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The Hero Experience - Chapter 16

 
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 23, 2015 11:32 pm    Post subject: The Hero Experience - Chapter 16 Reply with quote


___________________________________________

Chapter 16

I didn’t call Ann for several days because I didn’t want to act overly eager. When I did call her on Wednesday, she was very friendly and very affectionate . . . and very busy the coming weekend. She made it plain that she wanted me to ask her out again, but she wouldn’t commit herself to a date two weeks in advance. Her father wouldn’t let her date on weeknights, so I consoled myself by spending long periods of time on the phone with her both Wednesday and Thursday night. Finally my father hinted that (a) maybe I was acting overly eager after all, and (b) maybe I should let someone else in the house use our phone.

The second hint was more in the nature of an order, but instead of telling Dad that Ann would be busy Friday and Saturday nights anyway, I just let him think I could take a hint. When I called Ann after her busy weekend we made a date for the next Saturday night, and I got an early start on my nervous dread.

But when the big night finally arrived I found myself much less jittery than I had expected. Ann had a way of making me feel more confident about myself, even though I still felt compelled to seek her approval. During dinner at Shoney's we talked constantly and I came to realize that behind all Ann’s controlled manner was an enthusiasm for life that fascinated me. Her eyes would hold a dancing fire whenever I hit on some subject she really cared about. We talked about the movies we loved and the books we enjoyed and the plans we had for our futures.

After dinner we left with two couples who were headed for the Starlight Twin Drive-in on Moreland Avenue to watch Clambake with Elvis Presley and It's a Bikini World with Deborah Walley and Tommy Kirk. They weren't the movies we would have chosen on our own, but it was fun being part of the group. Each couple went in their own car, for obvious reasons, and I wondered just what might happen in my big old Dodge Polaris with Ann, all alone in the dark — except for several hundred people who surrounded us.




What happened was that we had a swinging time watching Elvis romance Shelley Fabares while he sang ten rock 'n roll songs with a full musical accompaniment from a band that was sometimes nowhere in sight.

Near the end of the evening Ann dropped the bomb. She and her family were going on a three-week vacation to Florida. They wouldn’t be back until the first week in August. I was pretty depressed by this news, and Ann must have been flattered by it, because she put a little extra effort into her goodnight kiss. After that kiss, the fillings in my teeth were warm. But before I’d gotten home I was convinced she would feel differently when she returned from her vacation.

During July my friends and I had several discussions about the Bowmen and whether to risk doing it again after our last notorious appearance. Finally we decided to try it again . . . but cautiously. We agreed to avoid the seedier side of the downtown area and keep the Jeep hidden as much as possible when the Bowmen went into action.

The rest of July went by at a snail’s pace, and August arrived with no apology for its slowness. During this time, the Bowmen had some good luck and some bad luck.

First, the bad luck. During the last half of July we devoted five separate evenings to monitoring the police band radio without once being able to go into action. Admittedly we were being very cautious. We spent most of each evening parked in some suitable hiding place, and we were reluctant to budge unless the situation described on the radio sounded just right. Since the situations never sounded just right, we never budged.

Second, the good luck. Because of the nicks, dents, and scratches we had added to the somewhat faded Jeep while sitting in all those parking lots while careless people swung their doors open without regard for the vehicle next to them (not to mention the scratches from the trashcans behind the Wyndham Hotel) Carl’s father insisted that his son pay part of the cost of some body work and a new paint job for the Jeep.

The four of us surprised Mr. Ladinsky by volunteering to do all the yard work around the Ladinsky home for the rest of the summer in exchange for our contribution to the cost of a complete makeover and a spanking new paint job. And we would get to pick the color.

Naturally the color we picked for the new, improved Jeep was . . . dark blue. Big surprise.

The prospect of us doing all the lawn cutting, hedge clipping, edge trimming, leaf racking, pine straw replacement, and fertilizer distribution from then until school started in September was a dream come true for Mr. Ladinsky. He absolutely hated yard work. He was an airline pilot — a man born to dwell in the wild blue yonder. Grubbing around in the yard for hours each week was like forcing a NASCAR driver to walk to work. Mr. Ladinsky gave us all a stern lecture about keeping our word. We all nodded so hard our chins left bruises on our upper chests.

