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    Aaron: The Fall of America
    Aaron: The Fall of America
    Aaron: The Fall of America
    Ebook439 pages6 hours

    Aaron: The Fall of America

    By Steve Howard

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    About this ebook

    Aaron has been prepared by a secret NASA team to test fly a faster than light speed craft. His two week trip costs him eight Earth years. The project has bankrupt America. America must abandoned the space age and resorts to a fundamental christian dictatorship age. America has taking their armies out of all lands but South America. Aaron is selected to do a job for another government agency.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSteve Howard
    Release dateDec 6, 2010
    ISBN9781458075413
    Aaron: The Fall of America
    Author

    Steve Howard

    Born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada 1960. Moved to London, Ontario, Canada in 1967. Started playing hockey and piano. Went to Sir Wilfred Laurier High School and played the trumpet.Studied Architectural Technology at Fanshawe College of Applied Arts and Sciences. Started playing guitar and writing a little. On a trip to the mountains in 1982 with a friend I decided, or was awakened to the knowledge that I was going to pursue writing. Graduated 1984 and moved to Toronto.Moved to Saarbrücken, Germany in 1993.Have traveled many places in North, Middle and South America and Europe.Besides reading and writing also work on photography and music.

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      Book preview

      Aaron - Steve Howard

      Aaron

      The Fall of America

      Steve Howard

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Steve Howard on Smashwords

      Aaron: The Fall of America

      Copyright © 2010 by Steve Howard 773U5

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission by the copyright owner and the publisher of this book except in the case of quotations embodied in critical articles, essays and reviews.

      This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales are the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. The use or misuse of any trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This Ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This Ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

      ***

      Short Intro:

      It is ten years later again. This book was first written in the 1980s. And for reasons of not being that guy anymore, I won’t change anything but a few spelling mistakes and clean up the format.

      Aaron aka Eddy is on a wild trip and has some crazy adventures that mostly take place in his head. And a short hyperspace trip to a sleepy planet. When he gets home, there is some violent madness to keep pace with the times. There is also a critical look at what we refer to as normal procedure. The classic paradigm.

      And it is fun and sometimes funny. It takes a while to get started. Something I don’t allow anymore in my writing. However. It is philosophy and psychology. Or something like it.

