We Were Gods
Robb Skidmore
The Creature from the Black Lagoon and Darth Vader and the Hunchback and even the Incredible Hulk at his most rage-filled and hideous had nothing on the Barger brothers. We hated and loved them. As boys verging on adolescence, we existed in elaborate swoons of fantasy, our violence both imagined and sometimes real. We lived in a brand new subdivision where two-story houses sprung from dirt lots. Straw and grass seed tickled our noses, competing with the tang of virgin tar, which flowed down the streets. Behind our homes was a place my friends and I called the No Man’s Land—a paradise of no supervision, a treeless expanse of red dirt with eroded gullies and hidden canyons. Interstate power lines buzzed overhead, strung along colossal metal towers dotted with yellow and black DANGER! HIGH ELECTRICITY signs.
We were covered with Band-Aids and vibrated with hyperactive energy no dosage of Ritalin could properly contain or focus. We jumped our fancy BMX bicycles over crude ramps, crashed on the landings and flew over the handlebars, then wiped away blood and red dust from scrapes on our shins. It was a contest to destroy expensive Christmas gifts as fast as possible. We crashed remote control replica fighter planes and deliberately flew helicopters into power lines hoping to provoke power outages. We looked at dirty magazines passed down from older brothers and practiced swear words. We fired CO2-powered BB guns and arrows from compound hunting bows, exploded hundreds of dollars of Black Cats and Triple Whistlers and M-80 firecrackers. We climbed high into the metal towers and swung from crossbeams like monkeys. How did we not kill ourselves? What deity protected us from self-annihilation?
Hex! The diabolical Barger boys tossed them with alarming regularity. We crouched on the red-dirt plateau, then took cover in a gully, the whammy spells zinging through the air like sniper bullets.
One peek at their creepy hovel was evidence enough of their depravity and poor character. Beyond the widest expanse of the No Man’s Land and down a winding path through woods stood the faded Barger trailer on a harsh and estranged parcel of bottom land. It rested on cement blocks. Vines crept around a window screen, where a dark figure sometimes crossed. A clothesline crossed an open area trampled to packed dirt. It was difficult to stare for long without feeling eyes from the surrounding woods. The words Barger were painted in red letters on a mailbox by a dirt road. One Halloween, Martin got up some courage and knocked on the pitted door of the Barger trailer, standing in darkness in a Dracula costume. No one answered. He did not, as predicted, turn to stone. The times we spied them kicking around the trailer or lurking in some corner of the No Man’s Land, they never spoke, other than to grunt or make a sound like an explosion. Both the Young One and the Older One had shaved heads and sandpaper scalps. We assumed this was treatment for lice infestation or hookworm, contracted after stepping into manure with open sores on their bare feet. They never wore shirts, just grimy cutoff jeans stained the color of their coppery skin. The one time I saw them up close, I noticed scabs on their elbows and outee belly buttons. Typically, we saw them running at a distance, flashing through the trees, jaws set, arms pumping. They went unseen for weeks, until one would emerge from the woods. Or they would pop their heads up from a gully and disappear when arrows and BBs were fired in their direction.
****
We spotted the Barger brothers in the Snack Lounge of the K-Mart. Seeing two baboons or werewolves would have been no less shocking. They sat in a booth in ripped tank tops, legs swinging, the blackened bottoms of their feet flashing. The Older One gnawed at the gristle remains on a corn dog stick. The Younger One tipped an onion ring box to his mouth, fried bits showering his face and tongue. They took off into the store, their dusty feet smacking the floor in an odd rhythm. We followed. They were elusive. We saw one pushing the other in a shopping cart down an Automotive department aisle. We found them in Toys ripping baseball cards out of their wrappers, stuffing their mouths with gum. They scampered away as we approached; a plastic watch holder bounced on the floor. Something about that empty holder enraged me. I found a Security man and breathlessly explained to him: Theft is taking place in this store. The Bargers are stealing baseball cards and a Timex watch. They have shaved heads and live in a trailer. He thanked me for this “valuable information,” and resumed talking to an attractive cashier. The Bargers streaked across the parking lot with devious, elated faces, giggling hysterically. Their front pants pockets bulged.
****
Beyond being the spawn of the devil and raw savages, they were thieves. They were likely stealing things out of our back yards. Defensive measures were taken. We began day patrols, drinking from canteens, our salty sweat mixing with cool water. Holes were dug on a perimeter near our backyard fences, then covered with plywood and handfuls of dirt, forming a booby trap Maginot Line. We swore to capture and interrogate the Bargers.
We spotted them swinging from a knotted rope. We plunged into the woods on bikes to flush them out. They ran out into sunshine, heading for an electrical tower. Fleeing seemed to confirm their guilt, their evil nature, and a viciousness crept into our bodies. That can be quite a high. We fired bottle rockets that snapped over their heads. They jumped into a ditch, the Older One’s head bobbing even with the ground as they ran. We headed them off at the far end and threw rapid-fire dirt clods. On open ground, we had them in a crossfire. I sailed arrows past their heads. One arrow sliced a calf and the Older One cried out in pain. We couldn’t pump our guns fast enough; BBs smacked against their legs and backs. We grabbed the Younger One and pinned him long enough for several hard punches, bloodied his nose and kicked him in the balls before he got away limping. He sobbed twice, in a pitiful kid way. It snapped me out, but not long.
Then they were forever gone. Gone from the No Man’s Land, gone from their trailer. We celebrated, but, to be truthful, we were sad.
****
Older kids kicked out the trailer’s windows and littered beer cans inside, a desecration we somewhat resented, having not been done by us. I’m not sure who lit the match. Probably Martin, the pyro. In any event, the trailer caught fire easily and roared to life with tall orange flames and pumping black smoke; we cheered as the sides caved in. The power and terror of it ripped at our chests. We were gods. The Bargers could never return. We had achieved final victory.
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Robb Skidmore is a writer who lives in Atlanta. He has published short stories in New Orleans Review, New Millennium Writings, South Carolina Review, and Oasis. His ebook novella, The Surfer, can be found on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com. His debut novel, The Pursuit of Cool (TMiK Press), is coming out in January 2012. His website and blog is at robbskidmore.com.