So, our trusty Jeep got a new lease on life and became color-coordinated with our superhero outfits. Mr. Ladinsky brought the Jeep Wagoneer home from the body shop and parked it in the driveway late on a Friday afternoon, the last weekend in July. With a glossy new finish and all the dents knocked out, the old girl looked downright regal. The four of us just smiled and walked ‘round and ‘round it, making soft chuckling sounds as we admired it like a group of college freshmen who all had a crush on the same gorgeous cheerleader.

Stan was the first to whisper the words we were all thinking: the Bowmobile. Everybody’s chuckles turned into big, stupid grins.



This event inspired a few additions to our weaponry and a change in our uniforms. We fashioned billy clubs by cutting up the handles of two old brooms. Each club was eighteen inches long. We found some old engine hoses, black in color, in my father’s basement workshop, and we cut them into twelve-inch sections. The broom-handle clubs were inserted into the sections of the hoses, creating a rubber-padded club that we hoped we’d never have to hit anybody with. But if we ever got into a situation like the one in the ally behind Dailey’s Music again, we’d be ready for it.

Carl came up with the idea of using leather hammer loops from the hardware store as “holsters” for the clubs. I went to the bike repair shop in Union Point and bought four black handlebar grips. They had wide round “guards” that prevented the hands of the rider from slipping from the grip onto the metal handlebar. When we pushed the pliable handlebar grips onto the section of the broomsticks intended as handles for the billy clubs, they made the clubs much more comfortable to hold. And the wide hand guards prevented the clubs from dropping straight through the hammer loops and landing on our feet, which would have been very embarrassing.



Even though the clubs were constructed of common materials, the fact that they were black and lethal-looking made us proud of what we’d created. A do-it-yourself crime fighter’s kit. Get ‘em while they’re hot, folks!

Stan went to a sporting goods store and bought a leather quiver that looked like something Sitting Bull would have worn proudly to the Battle of Little Big Horn. It was made of soft light-brown leather and it had zippered pockets for replacement archery parts like metal arrow tips and plastic arrow notches. It was gorgeous, and we decided the quiver had been designed for archery enthusiasts rather than hunters. Stan was proud as a peacock of his acquisition.



He had filled the quiver with a disturbing collection of arrows that had various types of firecrackers attached with electrical tape. These weren’t the little firecrackers in long strings used to make an annoying racket on the 4th of July. Stan had purchased twelve M-80s, six smoke bombs, three stink bombs, and (of all things) one of those firecrackers that whistled before it exploded.



We threatened to change his official code name from Cowboy to Bomber. He threatened to light up the stink bombs if we did.

Meanwhile, Doug finally chose a code name. He opted for Duke on the basis that if we made a mistake and called him Doug, it might not be noticed. The idea made good sense, so we all approved of the idea. Even Stan.

Carl told us he wanted his code name to be Wheelman, which sounded pretty good, and it was certainly appropriate. However, Doug had an alternate suggestion. He preferred a simpler version — Wheels. Stan disagreed (naturally). He argued for Carl’s original choice, Wheelman.

Carl said either one was fine with him. (Blessed are the peacemakers.) Stan asked me to settle the dispute because I was the leader of the group. (Aw, shucks.) I choose Wheels because I figured Stan would get over being mad at me quicker than Doug would.

The last embellishment we added to our Bowmen look was to change the dark blue t shirts (which had already started to fade from repeated washings) to snappy V-neck long-sleeved shirts — even though Stan insisted they would make us all hot and sweaty on those humid summer nights while we were sitting around in the Jeep, listening to the police band radio. Maybe he was right, but oh my God, did we look good in those deep blue pullover shirts with the V-neck collars and the long sleeves!



We all went out and bought new jeans to go with the shirts. Those tough looking billy clubs hanging from our belts were the crowning touch to our bad-ass new look. We were in love with ourselves and not ashamed to tell the world about it — except that we'd get arrested if we did.

In short, we got cocky. Very, very cocky.

