cara.riverhed.com

So we’re millin’ around, fixing up a few strands, waiting for Sandy. And we see a pair o’ headlights. We ducked behind whatever we were close to, mainly as a precaution, kinda a cursory sort of thing, you know. The car’s goin’ like five miles an hour, tops, and it’s got the same headlights as Stan’s car, so we know it’s gotta be Sandy- who the hell else would drive that slow, you know? So we’re kinda talkin’ to him- “C’mon, Sandy, hurry up, Jesus.” – “Hell, turn off your brights, dumbass.” You know, how you talk to yourself, but at other people. And then I hear Jet.

“Fuck me if that isn’t a cop car. Shit, shit, shit…”

I looked, and damn, he was right. I looked around. We’re all in black, remember, and not one of us is slow. Everyone looks ready to go. And then the cop throws on a spotlight.

Now this shit is serious, you know. He sees the roll job, someone called the cops. I wait, wait, wait- and take off. My adrenalin is pounding. I’m 200 yards away before I even look back. I’m safe. Jump in a drainage pipe. I was first. Look for the others.

Spider and Jordan, flying past me. A low whistle, they loop and come to me. John, wrangled into the group. Two more, faceless in the dark, run past. Spider takes off after them, into the woods. We follow, I take the lead.

No moon. Tripping, stumbling, I thank God I’m surefooted. Spider, sprinting down a treeless hill, falls, rolls, jumps up- and promptly falls down the hill again. This time, he curls up and rolls all the way to the bottom. No mood for laughter- focus, focus is the name of the game.

A dappled patch of kudzu, looks like grass in the darkness. Jordan twists an ankle highstepping (like when you don’t know there’s a step, you know?) Press on, press on. Silent and swift, I’m not even tiring.

Bull through the creek. Too far ahead of the group- they’re bruised and battered, they ain’t Rambo, no concept of forest-running. Ten second pause, glance up at the foggy sky. Rain soon, I thought, and was suprised by the thought. Get my bearings. Re-direct. Go.

I can hear a heated, though whispered discussion behind me. Stupid argument, obviously we’re going the right way. Quick, low whistle. A few more thudding steps, a few more thudding heartbeats, and everyone’s in a semi-circle around me. I scan the faces. Confused. Count. Curse.

“Fuck it, where’s Josh?”

Everyone looks around. Denies seeing him, passing him, at any point through the run. He was left, at the scene of the crime. We wait, tense, ears straining. No noise, and Josh is the quickest one. Must have taken a different path, is all, we assure ourselves. With a sigh, and a shared glance, we agree. Break into a trot. We’re off.

Some of us are more graceful than others, I thought with some grim amusement. Some are at home here, brushing lightly, duck and cover, if not soundless, then at least at par. And then. Some barrel forward, crashing, breaking, trampling. Elves and dwarves.

A warning, drop-off ahead. I jump down. “All fours,” is the advisory. I follow my own advice. Shoes are soaked, but hell, the end is in sight. Turning around, I observe the others.

Jet scrambles across like he’s in a school bear-crawl relay. Upsets a few stones, but overall, a fine showing. Spider goes on three, his right hand stretched clumsily above the water. A cell phone. Figures.

A flash of movement, a vivd curse. I smirk even as I leap back into the water. Jordan bit it, hard. Cracked tailbone, most likely. Precariously balancing on a rock, I leaned forward, barely snagging Jordan’s toboggan. When I toss it back to him, he tosses it back on without wringing it out.

“Deec snag, Jerry. Pretty clutch. Alabama thanks you.” (This in reference to his Alabama-themed hat.)

Continue to jog, shoes sloshing. No worries. Spot a trail, jog up the hill, up a driveway. on to a street. I plop down, yank off my trainers, shake ‘em as the water pours out. Hop around in my socks. Replace my shoes, stand. Grin at my winded followers. My adrenalin hasn’t worn off yet, and they’re being slow.

“Well, we made it,” Spider notes, nursing a shin. “Gonna have a bruise the morning, though.”

“Sweet!” Jordan exclaims. There’s a pause of a few seconds. Apparently deciding there’s no better way to phrase it, he continues. “Uh, where are we?”

I laughed. “Jordan, we’re in Marwood. Spider’s house is like, three down. The ‘hood is just down the street!”

To someone who just blindly ran a couple of miles, I guess the fact that we had an actual destination in mind is mind-boggling. Jordan’s mouth hasn’t completely shut yet. I laugh again, this time at his confounded expression. “Where did you think we were heading?”

Jordan shrugs loosely. “I didn’t. I just followed.”

We’re back in the cul-de-sac, and decide to take temporary refuge in Jet’s basement. Of course, for the first time in a decade, it’s locked. I offer my basement. “Hang on, I’ll sneak through the garage.”

I picked my way through the masses of broken bikes, discarded drawings, and other miscillaneous materials. But, of course, my dad’s passed out on the couch. I consider, creep upstairs, and allow everyone in the front door. I cautioned everyone to basically silence, and we went up to my room. After staring at each other for a second, Spider pulled out his phone.

He dialed Josh.

TO BE CONTINUED

___ Jerry

This entry was posted on Monday, August 3rd, 2009 at 7:16 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.