      Table of Content

      BOOK 1

      chapter 01 _ first sense

      chapter 02 _ becoming and being

      chapter 03 _ memories or dreams

      chapter 04 _ not sorry

      chapter 05 _ eating a bug

      chapter 06 _ waking up

      chapter 07 _ boys and girls

      chapter 08 _ camping

      chapter 09 _ learning my wall

      chapter 10 _ i left my ship

      chapter 11 _ appointed authority

      chapter 12 _ how i got here

      chapter 13 _ the planet i’m on

      chapter 14 _ no more wall

      chapter 15 _ venture from my hole

      chapter 16 _ water

      chapter 17 _ planning my next trip

      chapter 18 _ not an alien

      chapter 19 _ probability question

      chapter 20 _ a little paranoia

      chapter 21 _ just a bug

      chapter 22 _ to the city

      chapter 23 _ breakfast with Karna

      chapter 24 _ fall into the sun

      BOOK 2

      chapter 25 _ back to earth

      chapter 26 _ bad breakfast

      chapter 27 _ mom and dad

      chapter 28 _ boarder control

      chapter 29 _ toronto

      chapter 30 _ nova scotia

      chapter 31 _ military intervention

      chapter 32 _ back in america

      BOOK 3

      chapter 33 _ in the care of the state

      chapter 34 _ dressed in white

      chapter 35 _ my teacher

      chapter 36 _ daze and training

      chapter 37 _ nearing graduation

      chapter 38 _ a new life

      chapter 39 _ first date as eddy

      chapter 40 _ take a bath

      chapter 41 _ late for work

      chapter 42 _ cuba visit

      BOOK 4

      chapter 43 _ some new therapy

      chapter 44 _ back to america

      chapter 45 _ testing my new skills

      chapter 46 _ the news lies

      chapter 47 _ business with bob

      chapter 48 _ following a notion

      chapter 49 _ i remember bangor

      chapter 50 _ a visit to washington

      chapter 51 _ life sentence

      chapter 52 _ i would get out

      ***

      BOOK 1

      chapter 01 _ first sense

      I sense trouble. Although I can’t perceive anything beyond the ability to perceive should there be something to perceive, somehow it isn’t how it should be. Should be. Should be is that I perceive where I am. I don’t remember drinking or smoking last night or recently. I don’t remember last night. Maybe it is still night and that is why I can’t see. And even at night there are hints of shapes. I don’t need to see to know that my head hurts. It hurts like it has been frozen then melted too slowly. I don’t remember asking to have my head frozen. I don’t remember any terminal diseases that would have made it necessary. If my head was frozen then either the rest of me was frozen or severed and discarded because of lack of funding. But funding to have my head frozen also seems unlikely. Perhaps I fell asleep in a meat-cooler. That could explain the utter darkness. That sort of thing can happen but since I’ve never been in a meat-cooler it shouldn’t happen to me. Someone may have put me in a meat-cooler. I’ve heard stories of worse things. Kids gang raped then left at the side of the road. But not usually in a meat-cooler. In a meat-cooler, I should be dead. Animals in meat coolers are dead. No animal in its right mind would go into a meat-cooler if it weren’t dead.

      Disregarding the meat-cooler theory and just now wondering about my brain, I find it odd, at least I presume it odd, that I can’t deduce my situation. I may have been born blind. Yet this seems unlikely for I wouldn’t wonder about not being able to see. And I can’t imagine that I’ve just been born. Though I can’t sort out what is in my brain, it seems there is too much to have only just starter. I’m sure I wouldn’t understand being blind and meat-coolers would not likely be a notion carried into the realm of the living. Though I can’t remember who I am, I can feel I am too big to have just been born. Thinking about it leads me to question how I could assume that a valid conclusion. I could counter argue whales but then why would a newborn know of whales unless they too were in the meat-cooler. There should be much more excitement for a newborn. It should be a grand event. However, there is only this musky smell.

      Musky smell. That tells me something. What could that something be. Since I sense a smell, I should be able to believe there is something outside my brain. The use of one of my senses should allow for the likeliness of my other senses. Being aware that there should be other senses would suggest these are things I am accustomed to. Of course there is the possibility, though possibly in the realm of the unlikely, if my brain isn’t quite back on track, and I can’t be certain what the track was, I may be imagining the musky smell. If there is nothing for me to perceive, I would likely resort to fantasy for stimulus. But that too would likely require the knowledge of such a thing as smell. Even if I was fully aware, I might rely on fantasy if my situation was not desirable. Such as inevitable disaster. But then again, inevitable disaster would likely put all my senses in high alert for the possibility that the disaster, though apparently inevitable, might somehow be avoided. Maybe I never was aware and only fantasized I was participating in the universe. But this is nonsense. For how would I understand that I am in a universe. It hardly seems something one would imagine in a state of darkness. Even if my universe were imaginary, I would still have to perform the actions required for prolonging survival. Or at least imagine that I was performing them. But I would have to imagine them in such a way that my being participated in the universe.

      I think it is fair to assume that awareness that I am in a situation makes it highly probable that it is so. How and what the universe is may help me philosophically to determine my approach to it, but waking up my senses to it is necessary before approaching the question. So here I am in darkness having determined the idea of musky smell. It’s not very much but it will have to be where I begin to remember how I got to feeling I was missing out on most of my sensing.

      I remember he said something. He may have even been emphatic so that I would not forget what he told me to either do or not do. I can almost hear his voice. What he said was important. If I could remember who it was and see the face, I might remember what I had forgotten. It couldn’t have been too important or you would have remembered it. But that wasn’t it. That’s what someone was likely to repeat without deliberation when I said that I didn’t remember something. To close the door. No. It was more than a door. Doors can be very important at times. Maybe it was not to open the door. It may have been the door. Where was the door.

      It couldn’t have been that important or you would not have forgotten.

      But I can’t remember anything. Not everything can be unimportant. Or maybe that is what it is. My brain has rejected everything but the musky smell because it is the only thing that has any relevance. But it seems unlikely that if nothing in the universe was important that a musky smell would matter. What is the matter in a smell. And why would it matter if nothing mattered. It would still be what it was and I should be able to understand my position in it in relation to something beyond the musky smell.