We now had a new look to our vehicle, a new arsenal of weapons, a complete set of snazzy code names, and a stylish crime-fighting wardrobe that made us look like we knew what we were doing.

And yet in spite of all this, the Bowmen remained unemployed. It was very discouraging.

On the other hand, my exercise program was bearing fruit. I could actually tell a difference in my physique. Jogging no longer brought me near death. Fifteen push-ups didn’t leave my arms limp for the rest of the day. My new V-neck shirt felt tighter than it had when I first bought it, two weeks earlier. Okay, sure, it had been washed once since then, but I was certain the change wasn’t entirely due to the shrinkage of the cotton.

Stan was inspired by my bodybuilding efforts and began an exercise routine of his own. Carl and Doug, who exercised regularly, gave us advice on the subject.

We also spent some time practicing with our bows and playing with Stan’s trick arrows. We drove a mile down a dirt road to get away from prying eyes, and then we practiced in an open grassy area. Stan had attached a butane cigarette lighter to his bow with electrical tape so he could light the explosive arrows when he drew them back to shoot.

A flick of his Bic and he could blow up your car!

He shot one of his M-80 arrows into the trunk of an old oak tree and blasted away a section of the bark one foot wide. The birds on the branches of that poor oak took off and headed straight for Capistrano to hide among the swallows until they felt safe to return to the area.

The power Stan wielded with those arrows was a little scary. Silently we all wondered what would happen if this power ever fell into the wrong hands. We told Stan that if the villains were about to captured him, we’d have to set him on fire to prevent his arsenal of super-weapons from being used for evil purposes. Stan promised that if we ever tried that, he’d join the bad guys and nuke us all, right on the evening news.

Like I said, the power he wielded was a little scary. But overall, we were extremely impressed with ourselves.

We were armed.

We were fit.

And despite the run of bad luck, we kept trying.
____________________________________________

“This is a beautiful peace of land,” said Carl. We were wading through knee-deep grass which was lush and green and populated by occasional piles of cow manure that commanded the attention of intruders like ourselves if they didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good pair of shoes with one misplaced step.

\

“Yeah, it’s nice, but who owns it?” said Stan as we made our way toward a distant wall of trees that bordered the pasture's eastern perimeter.

“I don’t know,” I replied, unconcerned by either the question or the answer. I was smiling happily as I strode along in front of my three friends. “I’ve been coming out here periodically during the summer for about two years, just wandering around and playing Tarzan. I’ve never seen a single person in all that time.”

“Nobody at all?” said Doug. “Ever?”

“Just the cows.” I pointed to the far southern region of the broad sea of grass, off to our right. A fence enclosed a section of the pasture that separated us from the grazing bovines. “Sometimes the cows are over here, and sometimes they’re over there.”

“That part I already figured out,” said Stan, watching the placement of his feet carefully. “Remember to watch your step, guys,” he cautioned. Everybody started watching their step.

“Is that a creek over there?” said Carl, pointing to our left at a line of trees and bushes that flanked the northern boundary of the field, indicating the life-giving presence of water amid the broad strip of lush foliage.

“Right. There’s one spot where you can get across by stepping on the rocks. It’s, ummm . . . back that way, I think.”

We were several miles from my house, surrounded by miles of undeveloped woodland. We had reached this remote spot by way of a brand new road called Camp Creek Parkway that had been built to connect the freeway with several outlying towns near Atlanta. The road wound through miles of wooded areas without a single side street or gas station. It was like having a direct route to the boondocks. Eventually the road would be lined with apartments and shopping malls and office complexes. But that was years away.

We were carrying our bows, our sack lunches, and a large cardboard box to be used as a target. I stopped and made a slow 360-degree turn, surveying this pastoral paradise. My friends were turning their heads back and forth, and I could see that they were impressed. I drew a deep breath of the fresh country air and used it to make my pitch.

“This is the perfect place for us to come and do stuff like work out and practice with the bows. I could almost enjoy jogging in a place like this.” I waved my arm in a sweeping gesture that took in the entire panorama. I felt like Ben Cartwright showing Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe the Ponderosa as he promised them that some day all this would belong to them.

