The Tree House When you're a kid growing up, there are always three rules you need to remember-- look both ways before crossing the road, keep your bike oiled and the tires filled, and watch out for the Shoots. The Shoots were a family of dysfunctional misfits, and bullies and were probably the product of some long ago inbreeding, who lived down the end of our street. You always had to keep track of the Shoots-- Billy, Bobby, and Bennie, three of the scariest boys an eight year old would ever want to avoid. They were more like soiled little trolls who appeared like radar from the their broken-down house and terrorized anyone smaller than them who were daring enough or foolish enough to pass by. I hated the Shoots. To be more precise, I was petrified of the Shoots. Most of the time they stayed fairly close to their house, like chickens clucking around their roost, pecking here, screeching there, nipping at each other, biting the hands that fed them, dirty and dusty, creatures to avoid. I think they stayed near their fortress because they had trouble finding their way home without a trail of bird seeds. Compared to them, Hansel and Gretel were pathfinders on a par with Lewis and Clark. The Shoots lived on the other end of the street from my friends and me. But strategically their house commanded the only road to Main Street, and that was where the market, hardware store, drug store, and civilization in general prevailed. You could get to Main Street by going in the opposite direction past our house but you would have to travel a serpentine route at least five miles out of your way. All of us kids in the neighborhood knew and feared the Shoots, but our parents were oblivious. Each day that summer, I would wait in dread for my mother to utter those fateful words, "Okay Petey, how about riding your bike down to the market and pick up some bread and milk." The die would be cast and I'd have to summon up enough nerve to cross my personal Rubicon. Though the sun was warm in the mid-July sun, my blood ran cold each time. What was wrong with her? Did she spend all her time under a rock? Didn't she know about the Shoots? Didn't she know she was sending her son into possible mortal combat if the Shoots were up and about? I pushed my thumb into the tires on my blue three-speed English bike. Rock solid. I gave each wheel a spin. The rear wheel spun effortlessly making that clicking sound like a tiny motor bike. I reached down and took the Mickey Mantle card out of the spokes. Today I needed silence if I were to survive this ordeal. I pushed off and stood on the pedals. The bike hummed into motion. The red, white, and blue streamers trailed out from the handlebars like flags in a stiff breeze as I gathered speed. I would try for reinforcements first. There was always safety in numbers. I turned onto the narrow sidewalk that led up to the house, careful not to run over the geraniums that lined the way and braked to a stop next to the back door. I hit the kickstand with my heel and swung off the bike, just like the guys on the motorcycles did and walked to the screen door. I could see Mrs. Lawson inside, bent over the oven, two huge pot holders in her hands, poking a cake pan to see if it was done. it smelled done to me. I knocked. "Morning, Mrs. Lawson. Is Tommy around?" She look up and smiled, brushing aside a wisp of hair from her face with the back of a flour covered hand. "Come on in, Petey. Tommy's up in the attic." The attic was our clubhouse. We had hung airplane models from the rafters and fought the air battle of Europe almost every afternoon. Tommy was getting a head start. "Hey, Petey. Whatcha doin? Wanna play models?" "No Tommy. Mom wants me to go to the store and get some bread and milk." I patted the money in my pants pocket. "Wanna go with me?" Tommy laughed. "Sure Petey. It's early. The Shoots are probably sleeping." He put the bomber into a tight turn and landed it on the plywood runway at his feet He. scrambled to his feet. "What are we waiting for? Let's get going." Slowly we peddled out the yard and headed down the street. The Shoots' house to was on our left, a ramshackle three-story house with green clapboard shingles and dirty white balconies on each floor. Some of the spindles on the porch railings were missing and the porch doors stood ajar. But the house seemed quiet. No sign of anybody up and about. You always hoped that no one would be outside but that was deceiving. The Shoots had a vicious German Shepherd tied to a rusty post, attached to an automobile chain. It looked like the offspring of a pack of wolves. The Shepherd had a black muzzle and huge teeth. It's body was mottled shades of brown and black and there was an angry gash on it's hind leg, a battle scar reminder from a past encounter with a car. The dog could only get to within five feet of the sidewalk before the chain restrained him but his bark could wake the dead. And when that dog barked, the Shoots came roaring out of the house like Keystone Cops on bicycles, in full flight. Checkpoint