The Childhood Trauma That Prefaces the Drink – Don H.

Chapter 1 The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Boys Three young boys glided silently along the back of the hedgerow, smooth, low, and well-concealed. They held on to the shadows, avoiding exposure to the morning light, sidestepping the underbrush by walking along the desiccated creek bed that only saw water in the spring. It was now late August, and these rocks hadn't tasted moisture for many weeks. Their goal lay dead ahead. It was about thirty feet to where the creek took a sharp turn and on away from the rickety gray fence line. The show was about to begin. There were plenty of gaps in the creaking driftwood fence, through which one could partake of the entire yard. The boys selected positions that offered the comfort of a stump or well-shaped tree root upon which to perch gently throughout the performance. This was the third Saturday morning of the carnival, as they called it. This show had no designated time slot. Things got rolling whenever the old fart got around to crawling out of bed, scratching his behind and grabbing his hat. That could be in five seconds, five minutes, or five whatever. The boys sidled up to their squats, poked an eye through a hole in the fence and sat motionless, watching and waiting. Today was their lucky day. The old gaffer must have gotten up early for church or something. At almost the moment they arrived, they could already see movement in the shed on the side of the house. This was followed momentarily by the recognizable scrape of cold steel against the stone wheel. He was already preparing his tool for mass clextruction for the morning's intended victim. In unison their heartbeats quickened. Sprocket, the oldest and grittiest of them, heard the blood pounding in his ears. Tender Law and the Svelte, who was anything but, swallowed hard and slapped a swollen tongue across his suddenly moisture-deprived lips. Funny thing, excitement and adrenaline, they produced such peculiar psychological effects. Racing heart, dry mouth, churning stomach, anticipation of a delightful reward. Tommy the new kid felt them all at once, especially the last one. Tommy was hardly new to the group, but he had been grounded for the last two Saturdays, during which time Sprocket and Tenderloin had stumbled accidentally into the carnival grounds in time for the show. As the first two looked through the fence with one eye, they each kept another eye on Tommy. His reaction may prove as entertaining as the carnivale itself. They had chosen to withhold crucial data from Tommy when relating the tales of their first two weeks as spectators. Like well-oiled carnival barkers, they had told him just enough to pique his interest and draw him in without spoiling the surprise. What they beheld on the other side of the fence was an anachorism. It was a place out of time. Yes, it was situated in the center of town. A quick glance at the neighborhood around the carnival grounds clearly indicated a modern 21st century landscape. There were rows of young trees and pruned lawns in the newer subdivisions, but they were mixed with old dwellings like this one that had been here prior to reconstruction. To their young eyes it was weird, it was different, and it was totally compelling. They had heard tales of the grizzled old fart and his unusual garden from older brothers who had enlightened them about his peculiar nature. They had been warned by their predecessors to walk briskly by his house and preferably to whistle like it was a graveyard. No sensible reason was ever given for these cautionary tales. They were merely accepted facts passed down as local folklore from elder to younger, like admonitions in the olden days to stay out of the woods. Bad things happen to children in the woods.' The old man and his compound were, for them, the modern-day edition of Grimm's fairy tales. In other words, it was irresistible to the ten-year-old male psyche. The wait was over. The lanky garden dweller finally emerged from his shed. His sun-ripened face was protected from further radiation by a wide-brimmed straw hat. He wore sockless red-balled jets cut-off jeans, an ACDC tank top, and a light sheen of humid August morning sweat. He carried a stainless steel saucepan in one hand and the recently honed hatchet in the other. Tenderloin was incapable of remaining motionless. His nervous energy manifested as hand clenching and a slow rhythmic shifting of one larded haunch after the other over the stump. Sprocket's lips were curled back into a maniacal grin that would have done the Joker proud. Tommy was transfixed by the energy of the scene and welling up with anticipation after all those stories he had heard over the last two weeks, most of