Stan was nodding as he looked around. “The official headquarters of the Bowmen. The Cow Pasture of Solitude!”

Carl laid his bow in the grass and started putting on his archery glove. “Shall we do some shootin’, men?”

“Let’s have lunch first,” I suggested.

Doug chuckled. “Your appetite is improving, Jones. Must be the exercises.” He looked around at the tall grass that surrounded us. “I second the motion to have lunch. But I don’t want to sit in this grass.”

I pointed to a group of huge boulders that some passing glacier had left at the edge of the field, just under the trees that walled the eastern boundary of the pasture. The woods behind the rocks looked cool and dark. When the sunny day got too hot, we could move our archery range back in there.

By the time we reached the rocks, I had gained a fresh appreciation for the size of the field. One good lap around that field would leave a marathon runner lame and heartbroken. No wonder I had never seen the owner of the land. He was probably lost out here somewhere in the tall grass!

We each selected a boulder on which to perch while we enjoyed baloney sandwiches and potato chips as we surveyed our domain in silence. It was a flat, green grassy plain, bordered on the left (now that we were facing west) by the fenced section currently holding the bovine groundskeepers, with trees well beyond that. To our right was the not-so-distant line of trees that flanked the creek. And straight ahead of us was Welcome All Road, the only rural road which joined with Camp Creek Park at the very end of this strange highway through the wilderness which hadn't yet reached the small towns it was intended to serve.

The Jeep Wagoneer was a dark blue dot with a glint of chrome, parked a half mile away on the shoulder of Welcome All Road, just outside the fence that kept the cows from running wild and stampeding across the countryside.

The Bowmobile. A work of art on wheels.

We had agreed earlier that we should get into the habit of using our code names so we wouldn’t screw up when the time came to use them in public. It felt silly at first, calling each other Captain and Cowboy and Duke and Wheels — and yet, after a while we starting getting used to it.

But we knew we couldn't do it too much or we'd accidentally use the code names in front of our friends or families, which would be just as bad as using our real names in front of people when we were the Bowmen!

After lunch we practiced our marksmanship with the bows while we waited for the food to settle. We fired our sluggers at a cardboard box we'd brought until it began to come apart at the seams. Then we started exercising: sit-ups, push-ups, and deep knee bends. I refused to say how many push-ups I could do, but the number was higher than it was two weeks ago. My arms didn’t ache when I finished.

We jogged all the way around the pasture and lived to tell about it. Afterward, we all lay flat on our backs in the grass and stared up at the blue sky while we prayed that our lungs wouldn’t collapse.

The Bowmen. We’re looking for a few good men.
____________________________________________

By the time we reached the drugstore, we were already late for dinner. Carl, Doug, and Stan were huddled at the door of the phone booth as I fed a shiny new dime into the slot and dialed Matt Daniels at the newspaper.

“City desk, Daniels.”

“Hello, Mr. Daniels. This is the captain of the Bowmen. How are you this evening?”

“Cap! Hello, pal. It’s been quite a while since your last call. Everybody figures you guys retired. Isn’t it a bit early in the day for crime fighting? You fellas aren’t running around in broad daylight after that last fiasco, are you?”

“Uh, no. We’re not. And please don’t call me Cap.”

He paused and changed to an apologetic tone. “Oh, right. Sorry. So, what have you got for me today?” In spite of the negative comments in his last article about us, he sounded anxious to hear another thrill-packed episode in the lives of the Bowmen.

“I just called to chat, Mr. Daniels. If you get the chance to mention us in the paper, just say that we’re proud of the police for doing such a good job.”

“Right. I’ll do that. Hey, why don’t you just call me Matt?”

I wasn’t comfortable with the idea because I'd been raised to respect adults, but I went along with it. “Okay, Matt. Thanks.”

“So, uh . . . are you guys going on patrol tonight?”

I took a deep breath and told a huge lie. “We patrol almost every night, Matt. It’s our job.” I had to cover the mouthpiece while the guys at the door of the booth strangled on their silly giggles.

Daniels didn’t say anything for several seconds, and when he finally spoke, his voice sounded different. “Can I ask you something, Captain?”

