Colors, Chapter 1, Endless Summer

       

Colors

Endless Summer

Chapter 1

            Lying is necessary when you’re a kid, so you can steer in and out of all the crap adults throw at you. My name is Gavin Mays, and this story is the absolute truth about how I plotted, planned, and lied one summer to avoid some crap. I only lie when necessary; I call it UL, Unavoidable Lying. 

            Adults like to think they know what a kid needs and often don’t allow them to make their own choices except when following the adult rules adults make based on other adult rules. What if the kid feels something different? I’m not talking about murder and robbery. 

            The summer started in my best friend Dean Smith’s basement science laboratory. Using my dad’s Old Timer pocket knife, I cut Camel Cigarettes into different lengths. “How many cherry bombs do you think we should set?”

            Dean opened his sink cabinet door and spoke fast with a lisp, as he always did when excited. “Be careful. Don’t cut one of those warts on your hand. I think at least ten.” He pulled out two stacks of Black Cat firecrackers. “Look, I have these Black Cats. We can light them as we leave the park. That’ll make someone call the police.”

            I stopped cutting. “Real funny, man. Leave my warts out of it. Ten might be too many. We need to hide before the cigarettes burn down to the fuses. Once we light the cigarettes, it’s out of our control, so we need to be gone, and I can’t run as fast as you. I like the idea of five with one extra, just in case?”

            Dean smiled too large. “I guess you’re right. You can’t afford to get caught.”

            “What do you mean? I can’t afford to get caught.”

            “Well, with the shoplifting thing—you have to be careful.”

            “Don’t remind me. We need containers to carry the cherry bomb sets, so the tobacco doesn’t jiggle out.”

            Dean’s eyes gleamed as he walked to the door. “I got just the thing. Come on.”

            I followed him out the lab door into a collection of dust-covered boxes containing old education magazines and classroom materials. His dad worked for the local school system and stored junk “he might need.” Christmas decorations, old sleds, bicycles, toys, and leftover construction materials rounded out the remaining space in this cobweb-covered basement. Dean chunked the top boxes further back on the pile.

            “Oh, there it is.” He pulled out an old wooden pencil box and a light blue canvas money bag. “We’ll use the box to protect the cherry bombs. You carry the box, and I’ll carry the bag with the Black Cats and a lighter. I can light the cigarettes, and then you can push them back on the fuse.”

            I held the box. “I like it. It’s almost like an assembly-line thing.”

            “Okay, let’s go.”

            Making minimum noise, we exited the basement door next to the lab and walked to the municipal park. Dean entered the mostly dark, empty park bouncing like a ball to the center. He stopped at an old fashion, fake gas light, flickering like the fireflies that would soon come out. My limp, a side effect from the accident slowed me, but I caught up. 

            The cast iron pole sat on a concrete pedestal supporting three-bulbs. One bulb flickered, and the other two were dead. The beacon’s mount gave off more paint flakes than light.   

            When I placed my hand on the pole, it tilted and revealed rusted bolts. My finger caught a peeling white paint chip with rusted metal on the back. Mom’s cast iron awning support did the same when I started my yearly painting chore. “I wonder why they don’t fix this thing. It’s been flickering since… I don’t remember when.”

            Dean smiled and glanced at the light. “Maybe we’ll save a cherry bomb for this piece of shit.” He pointed toward the pool. “Let’s set the first one next to the swimming pool. We can set the last ones up here and hide in the bushes over there in the Lowery’s yard.”

            I agreed, and as we ran to the pool’s cyclone fence, I glanced back at the entering fog curling around the flashing lamp and creating rainbow colors. At the cyclone fence, Dean held the lighter while I puffed on a cigarette and reattached it to the cherry bomb. I passed it back to Dean. 

            He squatted next to the fence. “This is going to be so funny.” 

            After setting five cherry bomb clusters around the park, we stopped at the flickering lamp. Dean shook the insecure pole. “Quick, let’s set the last one here.”

            I lit a quartered cigarette, attached it to the last cherry bomb, and gave it to Dean. “Be sure the cigarette is protected. The air’s damp.” 

            Then, we lit two sets of Black Cats and hid in a cluster of rhododendrons blooming with pink flowers. Peeking through leaves, the blue and red lights of a police car soon reflected off homes on Grove Avenue. Dean’s knowing grin at our perfect timing gave me a sense of pride about our plan. 