which were subject to embellishment. The boys simultaneously jumped at the sound of a loud cackle directly overhead followed by the mourning crow. Sprocket heard a muffled curse from Tommy who was trying to keep his voice down after banging his head on a tree limb when he jumped. The rooster, apparently, took great pleasure in scaring the hell out of the young interlopers behind the fence. He had been watching them from his lofty perch since they first appeared on the horizon, sneaking along the old creek bed. The middle section of the yard was one huge garden composed of neatly cultivated rows. Tenderloin had never seen so many vegetables outside the supermarket. it. There were rows of peppers, tomatoes, potatoes, lettuce, spinach, and a bunch of stuff that was foreign to him and a little bit weird-looking, but not the crown jewel of the melon section. He knew a world-class watermelon when he saw one, and he saw at least three back there. Furthermore, they were not far from the side fence around the corner. A few tiny brain cells at the epicenter of his consciousness began to work out the logistics for obtaining one, or perhaps several, of those massive melons. A sharp twang on the young boy's ear snapped him out of his silent meditation and brought the task at hand back into sharp focus. Tommy had been trying quietly and desperately to get his attention for some time. He had seen that slack-jaw, vacuous look on Tenderloin's face many times before, usually in English class. He knew that his friend had forgotten about the carnival while lost in some daydream involving food. A well-flickered pebble to the lateral cranium had worked its magic. TenderLoin was back, and the show was about to begin. There was a stump in the middle of the yard just to the left of the dirt patch where the chickens played. ACDC had placed a three-legged stool on the right-hand side of the stump proper, while leaning the hatchet against its side. He was currently engaged in rounding up the chickens. He had managed to get all but one of them into the shed closest to the house. He closed the door and turned on his heel toward the remaining straggler. She was a plump red hen, slightly larger than average size for the flock. She eyed him suspiciously as he casually approached her. Three sets of eyes were glued to the scene through the fence, taking in every nuance as the tension built. He approached with caution, but the hen was getting excited, puffing up her feathers and dancing back and forth as if readying to bolt. Along with the boys, she too could sense the drama was unfolding at her expense. The old gaffer was light on his feet and way more agile than one would expect from such a grizzled vet. He and the chicken began La Danse Macabre. She fainted left and went right, forcing him to follow and cut her off. She zigged and zagged. He had years of training with previous partners, and with each dance step he gradually closed the gap between them. All too late she realized he was within striking distance. She spun to run, but his hand shot out and pinned her to the ground, effectively halting her escape before it began. Tommy almost wanted a clap. It was too perfect. He would never have thought that guy could move so quickly and effortlessly. Sprocket winked at Tommy. That's nothing compared to what comes next, he whispered. Tommy swallowed hard and pressed his face back against the fence. A.C.D.C now had the chicken hanging upside down by her feet. Her wings were flapping and she was squawking angrily at the farmer. But her protestations were unheeded as he marched her to the stump, his jaw fixed with grim determination. He was about to undo her and he clearly took far less joy in it than his uninvited audience. Taking his place on the stool, he plunked her firmly down on the stump. Feet facing in the boy's direction. The moment of truth had arrived. Pinning her down with his left hand, he grasped the hatchet in his right. She barely had a moment to process her violent demise. The hatchet rose deftly over her head and with one quick stroke delivered the coup de grace, parting chicken from existence in the blink of an eye. Three young boys simultaneously gasped for air on the far side of the fence. Tommy had not imagined the intensity of the moment from the other boys' descriptions. Seeing it happen in front of his eyes was both captivating and sickening all at once. Oh, but this show was far from over today. There was to be a new wrinkle for which none of the three were prepared. AC-DC pulled her bodily over the edge of the stump to allow her life force to drain into the saucepan. Even in death she continued to struggle. Her wings flapped spasmodically and her feet kicked for a few moments as her heart clasped