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In the distance. the whistle rang out a terrifyingly loud Hooooo-
HOO Hoooo, and I was sure it was on top of us, sure that I would
feel the cracks of lead pounding in my ears any second, feel the hot
metal in my legs. Then the steady thud-thud-thud of its wheels
grinding closer bit into my ears, and I screamed. turned, and fell
down the slope to where the black gravel ended and the high
meadowy grass began. I ran and didn't stop or look back until I
was what felt like at least a mile away, and then collapsed in the
stickery high grass, my hands and knees filling with sharp pain.
Behind me, five or six bullets roared into the air consecutively, and
I wondered vaguely how Mike Conners could stand such a loud
sound every time he squeezed the trigger. My ears filled up with a
steady EEEEEEEEEEE, and I lay back in the grass, my hair full of
stickers, my pride full of shame.
Then Kirby was in front of me, telling me I was all right. I sat up in
the grass, and down the hm about ten or fifteen feet from me,
Brant, Dewey, and John sat puffing loudly, laughing, out of breath.
The air filled with smoke and I collapsed again into the high sea of
shrub and stickers, feeling fine.
Brant admitted time after time that we were all brave for going
along with him that day, but he never brought up the fact that we
all had run away, he and Dewey in the lead. Somewhere in my
mind, the fact appeared to me that somewhere in Brant, his ego
ended and his brains began. That's why I listened along with the
others, and why we all wound up going with him that night when
he began scheming up another mastermind stunt.
"First we make it over the fence. When we do, we head for the
SkyCoaster. Here's the trick: we'll all meet in the station and start
up the tracks - not the wooden beams - the tracks, and, in single
file, climb to the King drop, then back down." "You're fuckin nuts,
Brant." "Maybe. But at least I'm not fuckin' pussy." "Who's
pussy?" I asked, pulling my Converse All-Star tennis shoes on.
"You in?" asked Kirby, his lower jaw shaking. It was almost like
that shaking jaw and those glassy, scared deer eves of his were
trying to pull me back, to help me forget about the dare and get
back to reading another chapter in Amazing Detective Stories - as
if that once shaking jaw were a sonar, bouncing off waves of
detection and coming up with the same reading: Dangerous Barrier
Ahead.
"Don't be ridiculous, Kirb. 'Course I'm goin"' I shot a glance at
John and Dewey, who both gave me nods of bravery and
confidence, mixed highly with regrets of Brant's ever being with us
that night. We left the flashlights on in the tent in case John's dad
peeked out the back windows of his house to check on us. It turned
out he never did.
Skybar can be pretty damn dark at night with no lights on. Few
people know that like I do since most have only seen it in the
daytime with sunlight bouncing off of the metal roofs of Pop
Dupree's and the Adults Only freak tent or at night with the
magical lights blazing lazily around on the Ferris wheel and bulbs
flashing crazily in single file, creating a racing form of neon
display up and down the hills of the 100 foot high SkyCoaster.
There were no lights that night, however. No lights, no moon, no
light clouds, zilchamundo. Brant had stopped on the way to pick
up a couple of his friends from the White Dragons. The Dragons
were a street gang that held a high position in thc field of respect
with all wise kids back then, and luckily they brought spare
flashlights, matches for their cigarettes, and 5-inch steel Randell
switchblades (in case some maniacal drunk or thug was claiming
the park space as a home base for his operations).
Both of the White Dragon members appeared to be gods in the
eyes of all of us that evening - their hair slicked back to their scalps
James Dean style, black leather jackets with pale, fire breathing
dragons on them, a general air of confidence and security beaming
off them as if they were more protective beacons for us than
general good company joining us in the daredevil fun.
Five more members of the Dragons were to meet us after a field
party they were having up on Grange's Point. Brant hadn't let us in
on that fact at first, but when I found out they were supposed to
meet us at the front gate at 12:30. more confidence rose in me, and
it began to feel more like we were heading toward a late game of
craps or penny ante poker instead of a 100 foot climb on slick
poles. What we didn't know was that they were practically carrying
the party with them, each with a bottle of Jack Daniel's Black
label, or Southern Comfort, or Everclear, and each was singing in
rackety unison the agonizing 75th stanza to "99 Bottles of Beer."
Excitement heaved up my chest to my throat as we approached the
outer gate, and I can still remember how mystic and strange the
park looked in the dark night air. The chain fence stretched onward
in both directions to what seemed infinity, sealing us out from its
unknown hidden powers, and I recall that it almost seemed that it
was shielding Skybar inside, preventing it from wielding its wrath
on the innocent people living outside its domain. Once you crossed
the barrier, however, there was no turning back. Here was where
the two worlds divided, and the choice was made - pussy or man.
Everybody was anxious to get inside the park's gates to prove
where he stood. With the gang you felt cold and nervous while
awaiting the wrath of whatever might be lurking inside-but outside,
the chances of surviving any lurking danger alone made you even
more nervous- jittery enough to crawl up into a ball and piss your
pants at every crack of a twig.
So, you see, it's not that we all wanted to go inside. But even if we
were scared to death of climbing the cold rails of the SkyCoaster,
staying alone while the rest of the bunch climbed over and
ventured inside was even worse than the original dare itself.
Surprisingly enough, Kirby was the first one up the fence to lay his
jacket across the barbed wire and hop to the soft asphalt of Skybar
on the other side. The rest of us followed, thud, sputt, thud
sounding through the night air as we each dropped to the ground
on the other side. We were in now. Eddie Frachers, the shorter of
the two White Dragons, lit up a smoke, flicked on the flashlight,
and led the way with Brant.
The station was empty when we got to the steel rails of the coaster,
and climbing the steps to the gate station was an unusual
experience in itself since there was no waiting in line for an hour
while an old man standing in front of you blew cigarette fumes in
your face in the riding hot sun as your stomach turned putred, your
facial skin pale. Now it was home free between the coaster and us,
free space all the way.
Hurry hurry step right up!
The metal floor thundered hundreds of beats under our feet as we
made our way across the vacant station to the terminal gates, and I
looked several times over my shoulder as we walked the deserted
leading board, my senses ready for anything that might decide to
go more than "bump" in the night. I was the first one to hear it, in
fact, and my body grew limp, my bowels limp with it when I heard
the direction it was coming from - the coaster cars.
They all sat in front of us, grey and orange from rust and age, their
silent features corrupting the night with an evil air, and I recall
standing there as the others began to hear it too, my hands shaking,
legs drooping, mouth hanging open stupidly as I attempted to say
something - I don't know what - and nothing would come out.
I don't know how long we all stood there, waiting for something,
anything to happen. The cars seemed mystic in their own way as
they stood their ground and refused to let us any nearer by chanting
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