“Of course. What is it?”

He paused again, and I started feeling nervous. Finally, he hit me with the question I hadn’t expected. “How old are you?”

The guys were giving me worried looks because they saw how pale my face was. After a moment, I managed to say, “Why do ask?”

“I’ll be honest with you. I think you guys are just teenagers.” Then he added quickly, “That’s not meant as an insult, Captain. You’ve been in some bad situations, and you’ve handled yourselves pretty well. A lot of people have been impressed.“ That made me feel good — but then his tone changed again. “But if you keep up this charade much longer, you're going to get hurt.”

It hit me squarely between the eyes. He was acting like an adult talking to a teenager — and the fact that he was dead on target simply stirred up all the defensive energy a teenager feels when faced with situations like this. My reaction bore little resemblance to the cold logic of Mr. Spock. It was more like the angry reaction of an insulted Klingon. After a long moment of confused silence, I spoke in a quiet voice.

“I see. Okay. Just out of curiosity, Matt, what do the police think about us?”

I heard him chuckle softly. “Well now, that’s an interesting question. I guess there are three schools of thought on that subject. Some of the policemen think you’re just teenager boys playing around. Others think you’re genuine fanatics. And a few of them think you should be shot on sight.”

That was not a happy thought. I swallowed hard before I answered. “No kidding?”

“No kidding,” he said quietly. I had a strong feeling he wanted me to promise that the Bowmen would cease to exist, never to be heard from again. With that in mind, I said, “Do you want me stop calling you?”

He laughed for a moment. “No, I don’t want you to stop calling. You guys are creating interesting new stories, and I’m the man who should write them. People don’t know what to make of you four. Some folks think you’re crazy, other folks think you’re heroes, but they all want to read about you guys.”

By God, that did it. I took a deep breath and said, “Well, Matt, tell them we’re not crazy. Tell them we’re just bold, daring, and courageous. Tell them we’re waging our own little war against evil and injustice and mediocrity. Not necessarily in that order.”

Daniels gave a hearty, full-throated laugh. Apparently, I hadn’t reacted to his criticism the way he expected. Instead of getting mad and hanging up, I had boldly stated the Bowmen’s dedication to their cause.

“Okay, Captain. I’ll tell 'em.” I heard him take a deep breath and then say, “Just be careful out there. Okay?”

“We sure will, Matt. Thanks for your concern.” I felt bold and confident because of the way the conversation had turned out. “Hold the front page headline for us, Matt. We’re going out on patrol, and I think it’s going to be an interesting evening.” I hung up the phone before he could answer and spoil my jubilant mood.

I had to wait for my excited friends to stop asking questions before I could provide any answers. After giving them the gist of the conversation, they agreed that honor demanded that the Bowmen make an appearance.

We would ride at dusk!

Right after dinner.

If Carl could get the Jeep.
____________________________________________

“Linda asked about you the other day,” said Carl. I reached up to dash andturned the police band radio down.

“What did she say?”

“She just asked how you were and if you were dating anybody special.”

“What did you tell her?”

Carl didn’t speak for a maddening five seconds, then he replied. “I told her you were pining away for Ann Dixon. When does your Juliet get back from Florida?”

“Next week.” I stared out the side window for a moment. The world was full of people, but none of them were the one I was looking for. In a low voice, I said, “Have Linda and Andy gotten back together?”

“They’re dating. But they aren’t going steady.”

I voiced my displeasure with a sound composed largely of one vowel. “Aaaaw!” Then I added, “Andy is a jerk.”

We were driving along Stewart Avenue about six miles from downtown Atlanta, much farther from the metropolitan area than usual. Therefore we were less worried about being spotted by the police. Besides, the new paint job gave us a foolproof camouflage.

Hopefully.

This part of Stewart Avenue was crowded with trailer parks, car dealerships, fast food restaurants, and country-western bars. It was nobody’s idea of a high-rent district. We even saw a porno shop whose windows were painted over with signs that made claims like “Hot Action Inside!” A big sign on the roof said, “Books and Magazines! XXX!”