rhythmically about her arteries as the final ebbing of life swooshed the last of her blood slowly into the pan. As the wings shuddered to one final, futile perturbation, the realization sunk in with all three boys that they had just beheld the taking of a life. This sentiment was accompanied by a certain solemnity that they hadn't previously considered. It left each of them feeling a bit introspective with a very unnerving sense of personal mortality. It was at this moment that ACDC delivered the closing act of the morning's entertainment. With all three sets of eyes glued to both the mortified and the mortifier, he slowly raised the saucepan to his lips, tipped his head back, and took one long lingering draft of what had previously given life solely to the hen. Lowering the pan, he turned toward the boys with a toothy grin. Some of the purple gore clung momentarily to his teeth, while the rest rolled slowly over his lips and down into his beard, clotting amongst the tangled hairs beneath his chin. This was unprecedented, unnerving, gross, and disgusting. Sprocket's mouth went dry as his legs started to pump up and down. His feet were trying to run, but his eyes were plastered to the vampire in the yard before him. His brain was frozen in a moment of conflicting impulses before his feet ultimately won the internal debate. He turned and started to run for his life. Meanwhile, Tenderloin had a consistent emotional reaction, but the outcome was considerably more artistic. He leaned back from the fence with the look of a man who had actually tasted the contents of the pan himself. He convulsed into a technicolor yawn of legendary proportions, painting the fence with the contents of his entire digestive tract. So powerful was his disgust that he was certain he had even yanked up some of his internal organs. Once steady on his feet, he turned to run back down the creek bed in the direction that Sprocket had taken. He had not the strength required to rise quickly off the ground given the shuddering upheavals he had just endured. So he began by crawling on his hands and knees. Eventually, his body began to break the grip of gravity and rise from the earth. His stomach was aching, his lungs were burning, and his arms and legs felt like they were burdened with lead. He was not going to get caught back there with that old monster. He eventually caught up with Sprocket, primarily because Sprocket had stopped running about a hundred yards down the creek bed. Wait up, said Tenderloin between gasps of air. What do you mean, wait up? I'm standing still. Hey, where's Tommy? asked Sprocket. I don't know, said Tenderloin. I just cut and run. Yeah, me too, Sprocket put in with some embarrassment. He had never thought of himself as a coward, but he sure hadn't thought of anyone else's skin as he hit the creek bed and headed for safety. What do we do now? asked Tenderhoin. Well, we got him into this, and we sure ain't going to leave a man behind. We have to go back there and get him out. Come on, Tenderloin, let's go get him. The two boys turned and headed back down the creek bed. They were still shaken, but they were also resolved. As the flight-for-fight response began to wane, the better angels of their natures pointed them in the direction of duty, honor, and loyalty to their brother-in-arms. Tommy was no longer in his seat. He was gone. Had he run in another direction, thought Tenderloin? Just then, Sprocket pointed to the far corner of the fence, past the spot where the rooster had been seated. They caught one quick glimpse of AC-DC carrying something or someone in his arms back through a gate and into the compound. Holy shit, Tender! He's got Tommy! They ran to the nearest section of the defense where they could easily see through. It was definitely Tommy being hauled across the field of battle past the rows of sheds and on to the back porch. The ancient bloodsucker lay Tommy's limp body down on a porch swing. He stood for a moment, perusing the boy's unconscious form before turning and heading into the house. Cripes! Sprocket? What do we do now? At this moment, Tenderloin's greatest fear was that Sprocket would suggest a rescue operation. He physically shivered in fear at the thought of it. He was terrified of the old man after what he had just witnessed. but he knew if Sprocket had the backbone to suggest it, he would have to join him in the adventure. Gratefully, Sprocket was not about to beard the lion in his den. He had what initially seemed like a much more rational suggestion. Come on, Tender, we need to go tell Tommy's dad. For an instant, Tendernoyne was relieved that he wouldn't have to take on ACDC, but in point of fact, a heart-to-heart with Tommy's dad was equally, if not more, unappealing to him.