      The walls. I remember they were thin. It sounded like somebody was in my bathroom most of the time. Nobody ever came out of my bathroom. Not like a black hole kind of problem, more like a leak from another world that only manifested itself as sound. It is possible that I’m in my apartment. That’s often where I am. Often enough that the odds would be better than fifty-fifty. Even the musky smell would support the notion. I am deep in a dream and in the dream everything has shut down but my sense of smell. Perhaps I will soon wake up.

      If I could wake up and open my eyes instead of imagining my eyes are open and I see only darkness, familiar things would remind me where I was. My apartment isn’t a pleasant place to wake to but I would welcome it as a point of reference. I remember it was a chore to find an apartment. The demand outweighs the supply. Simple mathematics reveals it is more profitable to have apartments than a good education. With my good education I ended up working in bars and clubs and restaurants and temporary jobs where education was simply redundant. Like so many other college graduates. I was one of the many who learned it was good luck to give someone large portions of one’s hard earned money to a smiling landlord for the privilege of hiding in a small musky room.

      Though I’m void of a kitchen, I did uncover a little kitchen table buried in dust and cat hair. I cleaned it and was pleased to see it good as new. It wasn’t so good when it was new but it did what a little table was designed to do, hold things away from the floor. I could eat or work at the table.

      Sometimes it is a stupor I resort to when avoiding work. Or looking for work. Or getting started on something I’m working on. If this was the case, it could hamper my recovery. Even recovery may lead to other distractions if the task before me seems too close to impossible. There are always fingernails to be cut. Toenails too. It is often necessary to look out the window in search of temporary salvation from tedium. Sometimes my condition forces me to take it upon myself to satisfy my sexual desires. That can lead to the need of a short nap. When I again awoke, I might start to do what I had set out to do. If I remembered what it was.

      It was important. I should remember.

      Sometimes worrying helps. If I could focus my worry on something, that could lead somewhere. I am close to the point where I could believe there is something important I should be worrying about.

      If I was truly in my apartment, I should be able to discern the sound of the tap dripping. It’s nearing a steady flow from the old faucet in the small kitchenette that almost blocks the way to the small bathroom. The water leaks around the back of the taps as well. It finds its way down to the two burners where it sits and oxidizes the metal. A crusty cockroach lies on its back on a thick blanket of rust.

      The landlady, choosing apartments rather than education, likely doesn’t understand that hot water costs more than washers.

      In the closet size bathroom there is a hole larger than my fist in the shower wall. I’m unaware where the water pools but I can imagine that it’s causing rot. One day, if I can motivate myself to get up from this not being able to move, the whole stinking room will cave in while I’m attempting to waken with a warm shower.

      I can picture the dwelling. Though the inside appears somewhat like an institution funded by the inhabitant’s welfare checks, the outside resembles a grand house from a different time. It was built before the city’s cancer like growth attracted money hungry, space dividing, glassy-eyed landlords. With a large boxy addition quickly doubling the building’s capacity, all the rooms were divided into eighths. Each tenant was to have room for a small bed and just about enough room to open the door. Not really enough room to swing a cat of any size. These are called apartments. They are cells about the same size as a common jail cell. And either I’m in my cell now or I’ve done something stupid and landed in a different cell.

      The landlady knows about the dripping tap and the hole in the wall; we talked about them when I came to inspect my new hell cell. She won’t fix either unless the cell below is flooded. She doesn’t give a dam about anything but the investment turnover. I’m not fooled by her contrived concern and calculated kindness. Snake with dentures.

      I remember I cleaned the bottom part of the window by leaning out backwards on the sill. If there was any light, and there should be some coming through any time of the day, I could look out at the apartment buildings. If I felt lonely, I could imagine a young woman was looking out her window imagining someone exactly like me. By chance our eyes would connect in a magical moment where we both knew, or at least imagined, that we had finally found each other. We would believe we could fly to each other. Out our windows, we would jump. Together we would be. In the hospital. If we weren’t dead.

      Unedited life never appears as spectacular as the movies.

      The church bell chimes every fifteen minutes. If I remember to count the chimes, I won’t need to get a clock. Since I can’t remember if I’m going anywhere, it likely doesn’t matter what time it is.