It was 10:30 and we still hadn’t been able to make an appearance as the Bowmen. After so many frustrating weeks of failure, the guys were getting discouraged, and I suspected that in spite of all the improvements we’d made in our appearance and armament, they were secretly beginning to think about giving up the Bowmen idea and spending the rest of the summer doing conventional things — like dating girls.

Not me. Women made me nervous.

They gave me delusions of grandeur and feelings of inadequacy — both at the same time. It was like those old movies that showed pirates being stretched on the rack and turned into human rubber bands — except that it was my emotions that were going north and south at the same time. Having my body stretched on a rack would have been preferable. Heck, I had always wished I was taller anyway!

I suspected that receiving a stern lecture from my father while he had to look up at me would be very different from my previous experiences.

No sir, I wasn’t eager to give up being part of the Bowmen and start acting like a normal teenager. I wanted to stick with this relaxing hobby of facing ruthless criminals in hair-raising situations, risking death to bring the scum of society to justice!

The police band radio squatted on the dashboard, it’s tinny metallic voice murmuring about security checks and traffic violations. It was an uneventful, routine night — again. Where were all the lawbreakers when you needed them? I turned the volume up a little.

Dispatch to Unit 50.

Go ahead.

Proceed to the Dixie Spirit Bar on Stewart Avenue on a 10-67 and a possible 10-101. Consider this a code 11-60. Over.

Unit 50, copy.

With fumbling hands I grabbed the flashlight and aimed it at the wrinkled pages of police codes in my lap. I remembered what two of the codes meant, and I frantically searched for the third one — code 11-60. I discover that it meant “attack in a high hazard area.” The other two meant, respectively, “person calling for help” and “civil disturbance.”

Well, well now. That certainly sounded like opportunity knocking.

I tried not to sound too excited when I said casually, “I wonder how far away Unit 50 is.”

“I think the Dixie Spirit Bar is just over the hill,” said Carl. “Let’s drive through the parking lot and see what’s going on.”

I was afraid to act too eager, so I waited for somebody else to second the motion. Stan showed that he was both awake and still interested in being a masked crime fighter by saying, “Yeah, well . . . why not? We’re desperate.”

I didn’t hear anything from Doug one way or the other, but since he didn’t vote no, I figured silence was golden.

Carl accelerated, and the rest of us started looking around for Unit 50. We pulled into the parking lot of the Dixie Spirit Bar, and Carl threaded the Jeep though the maze of parked cars. Absently, I put my mask on. A tiny little voice in my head told me I was far too anxious to let the world see me in my spiffy new uniform. But I told the voice to hush and let me have this brief moment of questionable glory before the four of us had to go back home and wonder why we hadn’t spent the evening with someone who might have kissed us goodnight and given us dreams that caused sweaty sheets and the firm conviction that one day we’d look back on the memory of our virginity with nostalgic affection.

When I looked back at Doug and Stan, they were making no effort to put on their masks.

“Come on, guys! Think positive. Be prepared!”

Doug opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted when Carl exclaimed, “Hey! Look at that!”



Ahead of us, among the parked cars behind the building, three figures struggled in the dim light. A big, burly man had his left hand wrapped around the slender arm of a young woman as he raised his right hand and slapped her forcefully. Another man stood close by, acting like girl-beating was an entertaining spectator sport.

I started giving orders like an Army drill sergeant. “Come on, Doug! Cover us with a bow, Stan!”

Carl swung the trio into the headlights. We squealed to a halt a dozen feet from the combatants behind the building. I leaped from the Jeep and stepped out well in front of the headlights so the men could see me pulling out my billy club. The two attackers let the sobbing young woman sag to the ground as they turned to face me. Doug stepped up next to me, fumbling his billy club out of its holder. I held my club out in plain sight, hoping to discourage resistance.

Behind me, I heard Stan yank open the tailgate to get his bow.

The short muscular man of the two studied Doug and me with a growing smile. “Well, well. Just what do we have here?”

He was obviously as drunk as a man could be, short of passing out altogether. He chuckled and gently backhanded his tall partner in the gut as he said, “Look, Virgil. They're muggers. We're being robbed.” He flashed a toothy grin as he smoothed back a greasy lock of his slicked-down hair.

