A DANGEROUS PERSON

We could hear twigs snapping and leaves crunching as they approached. Scott and I looked at each other and remained silent. Sitting, crowded and cramped, in the bedroom of our tree fort we didn’t move. Any movement, especially on the second floor, would cause the fort and supporting trees to sway. The wood, pinned to the trees with rusty nails and high school “stoner” ingenuity, would creak. All of which would give us away. Give us up.

And we didn’t want to be found. Except for De-De and Caroline, of course. And we knew it wasn’t them because they were taking their finals. We should have been too, but taking another skip day was just too good to pass up. We could not have cared less if it was Finals Week.

I looked up at the ceiling, eight inches or so above my head, and read my graffiti. Mike -N- De-De, surrounded by a flamboyant heart. Done up as artistically as I could, in brown magic marker, on a flimsy particle board ceiling. I really wished it was De-De walking up to the fort. The Fort of Major Truancy. The Fort of Lost Virginity. The Fort of Lumber Yard scrap pieces. The Fort of Booze Stolen (from the ‘rents). The Fort of Booze Stolen (from my brother’s busboy gig). The Fort of Cheap Weed. The Fort of Airplane Glue.

The snap-bang released me from my wishful thinking.

Did you feel that?, Scott asked, hushed, panicked.

What the fuck was that?, I replied. Not necessarily, specifically to Scott.

A couple more earth trodden footsteps, louder. Closer. Then a sudden guffaw of laughter. Amplified from the apparent suppression. Then a joiner. Two males laughing uncontrollably. Scott looked at me with pinched eyebrows and an inquisitive smirk. He couldn’t place the laughter either.

Snap-bang!

Crack.

A thin beam of sunlight appeared in the windowless bedroom. It came from a small hole in the pine, scrap wood wall. The earthly sweet smell of pine became intensely defined. Like a table saw just zipped through a plank. Dust particles danced in the sudden appearance of the beam of light. Scott’s face went pale. My eyes widened. Heart rate accelerated. Or paused. Changed for sure, definitely different.

Snap-Bang.

Another hole. More sunlight.

This hole was behind Scott. I could see the beam of light projected on the ceiling behind him.

Someone’s shooting at us!, I exclaimed.

Shouting at the wall separating us from the shooter(s), Scott screamed, Stop! There’s someone in here! We’re in here!

Laughter howled below us beyond the walls of the fort. I still couldn’t place the voices of the laughter.

Snap-bang. I felt another jolt of impact, but no sunlight. That one went into the first floor. Stop shooting! You’re gonna kill us!, Scott pleaded at a high volume. I mustered up a bellowing YO! in my thick Philly accent. That sent the laughter into hysterics. I peered through the first bullet hole.

Bang. CHANG.

Another into the first floor. That one hitting the fifty-five gallon drum woodstove we had rigged up.

All I saw was the top of someone’s head. Thick dark hair fastened back with a gray bandana. The peep hole didn’t give me much to work with, as far as getting a good look as to who the fuck was shooting at us.

Bang. Bang.

Stop!, Scott yelled, voice cracking with a premonition of a tearful breakdown.

You fucking pussies, was called back to us.

That we recognized. George.

George Belafonte. A dangerous person.

We’re coming up!, George informed us.

George was a couple years older than Scott and I. And bad to the bone. Ironic, considering the George Thoroughgood song. Bad to the bone, indeed. Scowling and threatening on the school bus, dressed in his usual unbuttoned flannel shirt, grease smeared jeans, untied work boots. Scowling and threatening on his dirt bike. Long, dark hair flowing back at full throttle. Hanging in his chipped front tooth, smirking face when he pulled the motorcycle to a skidding stop. Scaring you half to death. Bad to the bone indeed, scowling and threatening, just looking at you. He lived in the unfinished house in the neighborhood. If you could call where we lived a neighborhood.

A rural patch of southern New Hampshire close to the Massachusetts border. To be sure, there were roads. Not many. And don’t call them streets. Unless you liked being laughed at, of course. Not many street lights, either. There was a lot of woods of course. A lot. There was a thick, grand, chunk of woods behind the house my family moved into after relocating from Philadelphia, Pa. Directly behind our house through these wooded acres, as the crow flies (owl, really), was Scott’s house. Scott lived there with his mother and step-father who was ten years younger than Scott’s mother. My parents thought that was scandalous. To the south of our houses, and a little further of a distance was George’s unfinished house. He lived there with his younger brother and his mysterious father. In my five, or so, years there, I think I saw George’s father only once. Dressed in a buttoned-up flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. He was going bald and he wore glasses. In all actuality, it could have been the ghost of future George walking up the wooden planks, pushing the door open with his hip, and unexpectedly catching Scott and I watching him disappear into the unfinished, seemingly haunted house. It could have been. I think, but I’m not sure, that even the ghost of future George would’ve returned Scott’s timid wave. That flannel shirted being did not. Just hesitated for brief moment then quietly shut the door with lowered head.