            The shadowy officer climbed out of the cruiser and looked over the park with his hands on his hips. The first cherry bomb exploded at the pool. The cop jogged in that direction, then halted midstride and ran toward the second explosion in an opposite park section. His actions, in the dimly lit park, now with flashing police lights and the strobing old park light, made him look bumbling. We covered our mouths to quieten our laughter.   

            The fifth explosion flashed near the police cruiser, but I couldn’t see the officer. One more cherry bomb, and we could go home. Unfortunately, my plan didn’t include waiting and watching the police cruiser’s lights flash, flicker, and reflect throughout the park.  

            Dean yawned and put his fist to his mouth. “We can’t sit here all night. He can’t prove it was us, so let’s just walk back to my house.”

            “I guess. It’s getting late, so I ought to call Mom.”

            “Alright. Let’s leave the box and the bag here and go. We can get them later.” 

            Dean exited the shrubs first and stopped. He held up his hand and formed a serious face. “Hey, look. We act surprised if the officer sees us. I mean, we are just two kids out for a stroll. — Right?”

            I agreed, and we stepped onto the sidewalk. The streets were empty, but lighted windows in several homes indicated curious owners. Or they could be witnesses. 

            Dean put his hands in his rear pockets and withdrew them suddenly. “On no.” 

            I stopped. “What’s wrong?”

            Before Dean could answer, a familiar voice came from between two parked cars across the street. “Hey, you two. Wait right there,” and a flashlight exploded into my eyes.

            Officer Palmer had questioned me on the theft of spray paint and the alleged destruction of public property, particularly traffic signs. I didn’t commit the vandalism but knew the offender, who lived nearby.  

            The officer emerged into the dimness of a fatigued streetlight. “What’re you two doing out this late? We’ve received complaints about fireworks.” 

            Dean theatrically stepped forward. “The asininity of some kids is amazing!”

            I’d never heard the too-close-to-ass word and didn’t know its meaning, but I did know Officer Palmy had won this contest. 

            The officer, who wore a police visor cap covering most of his eyes, set his feet wide apart. “I know you two. How do you know it was kids? Now, empty your pockets.”

            I stepped forward. “We’re not under arrest, are we?” 

            Palmer lowered his flashlight, leaned back, and placed his hand on his holstered pistol grip. “Listen, you little farts, you’re both suspected of committing a crime. —Empty your pockets. — Now! — Onto the street!” 

            The angry voice and the hand on the gun action darkened the night. I caressed the Old Timer pocketknife, pulled it out slowly, and held it in my palm. “This is all I have, and it belonged to my dad. I want to keep it.”

             “Drop it on the street. You should’ve thought about that before you opened your big mouth. You too, Smith. Turn your pockets inside out.”

            Instead of dropping the bone-handled knife onto the pavement, I stepped forward and gently placed it. Then, I stepped back beside Dean.

            “Okay, Smith, it’s your turn.”

            Dean turned the left side of his body toward the officer. Then, with dramatic movement, his left hand pulled his left rear pocket inside out, lifting to the sky, and he projected an innocent face. Simultaneously, he used his right hand to remove a crumbled package from his right rear pocket and ditch it.

            My peripheral vision caught the rear motion. The partial, beat-up package of Camel cigarettes landed between us. Dean needed acting classes. I snickered and swirled back. Maybe Officer Palmer didn’t see anything. 

            The officer pocketed the knife, walked between us, and secured the crumbled evidence. “What the hell you laughing at, Mays?”

            Dean and I shrugged at one another, communicating the end of our plan. The officer collared our arms and marched us toward his police car. He shoved us against the left rear door and, one at a time, lay our hands on the roof, kicked our legs apart, and patted our clothes.

            “Wait here. Leave your hands on the roof.”

            When the officer entered the driver’s side, Dean lifted his hands from the roof and leaned backward to watch the patrolman. However, he reversed when the officer began exiting the car. 

            “Did you disobey a direct command, Smith?” 

            “No, sir.”

            Officer Palmer frowned and shook his head. Then, using his thumb and forefinger, he held up one cherry bomb with a blackened, damp, partial cigarette still attached to the fuse. The moisture on the cigarette paper illuminated the brand name “Camel” stamped on the side. The missing sixth cigarette. In the distance, the twinkling, fake antique lamp blinked the colors in the increasing fog.

