. The old bastard never spoke to kids; Hugh could never remember hearing more than grunts from the man when his parents shopped there. He turned down the first aisle and found the candy rack.

  “This is fuc--fricking incredible!” He peered back around the corner quickly to see if Nelson had heard him. He hadn’t. Hugh stared at row after row of familiar old brand names with long-forgotten logos. Bubble gums squares worth half a penny. Circus Popcorn in a box, the pink popcorn was shit but all the kids loved the little prize at the bottom. Glass jars filled with hard ju-jubes and caramels wrapped in clear plastic. There was no sugar-free stuff here, no ‘sucra-this’ or ‘aspar-that’. Diabetes be damned, candy was still good back then. The chocolate bars were twice the size of those in the twenty-first century; the most expensive one was labeled fifteen cents. This was back in the day when prices were stamped right on the product. No ugly barc
odes, no computerized tills to scan them with. He grabbed a Hershey half the length of his forearm and a wax-paper bag of barbeque potato chips.

  Thirty cents, no tax on junk food for a few years yet. He spotted the pop cooler and grabbed a twenty cent glass bottle of 7-Up. He placed the items on the counter and waited for Mr. Nelson to serve him. There was a tobacco display behind the old man. Thomas Nelson couldn’t have been much more than fifty. Did his children’s friends in the future call him an old man behind his back?

  Probably.

  “I’ll take a pack of cigarettes too,” Hugh said without thinking it through. “Player’s King Size, please--and some matches.”

  “What’s a kid your age need smokes for?” Hugh wondered how a man could be completely bald on top and have such thick, black eyebrows. His mouth was a thin, frowning slit, and he had a big dimpled chin that could’ve put Kirk Douglas to shame.

  “They’re for my dad.” He showed Mr. Nelson the money and waited anxiously.

  “You don’t have enough if you want that other stuff too--smokes are seventy-five cents. Besides, your dad was in this morning and got a couple packs already.”

  “Give me a break, will you? So I’m a nickel short.”

  He might have gotten away with that kind of talk if Gary Reynolds was behind the cash register, but the stony outrage on Nelson’s face didn’t leave any room for bartering. He was suddenly dying for a cigarette. If he were even a foot taller, Hugh would’ve reached across the counter and strangled the bastard. “Uumm, I’ll just take the bar and pop then.”

  Once he was outside, Hugh opened the chips and took a few bites. He thought about his performance in the last fifteen minutes. He’d only spoken to four people and he’d lied to all of them. He’d imagined screwing Caroline Sterling when she was a few years older and he’d tried to picture what Mrs. Friedmont’s big boobs looked like.

  The Voice in the Brown wouldn’t be too happy with me.

  He sat on a fire hydrant and watched the antique cars drive up and down the street. They weren’t antiques though, he thought as a new green Ford Torino rumbled past.

  What was the exact year? Mrs. Stimm was his grade three teacher so that meant it was either the early fall of 1973, or the summer of 1974. Probably the latter since everything was fresh and green, the air swelteringly hot. He looked at the chocolate bar and wondered why he’d bothered to buy it. He rarely ate chocolate anymore, his mouth found the sweetness too sensitive. He ran his tongue along his teeth and marveled at how small they were. It was strange to feel molars still solidly in place, where three or four adult ones had already been pulled. He’d have to take better care of them.

  He tucked the bar in his back pocket and started on his way again. He’d promised Billy a chocolate bar, and he would get one. Whether it was a melted glob or not wouldn’t matter much to the boy. Hugh had done his good deed for the day, or at least, he would make good on his first promise.

  His heart started to race when he saw the pharmacy ahead, and he suddenly remembered what it was he really wanted to spend the money on. He’d actually fantasized about this opportunity over the years. He ran toward the door, a familiar bell chimed as he pushed it open. “I remember that dinger! It’s been gone for years!” he exclaimed.

  Mrs. McDonald looked up at him from the pile of new paperback novels she was placing in a metal rack spinner. She raised her eyebrows at him disapprovingly.

  “You got rid of that thing so long ago,” he said. “You know…the dinger.” She turned back to her books. Hugh stepped up onto the antique weigh scale next to the door. His dad once said that for a single penny you could see how overweight you were in front of everybody. No one over the age of twelve ever used the thing. “Bob Richard’s dad put this thing on eBay and got twelve hundred bucks for it.” He looked back at Mrs. McDonald. She was ignoring him completely now.

  She just thinks I’m a crazy kid.

  He wondered if she’d pay more attention if he told her everyone in Braedon knew she was having an affair with Mr. Nelson. Maybe he should warn her that her husband would be murdered by the grocery store owner in a few years…at least that’s what the rumor had been. It was never proven he’d actually pushed him off the two hundred foot bridge west of town, but everyone believed it to be fact.

  Hugh stepped around her and went down to the far end of the store. Along the back wall was what he’d come to see.