Virgil was also vastly amused by the sight of us. Obviously we were not striking fear into the hearts of these evildoers. Both men started strolling toward us, their hands hanging by their sides, their body language speaking volumes about how unimpressed they were with the big bad Bowmen.

I decided to try a little diplomacy. “I think the best thing you could do, sir, would be to wait here until the police — ”

Suddenly the two of them were rushing at us with alarming speed. The tall one named Virgil charged at me. I had just enough time to jump straight backward and watch a very sincere right uppercut miss my chin and tag the tip of my nose. At the same instant I swung hard with the billy club and caught him on the left elbow. He hissed with pain and drew his left arm against his chest. I followed the blow immediately with another one that caught him on the point of his left shoulder. It must have stunned a nerve, because his arm dropped down and dangled limply at his side.

I was still backpedaling, and I ran into the grill of the Jeep at the left headlight. Virgil stepped in close and planted his right fist into my stomach so hard I doubled forward convulsively. My chin landed on his shoulder as he stumbled against me — just as Stan’s slugger caught him squarely on the forehead. I felt his head snap back, and then the two of us just stood there, leaning against each other like clumsy dancers.

While I was still gasping for breath, I saw Doug take a double-handed grip on his billy club as he and the other man circled each other. Doug tried a few practice swings like a batter warming up, holding the man off. Finally his opponent attempted to step in fast and throw a punch at Doug. That was just what Doug was waiting for. He stepped back quickly and batted the man’s fist back at him like a baseball. The man screamed with pain and tried to catch the club with his uninjured hand when Doug swung again. Doug surprised his opponent by bashing the man in the mouth with his left fist while the man was watching the club in Doug’s right hand. When the man reflexively threw one arm across his face, Doug popped him in the ribs with the club.

That did it. The greasy-haired drunk went ape and charged Doug with both arms wrapped around his head. Doug backpedaled into the side of a parked car while he laid down a barrage of blows that bounced audibly off the man’s elbows and forearms — tock, tock, chunk! The man plowed into Doug and kept him pinned against the car while he tried to grab Doug’s wrists.

I brought my knee up hard into the groin of good old Virgil, my groggy dance partner, and felt his body lurch upward one tiny inch while he made a soft, high-pitched noise that made me feel guilty for what I had just done.


He slid limply to his knees, and I pushed him away from me. He rolled back onto the asphalt and curled up into a fetal position. I staggered over to where Doug was struggling with his opponent, waving Stan back as he moved to assist Doug. I popped the man squarely on the back of his Elvis hairdo. Doug wrenched his arms free of the man’s grip, shoved him back two feet, and then hammered down smartly on the man’s head. Old Grease Head’s legs buckled and he sat down hard on the asphalt.

Doug stepped around him as Stan came up. He remembered to use Doug's code name when he spoke.

“I couldn’t shoot without hitting you, Duke.”

I put my hand on Stan’s shoulder. “You did just fine, Cowboy.”

“Is everybody okay?” said Carl. He was standing by the open driver-side door of the Jeep, holding his bow with a slugger loaded and ready if any assistance was needed.

“We’re okay,” I said, rubbing my stomach and checking for any permanent dents there.

Stan had walked over to the young woman, who was still sitting on the pavement and sobbing softly. She watched us approach with eyes made large by fear and confusion. Blood oozed from both her nose and the corner of her mouth. Her left eye was beginning to darken and swell.

I tried to reassure her with a charming hero’s smile as I squatted next to her and spoke softly. “It’s okay, ma’am. We won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

She gazed at me with soft and tender eyes that pleaded for sympathy. “Thank you,” she said in a barely audible voice. “They tried to pick me up in the bar, but I wasn’t interested. When I left, they followed me out here and tried to get me into their truck. They got mad when I refused.”

She was attractive, in spite of the damaged and bloodied face. She had gorgeous blue eyes and reddish-brown hair that hung to her shoulders. Her skin was a glorious mixture of fair skin and freckles, which made it easy to picture her wearing a bikini on a beach — and she certainly had the figure for it. She wore a short, thin, summer dress with a flower pattern and a ruffle around the low-cut neck. She wore a pair of beige high heeled sandals suitable for the swim suit competition of a Miss America Pageant.

