the
BAD GUYS
ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN DETTMAN
Night Sessions
by Simon Crum
It all happened so fast, you know, like it does sometimes.
All he could do was watch it happen. Next thing be knew he was
running through the moonless night with nothing but the hard clay
slapping under his Converse to tell him he was still on the country road.
His right hand gripped his board tighter. He was fighting to stay sane, to
stay rational, but his mind played the scene over and over again, each
time telling him the same thing: it was all his fault.
Somewhere in the darkness ahead, across the railroad tracks lay the
farm. Somewhere in the darkness behind, beside the nine-foot halfpipe
known as swamp ramp, lay his brother bleeding and unmoving. Under his
breath he muttered, "Dammit, it was all my idea."
He tripped, stubbing his toe in a tire rut, swearing as he stumbled, but
saving himself with his free hand, and still running, all the time running.
Night sessions at the swamp ramp. His idea. "How're we gonna see, huh?"
A good question. An innocent question.
Between breaths, with his legs pumping a constant rhythm. Jake shouted his
brother's words into the empty night, "How're we gonna see!"
Battery hooked to the headlight scavenged from Gramp's 75 Impala. His idea.
God, he was smart. Carl thought so. "I never knew you could do that!" But it
wasn't perfect; part of the ramp was still in shadow.
"So don't skate there." Smile. Rail sliding from the light into the dark. His idea.
Shadow invert. His idea. Aerial. No. No way. That was all Carl.
But wasn't it a natural progression of what he had begun
If it weren't for his original idea to night session, they'd both be asleep in their beds
Carl looked bad too. Christ, when he saw the blood coming from his ear....
Jake picked up the pace, ignoring the loose stones that painfully gouged his soles.
Where the hell was the damned farm?
It seemed to float out of the darkness ahead of him. He might have missed it completely
if it weren't for the dim blue light coming from an upstairs window. Probably young Elise
McChesney's night light. No other lights on, but then it had to be around two in the
morning, so what did he expect. He sprinted across the garden, through the flower bed, and
jumped the steps onto the front porch. He thumbed the doorbell and waited.
Bending over, leaning on his deck, breathing slower now, waiting,
He held the doorbell down. C'mon, c'mon, wake up already.
He released and stepped down from the porch. No lights were turning on. He listened. Quiet
night. Not even the crickets chirping. And no sound of movement from the house. Great, now
what the hell was he supposed to do?
Then he heard it. A soft swishing noise coming from behind him Jake looked over his left
shoulder and could barely make out a man threshing crops in the McChesney's field. "Hey, hey!"
The man kept working. Was he deaf or something!
Jake ran madly through the wheat toward him He was taller than Mr. McChesney. Thinner too.
Probably some farm hand. "Hey, mister!"
The man stopped as Jake reached him. He stood his scythe on end and held it there with a thin arm
covered by a tattered sleeve. "My brother's had an accident. He's hurt real bad and needs help."
The man didn't answer. His worn face looked puzzled, as if he hadn't understood a word. Maybe he
didn't speak English. German perhaps. He didn't look Amish, but a lot of them lived close by. The man
stared down with piercing black eyes. Jake stared back. There was something familiar about him.
Suddenly he spoke, his voice clear and sharp in the cool night air.
"Why do ya do it, boy"
Now Jake was confused. "Do what? Please, sir, let me in the house, I just want to use the phone.