            “Now, boys. Turn around and look at me—I have all the evidence I need to convict you. If necessary, I’ll send this cigarette and cherry bomb to FBI laboratories to be analyzed for fingerprints and DNA. You and I both know your prints will be all over them.”

            Good god. The freaking FBI. Maybe we’d talk our way out of this before the notification-of-parents stage.  

            Officer Palmer opened the rear door. “Okay, climb in the back seat. You first, Smith.” 

            The officer entered the front seat, pulled out a metal police clipboard, and wrote. A reflecting mirror spun inside the police lightbar. The sound of clip-clip-clip-clip in the quiet car sounded like the wheel clicks of a passing train. Sitting on the other side of the vehicle, Dean pulled his elbows close to his side and ducked his head like a distressed turtle.

            Officer Palmer opened his door and walked by my window to the car’s trunk. Sounds of police things moving around joined the clip-clip-clip, but not in harmony. What was he looking for now? Some torture device? I smelled dog shit and checked my shoe treads for any clumps. 

Not seeing anything, I turned to Dean. “Hey, did you step in, dogshit?”

            “I don’t think so, but I smell it too. I think this guy has it in for us.”

            “I know he has it in for me. But—.”

            Officer Palmer opened the front door, and I clammed up. He threw a cellophane-wrapped package of papers onto the passenger seat and squeezed his swollen belly and long legs under the steering wheel. The dark surrounding homes contrasted with the one across the street, showing a dim light escaping from a lifted window blind. It wouldn’t take long for our involvement to spread across town. I confirmed my locked door suspicion by lightly pulling on the door handle. Trapped again.

            I cleared my throat and launched the most pleasant, innocent voice I could dig out. “Sir, is everything okay?” 

            Officer Palmer stopped writing, looked in the rearview mirror, and slid the plastic shoebox-sized barrier door open. “One of you turds say something?”

            Dean waved his hand to get my attention. He shook his head slowly, held up one finger, and whispered, “Stop.”

            I shrugged, held my palms up, and whispered back. “What the heck?” To the officer, I repeated louder, “Is everything okay?”

            Palmer turned to Dean, who intently peered out his window, then turned further to me. “Yeah, Mays. Everything is hunky-dory. I hunt you clowns all over the park get my uniform dirty and step in dog shit that some fine upstanding citizen failed to clean up all in an effort to make sure that everything is okay for you.” He jammed the plastic door closed and returned to his paperwork. 

            Dean held a finger to his mouth. “Shhhh. I didn’t know there was a dog shit charge.”

            I tried to stop my laughter with my hand over my mouth and leaned over, hiding from Officer Palmer. It was like the time in Sunday School with my friend Bishop. A substitute teacher told us the regular teacher was a constipated Christian. We couldn’t stop laughing. 

            The driver’s door propelled open, and the cruiser shifted on its springs as the officer exited. I sat up as Palmer stomped around the front of the car. Dean’s face turned white, his mouth opened, and his eyes followed Palmer as the rear door yanked open.

            “Get out, you little shit.”

            Dean lowered his chin and glanced back at me before stepping out. The officer snatched him by the left arm and tugged him toward a park sliding board several feet from the car. Officer Palmer talked and pointed his finger alternately to Dean and then to the cruiser. The fake antique flickering light beyond them prismed the rainbow colors in the increasing fog.

            Guided back to the cruiser, Dean stepped into the back seat, and Officer Palmer tramped around the front of the police car. 

            “What was that all about?”

            Dean’s lips trembled. “He’s just mean. He wants me to quick hanging with you.” 

            Another set of flashing police lights joined the chorus of reflections in the park, and Palmer jerked my door open. “You two turds stay here,” The door slammed.

            Dean thrust out his chest. “It seems that turds are the theme of the evening,” and he bent over to hide his laughter.

            I also bent over. Constipation again, but not in Sunday School. It wouldn’t be funny once Mom and Mr. Johns, my counselor and tutor, learned of our arrest.

            Dean sat up and peered out the rear glass. “I think another police car just pulled up.”

            I straightened up. The chorus of red and blue lights had increased, and Dean had a better vision angle. “You’re right. “What’re they doing?”