one. The house was quiet. We peddled softly, keeping to the far side of the road. Checkpoint two. The big Shepherd was there but he was asleep. We had reached the point of no return. We were directly across the street when a car passed us. It honked its horn and the dog was instantly awake. It spotted us in a second and began its frantic barking. I looked back at Tommy who nodded. We both stood on the pedals and pumped furiously, desperately trying to put distance between us and the terrible house. My heart pounded in my chest and my breath was ragged. I kept pumping my legs and in a moment we were past. We coasted to the corner. We had made it. We had bested the Shoots. Today we led 1-0. Euphoria! Funny thing about Euphoria. It's usually rather short-lived. And today was no exception. We'd bought the bread and milk-- plus some Bazooka gum and a fistful of Fireballs-- but now we had to rerun the gauntlet. Tommy and I checked our bikes again. He dug a pebble from his front tire. I stuffed the milk into one of my side baskets and stashed the bread in the other. "Ready?" I asked. "Ready, buddy? Let's give it a go." We decided on a different strategy on the return trip. This time we would pedal as fast as we could right from the start. We would streak by the house before they even heard us coming and we'd be long past even if the damned dog barked its fool head off. But, of course, the plan had one major flaw. The Shoots knew we had gone by once and they knew we'd have to come back again. And they were ready this time. They were dumb but they weren't stupid. Well, yes they were, but like all predators they were born to stalk. We stayed to the far side of the street. First mistake. They were sitting on the bicycles, hiding behind a line of trees that outlined a dusty dirt driveway where an old house had stood before it burned down a few years back. Billy, the oldest one, let out an Indian war cry and suddenly Billy, Bobby, and Bennie came out of the trees aiming to cut us off. Tommy and I let out answering shrieks. Stark terror does that. We had no choice. We swerved to the right and pedaled up onto the sidewalk in front of their house as they tried to intercept us. Suddenly the Shepherd launched itself at us in full gallop. I saw the chain unwind behind the dog like an anchor chain dropping across the bow of a ship. The dog lunged at Tommy who was in front of me. "AAWWGGH," Tommy screamed as the dog left its feet and leaped at Tommy's right leg. Tommy couldn't veer away or he would run into Billy and Bobby who were straining to cut us off. Bennie took an angle behind me so I couldn't turn around. These kids were good. Tommy had to ride as straight as he could or the dog would be able to grab his leg. He stood on the pedals, lifted his right foot and balanced it on the crossbar of his bike. He would kick the dog in the teeth if he had to. The Shepherd was airborne. This was going to be ugly. Suddenly the dog let out a giant yelp as the chain snapped taut and spun the dog by the collar, turning the Shepherd into a canine helicopter. The dog crashed to the ground, its jaws snapping at air. Tommy had made it! The noise of the thrashing dog distracted the Shoots for a moment. Quickly I whipped the handlebars to the left. Billy and Bobby shot past me as I sailed behind them, pedaling like a demon. "You widdle bathstuds!" Billy lisped, waving a dirty fist at me. "We'll get you widdle bathstuds if it's the wast thing we do!" "Yeah. We're gonna kick your widdle atheths if we ever get our hanths on you," Bobby chimed in. But it was too late. We were past. We'd run the gauntlet and lived to tell about it. Twice! We stopped pedaling, our thighs burned with fatigue. Behind us, the Shoots had stopped. Bennie had dismounted and lobbed some stones that lay loose in the road at us. They skipped harmlessly past. "You haven't heard the wast of us!" Billy yelled. "You guys are in big twubble." "Aw, your momma wearth combat boots," Tommy lisped back in a singular act of bravado. "Combat boots?" I asked. "She does, you know. I've seen her." � There was never time to rest on one's laurels after you'd bested the Shoots. They didn't give up easily. They were like bulldogs. Once they marked you for action, they were relentless. They took it as a personal affront, a matter of pride smashed, of manhood-- boyhood-- stomped, a time for certain retribution, awaiting the unsuspecting just around the next bend. Wally was Tommy's older brother. He was our official leader. He was eleven, a boy of the world. He was the brains of our operation. He was our sergeant, we were the privates, there to serve at his command. "All right men. Let's head out to the tree house. But first we've got to make a stop at the barn," Wally ordered. "Tommy, take the point. Petey, you stay back with me," he ordered. I tugged at my canteen. We were dressed like tiny soldiers, with army surplus helmets, backpacks, webbed belts and air rifles. "Hey, Wally," I whispered. "Why are we going to the barn if we're headed to the tree house?" Wally