Wooden planks on a diagonal from the muddy driveway to the front door were the makeshift front steps to George’s house. George would say something like, You don’t have to pay house taxes if you don’t have the front steps installed, because it’s incomplete, an unfinished house. Curtainless windows revealed the haunting blue light from the television at night. Scaffolding was always set up but never manned even though the roof and siding needed some maintenance. Stacks of cinder blocks, stacks of bricks, and stacks of bagged mortar seemed to be challenging the motorcycles, dirt bikes, abandoned cars for attention. The old appliances that surrounded the Belafonte homestead never stood a chance against those for attention. Dirt bikes were the royalty of that chessboard. I actually saw George’s younger brother ride a dirt bike up the planks and right into the house via the front door. George’s little brother was a Russian Doll replica of George, but on the cute and adorable side. Not scary and intimidating at all.

George, on the other hand. Both. Scary and intimidating. Especially with a gun in his hands.

The hatch door on the main floor slammed open. The fort was raised. Fastened to three trees. To get in you had to crouch down and enter through a hinged door in the floor. George and his friend entered the fort with a clumsy gusto. Shaking the fort and swaying its tree foundation in the process. We heard their guns slamming on the wood floor and walls. Scott and I pushed back against the walls. Not that I was afraid for our lives, just that I was afraid for our immediate safety. Fearing for our lives played into the equation a little, I guess. I mean, the guns and bullets flying out of the guns were real. The holes they made in the walls were real. And I’m pretty certain they would’ve pierced our bodies and skulls if we had decided to sit in different spots. Or leaned the wrong way. It just so happened that it may have been one of the luckiest days of my life.

It sounded like George and his mystery guest were playfully wrestling in the room below us. The fort swayed with each bump into a wall. Their laughter was muffled with suppression again. It was actually giggling and not bubbling laughter. They were definitely rough-housing though. Boom. Sway. Boom. Shake. It wouldn’t take much to knock the fort off its supports and send it crashing to the ground.

You guys blowin’ each other up there?, George taunted through his giggles. I could’ve said the same thing to them but I certainly didn’t have balls for that.

George abruptly popped his head up through hatch opening in the bedroom floor. It surprised both Scott and I, even though we knew it was coming. We flinched like caged birds. George was holding a chocolate glazed donut in his smiling mouth. Chocolate smeared his face like a big, fat mustache. You want some donut?, he muffled with his mouth full. I shook my head no as Scott said, You got donuts?

Last one, Scottie. Ya gotta kiss me for it, George gurgled out. Accidently biting the donut through and through, fumbling to catch it before it hit the dirty, carpeted bedroom floor. It landed on the floor chocolate side up. George smacked it with a quickness sending icing in multiple directions. It came, he proclaimed, now I’m gonna come all over your pretty faces. He propelled his shirtless body up through the hatch. Only in the deep woods could you get away with wearing suspenders without a shirt. I wasn’t going to say anything, you know, no balls. He was pretty built for a druggie. Even though I spent my earlier years in the fist-fighting heyday of the Seventies in Northeast Philly, I knew I couldn’t take him. He pushed his way up and in and made himself as comfortable as he could. He reeked of body odor and gasoline. He made no attempt to clean his face. His buddy popped his head up through the hatch. It was the first time I saw someone with a tattoo on their neck. The first time I saw someone with a tattoo of a syringe on their neck. He was definitely on the creepy side. But seemed harmless because of his diminutive size. The greasy skin on his face, along with the crusted acne, ruined the affection I had, until that point, for pepperoni pizza.

Get up here fool, George demanded. His buddy eye-balled me and Scott with a goofy smile then busted up laughing. Alright, George. How’d you get up there?

Lift yourself up, you skinny little wimp, George chided. This guy struggled mightily trying to get himself up to the penthouse suite. You did need some upper body strength to hoist yourself up and this dude apparently had very little. His face strained as we heard his boots clanging and banging against the woodstove and walls. I caught Scott side-eye me as George licked his chocolate mustache and goofy friend laboriously inched his one-hundred-pound frame of blotchy skin and pointy bones into the room. Scott’s eyes said, Be careful.