            “It looks like they’re just talking. The new one is wearing a coat and tie, and his lights are in the grille. Nothing on top of the car.”

            “Oh, man. That’s a detective’s car. It’s gotta be Detective Roark.”

            “Why’d you say, ‘Oh, man?’ Is he meaner than Palmy? And how do you know it’s a detective’s car?”

            “That’s a lot of questions, man. Detective’s cars don’t have lights on top. They’re in the grille. And no, he’s not meaner than Palmy, but he knows Mom. So, there’s no way we can dodge telling our parents.”

            “Oh,” giggled Dean. “I always doubted we had that chance.”

            I listened, trying to make out words from muffled voices. Officer Palmer’s angry tone rose several times, and Detective Roark responded calmly. The conversation stopped.

            Officer Palmer flung my door open. “You spoiled punks, get out of my car. You’re not going to jail this time because Detective Roark has saved your butts. But next time, and I bet there’ll be a next time, you won’t be saved, and you’re going straight to jail. Especially you, Mays.”

            I stepped out of the car and waited for Dean. The darkened homes across the street had two windows lit up with occupants looking back. I joined Dean, shuffling toward Detective Roark, who waited by his city car. I walked to the detective’s right side, and Dean went to the left side. I expected a reprimand, but the detective didn’t say anything. Instead, he glared unsmiling, straight ahead.

            Under the street light, the detective’s right temple showed a scar where a bullet grazed him in a shootout with an armed suspect. I touched my similar temple scar received in the train accident with Dad. Officer Palmer still had the pocketknife. 

            “Hey. Stop!” I turned to Detective Roark. “He still has my dad’s pocketknife.”

            Detective Roark looked ahead. “You do the deed; you take the bleed. Consider the knife gone.”

            “But it belonged to Dad.”

            Roark turned to me. “I’m sorry. I also miss my dad. Consider the knife lost and yourself lucky to be free. You can buy another pocketknife since you’re out of jail,” and he turned back to the patrol car.

            One more piece lost; before the pocketknife, I lost Dad’s army dog tags playing in the woods. Finally, Officer Palmer’s car squealed off with flashing blue and red lights. He ran the stop sign at Hodges Street and turned toward the hospital.  

            Detective Roark herded us toward his car’s rear door with his hands on our necks. “He’s angry at you two. It wasn’t easy to talk him out of the charges, particularly you, Gavin. You’re lucky that my police radio was on and I heard your names. I managed to get him to hold off on any charges as long as there are no more problems this summer.” We stopped, and Detective Roark opened the rear door. “Do you both understand?”

            We nodded and climbed into the back seat. Detective Roark opened the front door and settled in behind the steering wheel. He started the engine and put the car into gear but didn’t move. “How’d you guys get caught?”

            I glanced at Dean, who ducked his head. The detective worked with Mom on Vacation Bible School, and although it hadn’t been discussed, they may have had a couple of dates. He certainly had been in our lives more in recent months. 

Maybe I’d better take this question. “We set cherry bombs on cigarettes and watched the park. When the explosions stopped, we came out of hiding and started walking to Dean’s house. We figured he didn’t have any proof we did anything.”

            “Were you two the only ones out this evening? Did you see any other people?” 

            I guessed his point and rechecked my shoes. Let Dean have this one.

Dean whispered, “We were the only ones out.”

            “So, let me get this straight. No one is out this evening, but for some reason, you two figured that Officer Palmer wouldn’t suspect you. Do I have that about right?”

            Dean’s lisp increased. “Ye—yes, sir. That’s right. But he stole Gavin’s pocketknife.”

            “That’s what happens when you do the crime; you suffer the consequences. As smart as you two kids are, you can easily earn enough money to buy another knife. I’ll take you home first, Dean, and then I’ll take Gavin home.” 

            “I guess Mom knows?”

            “Oh, yeah. We were sitting in my car discussing the Bible school meeting when your names came on the police radio.”

            Shit. “What do you think she’ll do?”

            I’m not sure, but I suggest you both find something you can be proud of that will keep you busy for the summer. Breaking the law is not something to be proud of.”

            The car moved off, and I stared out the side window. The fog had thickened, creating deeper rainbow colors from the flashing, fake gas park lamp.