looked pained. Leading a troop of eight year olds was hard work. "We've got to go to the barn first to pick up tobacco stalks for the tree house." I still didn't get it. But that's why was the leader. Must be part of some grand strategy or something. I shrugged and headed off. The barn stood at the edge of a five acre tobacco field. It's faded red doors stood ajar and the ventilation slats were opened, giving it the illusion of a stick framed building without a skin. Huge barn beams crisscrossed-crossed the structure and the rafters rose at least thirty feet above the dirt floor. Diagonal struts reinforced the sides so that you could climb them to the next level if you were careful-- or crazy. The smell of freshly picked tobacco filled the barn and drifted across the field. We crept up to one of the openings in the side of the barn and peered in. It was empty. Wally signalled us to follow him. We entered the barn. I stood in the middle of the dirt floor and stared up at the roof. A chill rolled through me despite the summer heat. It seemed like it was one hundred feet high. "Follow me," Wally said. Wally pointed to some tobacco stalks lying on the ground. They looked like gnarled walking sticks. "Each of you guys, grab an armful and let's get going." We slung our rifles onto our shoulders and grabbed as many stalks as we could. We gathered them into piles then laid them across our arms as if we were carrying the family mutt, balancing the piles against our chests. Carefully, we headed for the door. "I told you widdle bathstuds you'd be in big twubble!" Billy Shoot yelled, as Bobby and Bennie swung from the cross beams and dropped to the floor. "Now we're going to kick your widdle atheths!" Oh, God! They were back. You just couldn't trust your luck very long. Tommy and I looked at Wally. He dropped his pile, reached down and grabbed a stalk. He raised it over his head like a club. My immediate panic subsided. I was still scared but I desperately believed that Wally would get us out of this mess. "Come on, I dare you!" Wally shouted. "Are you crazy?" I hissed. This wasn't what I had in mind. Running was what I had in mind. "They'll kill us." Wally swung the tobacco stick in larger and larger circles over his head. He let out a grunt and hurled it at Billy. It bounced once in the dirt and hit him in the shins. "Ow! Billy yelped. "Now you're in for it. Now we're gonna kick your ath, too." He rubbed his right shin as he hopped on one foot. "Oh, yeah? Catch us," Wally challenged. "Come on men." There was only one thing to do. We flung our stalks at them and clawed our way up the struts to the cross beams thirty feet above the floor. We started across the beams like miniature tightrope walkers. I tried not to look down. I was dizzy and my legs felt like rubber bands. I was about to die. I knew it. I would never live past 7. My parents were going to be very upset and it would be the Shoots' fault. They'd regret it. My father would probably kick their father's ass. Of course I'd be dead by then so it wouldn't do me any good but at that moment it was a comforting thought. "Aaahhh," Bennie yelled. I looked up and he was standing in front of me. "You'we a dead man," he announced. "Thstay wight wear you are." He was in my class at school but at the moment he looked at least twice my size. "Aaahh," I screamed back. It was over now. Sign the death certificate. Bennie was standing at a junction where two huge barn beams formed a tee. If I could just get to the tee, I'd have a chance. Another beam ran to the floor at a forty-five degree angle, just like the one I had climbed to get up there in the first place. "Get outta the way!" I screeched. "I'm comin' through." I launched myself across the beam and aimed at the tee. Bennie was just as dumb as his brothers. He stepped aside as I went past him like a missile. I grabbed the tee and shinnied down the descending beam. My pant leg ripped, tearing a hole in the knee as it caught on a gigantic splinter. "Hey! Wait a minute, you widdle bathstud!" Bennie ordered. But it was too late. I'd made it. I'd live for another day. Maybe my dad wouldn't have to kick their dad's ass after all. I hit bottom with a thud and bumped into an end post. My knee was scraped and the splinter was sticking out of the hole in my pants. I yanked out the splinter. I was okay. I looked around and Tommy and Wally were on the floor, too. Wally stood up like Patton addressing his troops.. "On your feet men," he roared. "Let's make for the tree house. We each grabbed an armful of tobacco stalks as we ran for the gaps in the sides of the barn. We shot through them and sprinted into the field. I turned back and there were the Shoots, pounding on each other with their hats like the Three Stooges. Then they remembered us. "There they go!" Bobby shouted, pointing to us. "Let's get 'em." We marched through the field and headed for the nearby woods. We reached a barbed wire fence. We tossed our tobacco sticks to the other side and climbed over the wire, careful not to get