Once up and settled, George looked to his friend and said, Well…where is it? His friend let out what seemed to be something between an exhale and a chuckle. It didn’t really make a sound but his whole upper body kinda convulsed or shuddered. Neck Tattoo relaxed as he sat back and leaned against a wall, legs stretching out. Almost touching my foot. I tried to move my foot back a little, without notice. Everyone noticed. Neck Tattoo revealed his hideous overbite as he looked me squarely in the eyes and smiled. He unbuttoned the top breast pocket of his jean jacket. The one above the AC/DC patch and just below the Aerosmith patch. He flicked the pocket flap with his middle finger. A flair of the dramatic. He grinned, now looking at Scott, exposing only his two front teeth, unnaturally extended. He seemed to know the affect this had on strangers. Repulsed.

C’mon, doofus, George commanded with a quick kick to Neck Tattoo’s knee.

Neck Tattoo shoved his thumb and index finger into the pocket and removed a tightly wound joint the size of George’s thumb. This fact struck me immediately. I had never seen one that big. And fat. I needed to measure it. To something comparable. Joints Scott and I had smoked were known as pinners. Maybe the size of my pinky, if we were lucky. When George reached for it, I got a real good look at his hand. It was huge. Yeah, I could never take George. He’d kick my ass in a fight. There it was though, joint in hand. Comparable indeed. There was a slight bend to the joint. The joint didn’t exactly fit properly in the jacket pocket because of it’s hefty size. George tenderly straightened it out and like a surgeon calling for a scalpel, George calmly spoke, reaching out to Neck Tattoo with his empty hand, Lighter.

Neck Tattoo squirmed a hand into a pant pocket and produced a cheap Bic Lighter. He handed George the lighter in mock professionalism, saying, Lighter. George took the lighter, placed the joint in his lips, below the gigantic chocolate mustache. Joint dangling from his lips, he examined the lighter, Flick my bic, he coyly purred to Neck Tattoo. He sparked the lighter and lit the joint.

Once George got that thing primed it glowed like an orange sunset. Blazing over the pillowy clouds it had created. George had created. Neck Tattoo had created. Scott had created. I had created. We toked and passed for what felt like an eternity. Not that it was arduous and stressful. Quite the opposite. The four of us talked about rock music, spurred by the patches on Neck Tattoo’s jacket. There was a shitload. My favorite was The Stones tongue. I was a huge Stones fan back then. It was George’s favorite patch too. He said the Stones tongue logo was designed from his house. The wooden planks were the tongue. I was actually envious of Neck Tattoo for owning that jacket. It was cool as hell and would’ve looked good on me. We passed the joint and talked about girls. George wanted to know who was getting laid in the fort. Pointing the joint at me accusingly, he said, I know you are, you motherfucker. That girlfriend of yours is fuckin’ hot, man. The last hit I had toked was still in my lungs, holding it as long as I could, ‘cause that’s what you do. I blew it out slowly, dramatically, in a long, reaching plume in the direction of George. I grew a pair. When it came to De-De. I wasn’t taking shit. Some things I’m fighting for…regardless.

The cloud of smoke completely surrounded George. I mean, the whole room was filled in smoke cloud, but the plume I released in George’s direction pushed the existing cloud aside in two directions. Split it in half. Then the plume cascaded in on George’s personal space. Circling around his bandanaed head, exploding and swirling, and dancing languidly in the bullet hole theatres of sunlight. He took it in stride, taking a long drag off the diminishing joint as Scott and Neck Tattoo pushed back a little and shifted looks and glances around the tiny room filled with weed smoke, sweat, bad breath, and testosterone. My side-eye to Scott told him, Be ready.

George held his hit then released it in a blustery plume that blew up my personal space. He capped it off with a series of smoke rings that was literally, and figuratively, too cool for school. I instinctively nodded in approval and chimed, Niiiiiice. George coughed and then laughed.

He started cracking up. Scott started laughing. As did Neck. I leaned over and laid on the carpet, I was laughing so hard. Scott and Neck were cutting the smoke clouds with their hands, giggling, laughing. Trails, dudes, Neck trumpeted. Can you see the trails my hands are making. He waved them through the smoke. It’s like a cartoon, he said. I could see them. I started making my own. So did George. It’s like animation, Neck informed. It’s the fucking Yellow Submarine, George wailed. The laughter exploded. We were shaking the fort from all of our laughter and movement. Trying to push ourselves up from the lounging, sprawled out positions we were melting into was trickier than it should have been.

George held out what remained of the joint. Lodged between his thumb and middle finger. The roach. It contained about the same amount of weed as one of our pinners. We’re finishing this, ladies!, George commanded. Yeah!, Scott replied. Neck, laying on the floor, also replied, Yeah!, muffled by the carpet. He pushed himself up a little too fast. Unbalanced, he reached out to brace himself from falling back to the floor in the opposite direction. There was no floor there. Just the hatch opening. Neck fell head first to the first floor. His flailing boots leaving a swirling tornado of dust particles, carpet fibers, and smoke clouds for us to contemplate.

