It was the fall of 1974. I had just begun my sophomore year at
the newly built high school out on Highway 17, at the north end of town. Beautiful
building. It had opened up a couple years earlier but it was still shiny and
new.
The old, brick high school building on Main Street had been
built in 1915 and had churned out nearly 60 graduating classes. The old school
educated and matured men who would fight in two world wars, the Korean conflict
and Viet Nam. There were a lot of memories generated in the halls and
classrooms of that three-story building but the town was proud of the new
construction and those first few classes of students were anxious to occupy the
new digs.
I think it was the first Friday of that school year. I found
myself sitting with Mike Fischer in the Student Center. Shooting the breeze.
Fisch was a grade ahead of me. He was an acquaintance, but I
never had a significant history of hanging out with him. So, the invitation to
come over to his house that night to drink some beer came as a bit of a
surprise but… there was beer… so I said, “Absolutely! I’ll be there. What time?”
He told me to come over late… about midnight. I don’t
remember the reason for the lateness of the hour but I didn’t mind. Friday
nights were meant for adventure, risk and exploration. It wouldn’t be the first
time that I navigated my way across town after the legal curfew. I was pretty
much a pro at avoiding the cops.
My mom and step-dad were gone for the weekend. They left
Friday morning for a bowling tournament in Cincinnati. It was going to be a
good weekend. I didn’t have to worry about experiencing their inevitable,
Sunday knockdown, drag out brawl and on top of that, I could come and go as I
please… no matter the time of day or night. I could head over to Mike’s house
that night by walking out the front door instead of crawling out my upstairs
bedroom window.
I was caught totally off guard when I came home from school
to find that they had left a babysitter. Grandma Edna. My step-dad’s mom. Sweet
lady but a fly in my ointment. Minor inconvenience. I’d work around it.
At about 11 o’clock that night, I yawned, stretched and told
Grandma Edna that I was beat and was heading off to bed. I smiled to myself as
I headed upstairs.
I smoked a few cigarettes in my darkened room as I watched
the light traffic make their way east and west on 2nd Street. I saw
many of the same cars, multiple times… evidence that they were “scooping the
loop,” a continual circle through town… radios blaring, horns honking as they
passed friends, raising one finger off the steering wheel as a low-effort greeting.
The cool kids.
One of those cars that I saw over and over was the Madrid
cop car, patrolling his beat and looking for trouble makers. Keeping the
streets clean. I began timing his appearances. When traveling west, he would
come back by in about four minutes. When traveling east, his return was in
about six minutes.
As midnight approached, I waited to see the cop traveling east
in front of my house. As he passed by, I scurried out my window, down the slant
of our porch roof, hung off the rain gutter and felt for the porch rail with my
feet. I hit the ground and immediately crouched as I watched him turn left on
Highway 17 and then I sprinted across the street.
I journeyed quickly between houses, under the cover of
darkness, at a steady jog. Most houses in Madrid did not have fences… thank
God. I never walked along the streets or sidewalks, I just crossed over them
after making sure the coast was clear.
I saw the cop a couple times along the way. He didn’t see
me.
I got to Mike’s house. He lived at the end of a cul de sac
on the north side of town. His street ran parallel to Highway 17, one block west.
The north side of his house was bordered by a cornfield with an abandoned old
house and shed just beyond the yet-to-be harvested corn crop.
I heard voices coming from his backyard. I followed the
voices.
There were a few guys there… sitting on lawn chairs with a
large cooler of beer serving as a footstool for Denny Young, or “Farmer” as
everyone called him. Farmer was the only “legal” drinker there. He was 18, the legal
drinking age in Iowa at the time. The rest of us were juveniles… breaking the
law, seeing who could get intoxicated the quickest.
I grabbed a beer and a chair and settled in. We spent the
next few hours drinking, talking, drinking, laughing and then we drank some
more.
It was about 3 or 4 in the morning. I think I was a six-pack
or better into the process when I started thinking about heading home. I was a
skinny kid that topped out at about a buck ten and I couldn’t hold my liquor. I
was drunk. Drunk enough that I worried about finding my way home and my ability
to dodge the police successfully.
Fisch laughed at my anxiety but I just kept obsessing about
getting caught and going to jail. He told me I’d be fine. No problems. He
smiled.
Mike excused himself and went into his house. Said he’d be
back. I didn’t think anything about it as I finished off a cold one and decided
to grab just one more before heading off.
About 20 minutes passed as I finished that last beer and
realized that Mike had not returned to the backyard. Must have fallen asleep.
As I got up to leave, Mike rejoined the group with a smile
on his face. I didn’t bother to quiz him about the smile and he didn’t offer an
explanation. He just smiled.
Suddenly, we heard a siren… and then another one. We all
looked at each other… wondering what was happening in our small town at 4 in
the morning. The sound was getting closer. Fisch just smiled.
We finally saw the cop car out on Highway 17, heading north
past the high school. As my eyes followed his path, I saw where he was headed
and why he was heading there. That old, abandoned shed just beyond the cornfield
was ablaze.
“Wow! Look at that thing burn!” I yelled. “How did that
happen?”
I looked at Mike and he said with a grin, “Well, I don’t think you’ll have to
worry about running into the cop on the way home now.”
“Wait! did you….?” My voice trailed off. He didn’t respond.
“Better get going if you want to avoid the cop.” Fisch
advised.
So I went home. Never saw the cop. Never knew for certainty…
but was pretty sure about what happened.
My adventures with Fisch and Farmer were not over. I met up
with them again a week later. Alcohol was to play a role again… but there was
another element involved this time… not fire… but rifles.