      I wonder if there is any escape from the thoughts that invade my head. I question the sanctuary of the musky smell. What if, in my forgetfulness, I believe I sense things for the first time and my lack of symbolism for those things keeps me in a state of awesome terror. My fear that I am attempting to subvert is that this musky smell isn’t the same musky smell that my room has. If I could roll over and touch something familiar, or I could see a familiar shape, or the phone would ring, or the intercom to the front door would buzz, or I could hear a car horn blow, or I could identify one sense other than this musky smell, than I could believe I was in my bed.

      I would love to eat something. What a treat it would be to have the other half of the banana. I can’t remember when I ate the first half. It might have gone unrecognized in my state of worry. I was anxious about not having a mattress. The mattress that came with my cell was so full of rot, cat hair, various pubic hair, head hair, moulds and funguses accompanied by a sickening smell like that of vomit in a public washroom, that I chose to put it in the hall for the superintendent to incinerate or put in another room.

      Maybe I can’t move because I have been sleeping on particleboard.

      Even the sound of my neighbor’s dreadful music in some far-eastern tongue would be a welcome sensation. There seems to be nothing beyond my walls. Maybe physical reality, if one can call it that, has undergone a metamorphosis that has made my walls become thicker.

      I remember as a boy standing at a thin green wall. A six-foot wall around Rick’s front yard pool. When we stood on his front porch, we could watch him swim. The four of us would stand there with our bathing suits under our trousers. We leaned on the wood framed, plastic wall to watch Rick swim. Melting in the sweltering heat of the sun, we watched Rick show us his swimming skills. Watch this, he would yell before performing a dive off the board. While we presented ourselves as parched and shriveled as we could muster in the heat, we silently cursed him for being the proud son of parents who could afford a swimming pool. Although he was handsome, fit and talented, it was not our intentions to encourage his ego disorder with our cheers.

      Because the pool had to be nearly in the front yard for lack of space in the backyard, a sliding door was built into the living room for access to the pool. The door was next to where our flaccid bodies limped over the wall. Around the time we mounted in madness, with determination to feed Rick to hungry army ants that would slowly and methodically devour his flesh as he hopelessly screamed in pain with each limb tied to four trees surrounding the ant hill, the door slid open. Out from the opened door emerged an angel of glory and beauty. She beamed at us with a splendid smile. In true surprise, she quarried in her charming Scottish accent, Why don’t you boys go for a swim. We adopted puzzled looks as if to wonder the same thing. We said nothing about her son’s lack of invitation or ants. We smiled at her, then at each other. We eased off the fence before slowly sauntering off the front porch.

      When we were out of sight, we ran around the house like buggers from a crime on our way to an ice-cream truck. When arriving at the gate around the other side of the house, we casually strolled on to the patio saying a few friendly things to Rick’s mother and Rick’s very pretty sister.

      Rick still prattled on as if he hadn’t noticed the sudden political change.

      To add to Jamie’s frustration of waiting to get into the pool that one day, he had forgotten to wear his bathing suit. He hadn’t noticed until he saw he was the subject of our laughter. Although, slightly embarrassed because Rick’s sister was a witness, he managed to redress, fly up the street to his house and return before any hideous circumstance such as a freak sandstorm or meteorite hampered his receiving the too long awaited swim.

      Even the sound of the television blaring banalities across the hall would be a welcome sound. The comfort I get from the musky smell is not enough.

      I refused to have a television because I resent the control television has on our malleable minds. We could seldom get Kenny away from his one way to come play road hockey. He wouldn’t even come to the door so that we could plead. Although we won him seldom, usually he was eager for battles with visiting teams from other streets. On occasions, teams from other streets would march over with warped plastic bladed sticks and ragged goalie equipment to challenge us for the title of superiority.

      It was a different type of hockey when there was competition. It was no longer simply fun and recreation. We had been taught by our heroes that winning was all. Batman would never surrender. Bobby Orr would seldom see the bench. We wanted to be worthy of the Stanley Cup. Each goal was cause for celebration: cheering, dancing, hand slaps and light hitting.

      Our team faired well in street verses street games. We had more real hockey players, more determination and team spirit. Our team had a more vigorous training season as well. Behind Rick’s house was a big field open for any kind of recreation and behind Mike’s house was the woods and three little lakes.

      Not every game ran smoothly. Sometimes there would be arguing and scrapping. Serious fights were unusual but once one stopped the game. We were playing a more talented team than usual thus had to work hard to maintain a lead. It became a serious game.