George took a hit from the roach. On the inhale he inquired, You alright down there, Courtney?

This dude could’ve had a broken neck but all I could think about was…Courtney? This dude with the neck tattoo, the best joint I’d ever seen, and the best jacket I’d ever seen, his name was Courtney?

I tried to suppress a guffaw of laughter. Tried. George let out a semi-suppress chuckle with a plume of freshly inhaled smoke.

I’m okay, Courtney called up. Then let out a robust, Wwwwwwwoooooooooo!

Scott smiled, shaking his head in disbelief, taking the roach from George. Pinching it tightly between his fingers, he raised it to his lips. He gave me a reassuring smile with a wink and a nod. Scott’s head looked abnormally large. I mean, really large, like I couldn’t figure out how he was hold it up. When he winked it made a sound like a metal door closing. I looked to George when he said to Scott, Smoke it Scottie, with a tinny echo. It sounded like he said it into a coffee can. George’s mustache looked real through the smoke. His chest and arms were massive. I didn’t realize how built he was. He looked like a one of those phony

professional wrestlers that were taking over the cheesy television stations. I thought, Shit, I could never take him. I laid my dizzying head on the carpet and admired my artwork on the ceiling, through the cloudy air. De-De, I thought as I closed my eyes. De-De indeed.

When I opened my eyes I didn’t know where I was. Groggy confusion occupied my mind space. I felt carpet on my face. I smelled a homey, comforting woodsmoke. The autumnal, woodsy fragrance of burning oak and pine wood, communal and indiscriminate, felt so personal. I thought, for a second, I was in the finished, shag carpeted basement of our house. The pot-bellied woodstove going strong, warming the big split level Tudor, generating a magical energy. Surely, our dog, Ginger, was laying nearby enjoying her dreams of squirrel chasing. Surely, my dorky brother was nearby, inches from the television, enjoying an episode or three of Dr. Who. Surely, I was safe and sound, subconsciously enjoying the last vestiges of adolescent, teenage safety. A warm, cozy home. A fully stocked fridge. Parents. There. Going through the motions at least. Paying all the bills. Making sure the house was warm, the fridge was loaded.

The beam of light coming through the bullet holes had faded. I was still in the tree fort. The room was much darker but not completely. I got light-headed as I sat up, sick to my stomach. I heard Van Halen being played outside. Scott’s favorite. The grogginess clouded my perception of what was going on. Of who’s voices I heard outside the fort. I moved, cautiously, to peek out of the bullet hole. Music pumpin’, voices rising and falling. Laughing. Singing. Then I saw my brother. Black slacks, white tuxedo shirt unbuttoned down to his naval, black bow tie dangling from his neck, bottle of J&B Scotch in his hand. Lit ciggie in the other one.

Somehow, I managed to make it through the two hatch doors and out to the ground. My head pounding like something was in there and trying to get out.

Scott, George, Courtney and my brother Brian were standing and sitting around a small bonfire. Listening to the boombox cranking out the Van Halen cassette. Brian offered me the bottle. Looks like you could use a shot of this, he said matter-a-factly. He didn’t laugh but the others did. Yeah, I said, taking the bottle.

Oh, by the way, you’re in big trouble for not being at dinner, Brian reported. Mom and Dad are pissed.

Fuck, I thought out loud, taking a mouthful of the scotch. I offered the bottle back to Brian. He nodded to George. I handed the J&B to George. His bandana was now done up like a doo-rag. He look like an artist not a thug. The woods were dark in the distance behind him. Thanks, sport, he said out of character.

I walked slowly toward the trail back to my house. See you guys later, I mumbled.

George piped up, Hey sport. I turned around. You had the pleasure of smoking angel dust today, he gave a kurt nod indicating ‘no need to say thanks, but you’re welcome’. He took a guzzle from the bottle.

I turned back to the trail and started walking home. The boombox belted out D.O.A. by Van Halen, I’m alone, I’m on the highway, wanted Dead or Alive. I got a boost of adrenaline. A smile began, a tight curl at the edge of my lips. A bounce in my step suddenly cropped up. The smile widened. I wondered how De-De made out on her finals. I was in full strut as I approached the clearing to the backyard of our home. Van Halen’s Dance the Night Away faded into the cicadas’ symphonic clatter as I strode across the lawn, silhouettes of my parents, moving about in the kitchen and dining room.