“Can you make it home on your own, Miss?”

“I think so.” She started getting up, and I helped her stand.

“The police are coming, and I think you should file charges against these guys.”

She nodded and started looking around for her purse. Stan saw it under the car and picked it up for her. She dug around inside it until she found a small pack of tissues. She went to work on her bloody face, being careful not to rub too hard on the bruised and cut areas. She glanced at me while doing so and saw my mixed expression of anger and sympathy: anger at the human trash who had done this to her, and sympathy for her pain and the damage to such a lovely face.

I had to resist the urge to take out my billy club and put a few knots on the heads of good old Elvis and Virgil.

As the young woman finished her clean-up, she smiled at me and said, "Well, do I look any better?"

"Oh yes. In fact, you look terrific."

Her smile broadened and she winked at me.

I turned and called out to Carl, remembering to use his code name. “Hey, Wheels! Take the Jeep around to the right side of the building and wait for us. We’ll stay with the lady until we see the police car pulling into the parking lot entrance. Then we’ll get to you as quick as we can.”

“Right.” Carl dashed to the rear of Jeep and put his bow inside. Stan picked up the slugger he'd bounced off Virgil's head, then he hurried over and put his own bow inside the Jeep. He closed the hatch and the rear window just as Carl jumped behind the wheel. He gunned the engine and drove to the right corner of the building, made a sharp turn, and disappeared as he drove along the side of the Dixie Spirit Bar to wait for us. Stan came back to where Doug and I stood by the young woman. Just as he got there, a loud voice called out.

“What the hell is going on out here?”

We all turned to see a lean young man with long jet-black hippie hair and a short white apron around his waist approaching from the backdoor of the Dixie Spirit Bar. He looked around at the weird scene: two men making sluggish movements as they lay on the pavement, three guys dressed in matching dark blue outfits and wearing masks, and an injured young woman right in the middle of it all.

“Get your hands off her!” He shouted at us. He fixed his gaze on the young woman and said, “Lorraine, get over here, girl. The cops are on the way.”

“It’s okay, Marty,” said the woman. Her Southern accent was deep, rich, and pure, like the water in a country creek. “These guys rescued me when the other two who tried to force me into their truck.” She looked at me and said, “Marty’s one of the good old bartenders here. He told those two men to leave me alone or he’d call the police.”

Marty the Good Old Bartender approached us tentatively, staring at our masks and the billy clubs on our hips.

“Who are you guys? What’s with the funny costumes?”

“We’re the Bowmen, sir,” I said in a proud, quiet voice. “We heard the lady was in trouble, so we came as quickly as we could. If you’ll explain the situation to the police when they arrive, we’ll be moving on now.”

Boy, I was laying it on thick . . . and lovin’ every minute of it!

Marty nodded, looking a bit awed by the whole thing. I think he had a sudden urge to salute me. He turned to Lorraine. “Come inside and I’ll get you some ice for those bruises, sweetie.”

“Thanks, Marty. I’ll be there in a minute. I just want to thank these guys.”

Marty nodded and headed for the backdoor. The two drunken brawlers were struggling to their feet. They were obviously feeling less energetic than they had earlier. When Grease Head started to help String Bean stagger toward a bright red pickup parked nearby, I called out to them.

“Where do you think you’re going, pal?”

They didn’t answer. The one with the Elvis hairdo was holding up his tall friend, who was still doubled over from the pain in his aching gonads.

“Hold it right there, buddy. The police are on the way.”

They had reached the red truck, and Elvis Hair opened the driver's side door. Their movements were so sluggish I didn’t think there was any need to hurry over and try to stop them. Doug and I started toward the truck, intent on dragging them out if necessary. The tall man reached into the truck and took hold of something that was mounted in a rack against the back window. Behind us, Stan recognized it first.

“Good God A’mighty . . . " Stan said in a low, ragged voice. "He’s got a damn shotgun.”

___________________________________________


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Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)
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