      We may have fallen behind while Ian played net for the first period. He came out of net for the second period. Even as a boy, Ian was formidable. Most of us were friends with the other team members but this didn’t stop Ian from becoming a raging warrior when he didn’t fancy the way John was abusing his shins with his stick. Instead of the formal string of curse words used in such instances, he opted for erupting into a possessed killer hungry for blood. His victim almost choked on his tongue in fear as he ran wildly around a car to escape Ian’s wrath. We managed to catch and restrain Ian while John’s team quickly vacated.

      Lately, I have been contemplating a more destructive lifestyle. It seems so appealing. I could develop my desire to eat over salted or over sugared, fatty, garbage food, drink cold Russian vodka or warm Scotch, smoke dope and cigarettes continually and leave my room only to get more supplies. Fortunately, I can’t afford such luxuries. I’d like to go out like that one day. Like a sad sorry lonely bugger. Perhaps when I’m much older. I’m too young to encourage my own death. I hope it isn’t this state I’m in now. To have nothing but a few memories in the loneliness of darkness, even with the musky smell, is not a life.

      I have a feeling I did exactly as I was told not to do.

      chapter 02 _ becoming and being

      The church bell still refuses to sound. There is yet nothing but this musky smell. There are many possibilities. Someone may have stolen the bell. At the same time, a power failure disabled the electrical entertainment devices of my neighbors. A sudden oil crisis or awareness that toxins come out of auto exhausts has brought an end to car horns blaring. Permanent, total eclipse of sun and moon by extremely unlikely large cosmic monsters. Ice 9 had been discovered, which would explain why my taps are inaudible. Maybe I am severely drugged and can’t understand the progress of time. Other possibilities I am still reluctant to face.

      Maybe I shouldn’t trouble myself with trying to make up my mind. It seems to be bulking at such strenuous conclusions. Maybe I’ll try bunnies. Black bearded bunnies. Running through an open field disregarding areal attacks by hungry flying creatures. Full orchestra accompaniment. And that doesn’t add up to much.

      I can remember my last employment. My last job was computer assisted, paint by number. Making black and white classic films look like they were meant to be in colour. My college diploma was redundant. Somoza would have laughed. He had already told us he only wants mindless mules. Like most arrogant dictator tyrants. Many persons lost their minds at the colour controls. One fellow flipped his lid and threw monitors on the floor before being released. Someone else had an epileptic seizure because of a flashing monitor and was released. Most employees were docile or angry. I was growing hostile and unbalanced. Something was very wrong in that place.

      Brent and I had found a rusty discarded bike with two flat tires. Though I discouraged it, Brent took it home. With a little effort he made it function. It was stuck in the hardest of three gears and the front tire pulled stubbornly to the right. It was too small and the brakes were bad, and soon after the back brake would break. I took it for riding to work and left my better one safe in my apartment building.

      All these details only serve to add to the ridiculousness of the evening I was standing outside of work finishing a slice of vegetarian pizza I had purchased around the corner. Guy held up a lock and proclaimed that judging from its appearance, it had been cut. I looked at it and confirmed his notion. I then recognized the lock. I looked to where my bike, or Brent’s bike, was, to discover it very much not there. My cable was there but the worst bike in the rack, possibly the city, was gone.

      This time it hardly mattered. When we were kids, one of our adventure lands was the industrial area. One day, Ken and I rode our bikes to the magazine distributor, leaving our bikes leaning against a nearby fence. Dumb. We climbed into the large garbage container to search through the magazines. We collected comics to take home. We collected, but didn’t take home, magazines with pictures of women, the kind with no clothes. Only in our steel sanctuary did we look at our two dimensional girlfriends. At ten or twelve years we were not prepared to deal with the inquisition on masturbation.

      The door to the iron maiden stands open.

      Do you masturbate son.

      What’s that mean.

      Do you play with your bird.

      I don’t have a bird.

      Your penis.

      My penis. Oh, no, not my penis. I only touch my penis when I go pee. And I try not to look at it.

      A sardonic smile and the background sound of a file on metal were the prelude to the revealing of the indisputable evidence. The magazine of ill repute had been hiding behind her back.

      Are you lying to me.

