After a few turns, we came to the large gate that lead across the town’s only golf course. The grass was better there than anywhere else in town, but it only had nine holes. They’d built it in one of the few unused lots out on the East end of town. To get to the field, it was either cut around on the highways, or go directly there over the golf course. Trouble was, my bike was a ten-speed; they’re not very sturdy. Still, I’d worked out a route that used most of the almost-level cart paths.
“Hop down,” I told Randy. I leaned the bike, and he did. I got to the gate, and slowly lifted the lever, flinching with ever screeching scrape of the metal. Randy was watching something far off in the distance, his hands in his pockets.
I handed the bike to Randy, “Hold this,” I said. I pushed the gate open very slowly, too, my shoulders so tensed up they were almost at my ears. I motioned for Randy to bring the bike and closed the gate after him.
“You okay?” I asked, taking the bike back from him. His eyes seemed to focus and he smiled. I got on, and tilted it for him. When we were both back on, I rested my chin on top of his head, again. I could feel his breath vibrate through our bones. With a kick and a shove, we were off.
My feet take me right to that same gate. I’m standing at it, noticing how short it is. I can rest my arms on the tops of the bars. Back then, though, it seemed some enormous black gate into an enemy land. A rusty sign on the gate proclaims :this land for sale or rent” and under that a phone number. I walk over to the bar and pull up the lever quickly. My shoulders start to tense at the screech the metal gives, but I relax them. ‘No one here,’ I tell myself and push the gate open.
Back then, though, we were worried about Derwin Collier. These days, kids call a guy like that a ‘rent-a-cop’. Back then, though, we didn’t know there was a difference. A guy in a uniform was a guy in a uniform. I was afraid every time I crossed over the golf course. Still, that made the crossing the adventure I remember it being.
“Collier?” I remember Randy whisper. I felt his jaw move through his skull.
“Maybe,” I said. The bike bucked and shimmied over the ground. Randy had dug his hands in under my thighs. He had a death grip on my legs. I smiled and, like most kids do when confronted with fear, pedaled faster.
Of course we took a spill. Being dark, the bike being overloaded, me showing off some, it was bound to happen. I remember one moment smiling and thinking how great it was to not be alone, but not have any grown ups around, too. The next minute, I felt my chin hit something squarely. I wanted to bring my head up quick to see where I was, but my neck wouldn’t move.
Back in the present, I crouched down to touch the grass. My finger touched the exact spot my head must’ve hit. I had always thought that maybe there should be a divot , a marker of some kind. There was nothing, though. I stood up, still looking at that spot. Then my eye wandered over to where Randy had fallen.
When I had finally gotten my neck to work, back then, I found that the bike lying on its side, one of the wheels still spinning. Just beyond that, Randy was sitting up. He was holding his head. His face scrunched up, his eyes closed. “Randy?” I said. It felt loud in my head, but he didn’t hear me at first, so it must’ve been a whisper. “Randy?” I said, louder this time, sure I was shouting. He opened his eyes and looked at me.
Then he smiled, and laughed. I moved myself up onto my elbows and watched him for a second, finally succumbing to the laugh, myself. We sat there, giggling at each other for at least five minutes. I stopped laughing first, and stood up. I reached out toward him, and he took my hand. His was warm, sweaty. I pulled him up, and he looked down at his feet, slapping grass off of himself. I could still feel his hand on mine. I have no idea why, even now, but while he wasn’t looking, I smelled my hand. It was like iron, and something else.
I picked the bike up, and made sure it was still working. He was looking off at something. “What?” I asked.
“Those trees,” he said, pointing. The trees sprang up along the edge of the golf course that butted up against the edge of the interstate. I told him as much, and he said “I’ve never been outside of town.”
I got on the bike, and tilted it for him to kick his leg over. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“It’s a surprise,” I’d said, and kicked the bike into motion.
My mind was wandering back and forth from those times to the now. My shoes crunching over the dead grass was competing with the sound of those tires whispering over the soft, wet grass of then. I can still hear him breathing, his back against me. I can remember feeling his shoulder blades against the edges of my chest.
We cleared the other end of the golf course, and the tires went silent again. The blacktop stretched out before us. I pedaled faster, and he relaxed.
After a time, we came to the field. The first time he saw the little plastic domes, all lit up on the inside, he gasped. I slowed the bike down gradually. When I stopped, he climbed off slowly. I did, as well, and walked the bike off into the ditch. I laid it down so that passing cars couldn’t see it; he stared at the domes from the ditch the whole time. We walked out onto the dirt together.
“I’ve been coming here a year or so, now,” I said. He nodded.
We got to the nearest dome, and I opened it. We stepped inside. I turned around to close the door behind us, and when I returned, he was already sitting Indian-style near the speakers. His eyes were closed. I sat down next to him. I don’t know how long we were there, just quiet, just being. After a long time, I felt like I should look at my watch. When I started to, though, he said “Don’t.”
“We might need to get going—,” I started.
“No,” he said.
I un-tensed my shoulders, and let my arm go back into my lap. He inhaled, then exhaled in one strong breath.
“What were you doing out tonight?” I asked.
He opened his eyes, and without looking at me said “Mom sometimes goes a little crazy. I have to get out when she gets like that.”
I’d seen a movie about a woman who went crazy. She’d started running around and yelling and breaking things. I tried to imagine Randy’s mom doing that, but couldn’t. “What—what does she do?” I asked.
“She just cries and cries,” he said, looking down at his own knees, “she won’t stop crying.”
“Oh,” I said. For some reason, I could picture that very clearly. “What—umm—what does she cry about?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “she just keeps saying ‘I’m sorry’ over and over again.” I could hear his voice quiver a little. I could tell something awful was about to happen, but I didn’t know what. I felt like I had to do something to stop it.
“Randall,” I said, grinning.
“Shut up,” he said, still not looking.
“Ran-dall,” I said, singing-songy.
“You promised,” he said. When he swung his face around to look at me, I felt like I’d been punched. He’d already been crying. His eyes were huge and puffy. There were little wet streaks running from his eyes to his jaw.
I reached out before I could stop myself, and put my hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry,” I said. He looked down and his whole body shook. He was already crying. He was already crying, I kept thinking. I was stunned by what was happening; I’d never seen any other boys cry, ever. I mean, little kids, yeah, but not big kids like us. I thought I was the only one who still did.
Then he moved over toward me, and put his head on my shoulder. I didn’t know what to do, but before I could decide, my arms went around him. He was so small. His face was turned away from mine, and his hair smelled like sweat. I didn’t mind, though. I didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t mind. Then he started to quiet down some, and I started to think about what I’d say to him when he sat up. I didn’t know that, either. That made my stomach tight. What would I say? What would I do?