  Row after row of brand new comic books.

  There were dozens of titles, multiple copies of each stacked neatly side by side.

  He reached out with a shaky hand and saw potato chip grease on his fingers. He wiped it clean on his shirt before picking up the latest issue of World’s Finest. The bright, glossy cover showed Superman flying in to rescue Batman from a pack of vampire children. The banner at the top read ‘100 Pages for Only 60¢’. Those triple-sized editions were the reason he’d started collecting so long ago. There were three more copies of the same book behind that one. Hugh scooped them all up and greedily began to scan the other titles. He recognized each and every one. Some he still owned (had owned), most had been sold or traded off in the eighties and nineties, and none of them were as pristinely mint as the ones along this wall.

  He grabbed every Spider-Man, Justice League of America, House of Mystery, and Fantastic Four comic he could see. His heart pounded when he discovered more titles underneath those. Metal Men, Swamp Thing, The Brave and the Bold… he snatched them all up. Most were standard thirty-six page size with twenty cent covers, but there were a few more hundred page books too. His left arm began to ache under the weight. How many did he have? Fifty? A hundred? It didn’t matter; he kept piling on issues of Detective Comics, Incredible Hulk, Superboy, and Avengers until he had to balance the stack under the end of his chin.

  They’ll be worth a fortune someday.

  He estimated the armload could fetch him an easy ten thousand. Not today, but sometime in the future he would cash in big. All he had to do was keep them in this condition until that day came. He went over the collector’s check-list in his mind: keep them out of the light-- keep them away from humidity and heat--and last, but certainly not least, keep them out of the dirty hands of all his little friends. Hugh was so excited and happy he thought he might shit his pants as he plopped the impressive pile down on the counter.

  Mrs. McDonald met him there and shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re doing here at this time of day, but I do know for a fact you don’t have enough money for all those.”

  Hugh wanted to choke her more than he did Nelson. “Can I charge it until tomorrow?”

  She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Are you trying to be funny? Put those back this instant, and get back to school before I call your parents.”

  “Do that and maybe I’ll tell your husband about--,” he stopped and looked guiltily down at the stack of comics. What was wrong with him? The books could wait, but his attitude needed an immediate adjustment. “I-I’m sorry. Can you put them back for me? I have to get back to class.”

  Mrs. McDonald had gone white. Hugh guessed she knew exactly what he was about to say. She nodded slowly without muttering another word. Red in the face, he nodded back and left the store. The two now had an unspoken agreement, an agreement that guaranteed no phone calls to his parents if he kept his own mouth shut in return.

  Why would he threaten her like that? He had a mean streak as an adult, but that had been totally uncalled for. Did it have something to do with his present age? Ten-year-olds had a tendency to speak without thinking, their emotions quick to flare. If that was the case, he would have to be extra careful in the future.

  The future, the past…it was all so confusing.

  What fucking life am I living?

  He thought of his wife, his kids.

  No, this is the present…this is now.

  Dana, Julie, and Colton hadn’t even been born yet. He wouldn’t meet Cathy until grade twelve. How long was that? Seven, eight years?
>
  Hugh started to blubber uncontrollably. He missed them all so much all ready, and he’d only been separated from them for less than a day.

  No, they’re thirty-seven years away.

  He rubbed the tears and snot away from his face with his ‘Indian on a horse’ tee-shirt. It had to be the young age making him act this way. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d cried. Had it been his father’s funeral?

  My God, he’s still alive.

  Smarten up, he told himself. Pull yourself together. All he needed was a bit of time to get used to his situation. He needed to get home, back to the farm. The tears stopped when he thought of the old house again. It had been torn down and replaced with a trailer home in ‘95, three years after his dad passed away. Hugh’s brothers and sister had already moved away by that time, so his mother decided on a smaller place, something that wouldn’t require as much upkeep. Cathy had agreed to move in with him shortly after they were married to look after her. But none of that has happened yet. He walked past the newly constructed Reynolds Liquor Mart.

  The old house is still out there…my old family is still there.

  After another fifteen minutes of walking and reminiscing, Hugh came to the end of town. Main Street joined Highway 16 at a junction marked with a single stop sign.

  This is where I died.

  A single, stupid second of decision-making had changed everything.

  He crossed the grey pavement carefully, checking both ways repeatedly. He started down the gravel road that would lead him home. It was less than a mile ahead; he could see the shelterbelt of fir trees lining the farmyard. He checked to see what time it was, but realized he wouldn’t even receive his first wrist watch until that Christmas. He figured it had been half an hour since he’d left the school grounds, so that gave him about three hours to kill. Hugh didn’t want to explain to his parents what he was doing home early. He planned to hide out in the trees at the end of the lane until he saw the school bus approach, he would join up with his brother and sister when they got off, try to explain to them what he was doing out there.