      She baited me into the trap of the worst crime. Not only was I a masturbater but a lying masturbater. I could feel the big pearly gates of hell open under my feet. My soul cried out for help but the God of no sex was too disgusted. Who would help me with my poor penis.

      No. Wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.

      If you are not lying to me, why do you have this filthy book with dirty pictures hiding under the floor boards under you bed.

      Oh, you mean those.

      Tell me. What is this.

      She opened the evidence to the centerfold. Since I would not see the books again, I had one last good look at Miss May.

      Is that what women look like when they have no clothes.

      If they are dirty whores. This is sinful, filthy garbage from the devil. It belittles women. God will forsake you if you play with yourself. You will go blind on your way to hell.

      An eternity singing praises to the Lord God Almighty was taken away from me in exchange for an eternity of burning in a lake of chemical toxic waist from Du Pont.

      So we never took those kinds of dirty books home. Just comics where Conan hacked off heads of many people and monsters. Where high priests made murder sacrifices of vestal virgins that had been kept in windowless prisons their lives long and sodomized regularly by the same high priests that murdered them. Where slaves where kept in chains and tortured. Where war and plunder where the rule.

      We didn’t take our bikes home either. After Ken and I climbed out of the garbage container with our many comics, we returned too late to find our bikes. My bike was my cousin’s bike. When she found out, I learned about painful inquisition.

      Kenny eventually got his bike back. One of the dirty row house kids had it and Kenny’s mom made him give it back. He wouldn’t say where my cousin’s bike had gotten too.

      I click my fingers by my ears to hear them. So I know I would hear sounds if there were any. There is a ringing in my head but that only reminds me that something is normal.

      It feels like it could be Thursday but I don’t know what month or year yet. And this is a clue. It likely has something to do with where I am and how I got there. Which would be here. For no matter where it was that I was, it was the here in the now. That made it clear but failed to shine much light on it.

      chapter 03 _ memories or dreams

      I’m not certain if I’ve been dreaming or remembering or remembering dreams. The difficulty of recollecting myself suggests an extensive scattering of my faculties. This suggests that I have undertaken a somewhat either dangerous or serious endeavor. I can grasp some distant past and a little recent past but I can’t get a handle on anything surrounding my present situation other than a musky smell. I keep hoping I am most likely in my apartment but I can’t really fine much to support this assumption.

      If I had bought a mattress instead of sleeping on a couple of blankets over a sheet of chipboard, maybe my spine would function. But as it is, I’m not sure if I’m in my bed. To know, I could count time until I’m certain night should turn into day. If there continues to be no light or church bells, I will know I’m not at home. Even at Richard’s, I can hear outside sounds. Richard may have been the one that told me not to forget something important. And I may have simply decided against his advice.

      One dream I either just had or just remembered was a childhood dream. The dream involved the few of us remembering the time when several of us were killed by the man and his dogs. Many of our friends were lost this way. For the longest time we accepted that he was the one who killed. The lord of death. There was nothing to do against his despotic mad whims. Our only attempt at resistance was to hide or run away when we sensed danger.

      But one day, when a dog was starting to chew off Jaime’s neck, I happened to have a fire poker in my hand. While the dog hesitated to find a better grip, I had enough time to plunge the fire poker through the canine’s neck. The screams of the dying dog of doom beset a nefarious dread over our environment. The dog finally silenced as it gave its last writhes before death.

      We hid in the corridors, behind walls, and whatever other scenery the dream afforded us. It was futile. When the dog man called us in, there was nothing we could do but to go in. We knew we should have accepted Jamie’s death and we knew what our punishment would be.

      Still our spirits would not quit us. Instead of going in to accept what was expected of us, we went in prepared to do the unexpected. Because the dog man knew there was nothing for us to do but present ourselves humbly at his feet and willingly suffer our death sentence with fortitude, he was not prepared for our action against him. With relentless fury, we killed him and his neck-chewing dogs.

      Though I’m certain that the dogs were a dream, we had other methods for gaining real battle scars. One method we used to increase our chances of blood loss was to chalk out a small oval racetrack on our street. We would tear around as fast as we could peddle. There was no official start or finish line. The undeclared winner would be the one who could wipe out his bicycle the best and earn the best wound.

      Most of us managed to scrape up our bicycles, our elbows and knees but Jamie, although never on his neck, managed to wind up with large scrapes on

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