cut on the rusted metal.The Shoots had barely cleared the barn. We were safe now. Wally held up his hand. "Hold it men." He paused to catch his breath. "Look at this," he said, looking down at a freshly laid cow pie. "Come on! Dip the ends of your stalks into that stuff. We'll give them a real surprise if they come after us." We walked at a brisk clip, careful not to smear any of the mess from the stalks onto our clothes. In a few moments we were at the tree house. It was a real beauty. We had spent many a day scouting the woods before we found the perfect tree. It was uprooted and leaned against another tree, held firm in the junction of its main branches. Huge snakelike roots clung to mossy earth at its base. It looked absolutely primeval. About twenty feet above the ground, the fallen tree branched into a natural y-shaped opening. It was here we built our tree house. Wally had directed the work. We scavenged some old doors from a truck graveyard a few hundred yards beyond. We salvaged a ladder, made a floor from old packing crates, and even built a trap door out of a truck hood, complete with hinges. The Ford emblem wa still attached. We raced up into the tree house and closed the trap door beneath us. Wally quickly tied it shut with rope. "Okay, Men. here's what we're going to do. When the Shoots get here, keep low. When they get to the base of the tree house, nail 'em with the tobacco stalks." Wally laughed. "Don't worry, men. This is gonna be great!" "Yeah, Wally," Tommy shouted, pumping a dirty fist into the air. "They won't know what hit 'em." "Yeah, Wally," I yelled, adding my two cents. "They'll be begging for mercy...won't they?" "Darned right, they will," Wally comfirmed. Now Petey, you keep the first watch. Let us know when you spot 'em. I peered over the edge of the wall. All three Shoots were suddenly standing at the mossy roots. So much for early warning. "W-Wally," I stammered. "They're here." "Now you're gonna get it! Your widdle atheth are ours!" Billy screamed up at us from the foot of the tree. "You can't get away anymore. And now you're gonna have to pay the pwice!" Wally grabbed a cow pie-tipped tobacco stalk and jumped to his feet. "Come on men! Let 'em have it!" he commanded. He heaved a stalk which hit Billy right smack in the chest. "Aanghh!" Billy yelled. The stalk stuck to his shirt. He grabbed it and pulled it away. He stared at the stick for a moment, then spotted the dirty tip. He brought it to his nose and sniffed it. "Aannhh! Cow Cwap!" He screamed. "Why you widdle ..." I hurled my stalk at him and hit him in the left leg. Tommy and Wally threw theirs as fast as they could. We bombarded Billie, Bobby, and Bennie with the smelly missiles. They were covered with thick black stains. Billie grabbed a fallen stalk. Even from this height I could see he was beet red. If he ever reached us we'd really be dead now, Wally or no Wally. "Come on, you idiots. Leth charge the Bathstuds!" The three Shoots ran forward and began climbing the tree. They came relentlessly closer. I leaned over the ledge and tossed my last stalk at them but they were too close and it fell harmlessly to the ground. "You'we dead! You'we dead!" Billy screeched, below us. "I'm gonna pull off your wittle wegs and beat you to deff wiff 'em!" The floor moved as Billy put his shoulder into the trap door. Tommy and I stood on the truck hood latch to give it more weight but Billy still made it move. "What are we gonna do now?" I screamed. Scenes from my eight year old life flashed in front of me. Wally stood up. "When I say 'move', then move. This outta do it." He unzipped his fly and walked over to the trap door. "Move!" he commanded. Tommy and I jumped off the door as Wally relieved himself. I could hear it pattering through the edges of the trap door. Billy was instantly soaked. Bobby held up his hand, not yet comprehending the liquid that rained down on him as well. "Hey, Biwwie!" Bobby yelled. "It's wainin' in here." "Billy, you idiot. That's not wain, it's pee!" He shoved Bobbie out of the way. "Let's get outta here!" "Aanngghh," Bobby yelped and burst into tears. "I'm tewwin' my mommy on you guys. She's gonna kick your widdle atheths herself, you'll see." The boys were dumb but they weren't stupid. They scrambled out of the tree, desperate to get away from the torrent. Billy and Bobby led the way. Bennie ran so fast he couldn't dodge the huge cow pie ahead. He tried to stop but the grass was wet. He lost his balance and belly flopped into the goo. Bennie staggered to his feet. Clods of cow pie dropped off his clothes and fell to the ground like little black snowballs . "Hey fewwas, wait for me!" he wailed. He trailed after them, waddling like a scarecrow. "Great work men," Wally shouted, zipping up his fly. He slapped each of us on the back. "Yeah, but we're dead if they ever catch us," I said. "Yeah, maybe. But first they gotta catch us." He patted the wall of the tree house. "You just gotta love a tree house. Don't you?" Wally laughed.
Copyright © 1996 Steven R Kravsow |