rookmark

I sometimes have trouble distinguishing between whats real and whats fantasy. I dont mean that Im a psycho or anything, its just that sometimes the fantasy world is more fun than the real world.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the fantasy that the real world has to try a little harder to get my attention.

Like the truck driver blaring his air horn behind me when my mind wanders at the stoplight Im sure I wasnt gazing for all that long but he was evidently in a hurry.

No, its not the fact that I have an active fantasy world that should concern people, or the idea that I sometimes get so lost in it that I forget the real world.

No, what should bother people is the fantasy world I tend to dwell in.

Ive heard other peoples fantasies winning the lottery, paying off all their debts, having impossibly fit bodies or super powers nothing unusual about that. People even share my fantasies from time to time, but rarely to the extent that I hold them.

I mean, who hasnt daydreamed about killing their boss, or their lazy ass brother in law, or the blue haired mobile traffic cone taking up two lanes at half the posted speed with her left turn signal on permanent blink.

The difference for me is I never daydream about anything else.

At first I feared I was a sociopath, someone who has no regard for the lives of others. However I quickly realized that merely worrying about being a sociopath pretty much precluded my being one. But that only tells me what Im not. It does very little to explain what I am.

In my teen years I began a journal. I had no intentions of doing anything more than getting the ideas out of my head, but it ended up generating a bit of a following.

An excerpt:

January 15th, 1982

Had an interesting event today. Murphy and I were running down the hall outside my lockers. We were pushing and joshing around as usual. He called me a chubby fuck and I called him a dork. Just the same old stuff. This time, though, I shoved his shoulder just as he went to dodge down another hallway. Instead of turning he spun and lost his footing. Falling to the ground he slid into the wall and bounced off it.

His head dropped, just like you see them do it in the movies, when they want to act like theyd just fallen unconscious. Naturally I assumed he was faking it too.

So of course I kicked him to make him stop faking. It took a few kicks but it eventually sunk in that he wasnt pretending, he really was unconscious. I had no idea what to do. I got down on my knees to check him out. Thats when I noticed he was still breathing just fine. The only thing I could remember from my first aid classes was that I should put him in the recovery position, on his side with one of his legs pulled up. The only reason I could remember that much is because hed already managed to fall into that position on his own. Not knowing what else to do I just sat down and waited.

I had another one of my daydreams at that moment. I saw him lying on his side, much the way he was lying unconscious there, except in my mind he wasnt simply unconscious. He was very definitely dead, the back of his skull crushed by the impact with the wall. All it would have taken was a slightly harder push on my part, or maybe a kick to his face while he was unconscious. His head impacting with the cement wall would crack open like a bitter melon. He probably would have died instantly.

I could see him in slow motion, flying through the air, a look of amusement turning into brief surprise as he closed his eyes in preparation for impact. His shoulder length black hair would splay out, his mouth tensing for the impact would still show evidence of his pronounced overbite. His hip would hit first, quickly followed by his torso and shoulder, the whole bouncing and traveling backwards until his back and head connected with the horrid green blue painted cinderblock walls.

His head would split open, blood splaying out in an impact star. Pressure and impact would spray blood up at least three feet. If the angle of impact were just right you might even get some drops as high as the ceiling.

With the back of his head crushed in the rest of the body would instantly go limp, nerve impulses no longer telling his muscles to brace for impact. With his heart stopped there wouldnt be much bleeding after the fact. A small pool might form from residual pressure, gathering around his head, pooling beneath his chin and around his open mouth.

As I sat there pondering this morbid vision his eyes fluttered open and he gradually came awake.

What the fuck happened? He asked me.

You fell, hit your head. I told him, Youve been out for a couple of minutes.

He began to struggle to his feet and suddenly moaned, clutching his chest.

Why the hell does my chest hurt? he demanded.

You landed pretty hard, I lied, not looking at him, you probably cracked a couple of ribs.

I helped him back to his locker and then home. His mom wasnt too pleased with the state of her son but didnt question our story. She knows how boys are.

April 3, 1982

Edies boyfriend Nolan broke up with her the other day. He wasnt very pleasant about it. He called her every name in the book, screaming at her down the school halls. She did her best to look stoic but couldnt hide the tears or blush if humiliation. She didnt run away either, though, just stood there and took it.

He was completely off his nut, his thin body contorting into every vile gesture he could think of, screaming about how she obviously slept with every guy she met and was the likely mascot for the football team. His flailing arms struck random lockers and bystanders alike. Finally, when one of the jocks got a flailing hand to the back of the head, Nolan wound up with a bloody nose. He left then, still yelling insults behind him as he stalked down the hall.

Edie confided in me later that his little display wasnt unusual for him. She told me of other times hed threatened her, calling her every name in the book and telling her it was over between them forever. Hed be back within a few days, either bearing some gift and begging her for forgiveness or, even worse, pretending nothing had happened at all. He even went so far as to accuse her of making the whole thing up, pretending hed offended her just so she could get more gifts out of him.

Which explained some of the terms hed been using in the hall.

She then confided a few more things about him. His parents have had him in counseling before for his behavior. He once chased his sister and her friends out of the house with an axe. He claimed theyd been interrupting his practice.

Instantly I saw an image of him running after his sister, a hatchet held over his head as he screamed. In my mind he made a feint, a swing that was meant to miss and terrify, give his sister the impression that he meant business. At just that moment, however, she stopped short, deciding to call his bluff once and for all.

Shed turn just in time to meet the arc of his swing with her forehead. The axe, wielded with manic energy by her brother, would imbed itself deep into her skull just over her right eye. Even though the axe wouldnt cut all the way to her actual eye the pressure of the impact would pop it out nonetheless. But that would be the least of her worries. The damage to her brain would cause shorts and failures throughout her system, dropping her to the ground like a puppet without its strings.

Her brother would stare in shock for several minutes, trying to figure out how to undo what hed just done. Then hed start trying to think of how he could hide the event, make like it never happened. But even if he could catch up with and kill his sisters three friends theres no way he could get rid of the physical evidence. There was blood everywhere, including the rug. Hed never get it out of the rug.

It would be nearly a minute before hed have the presence of mind to call 911. By that time his sister would be long dead.

Sirens and lights would fill the neighborhood as his parents tried to make sense of what happened. Nolan would be taken into custody. A family caseworker, not the first for their household, would be assigned to evaluate the family situation, try to determine why Nolan went off the way he did.

Nolan would end up in a psychiatric hospital. His parents would visit at first, but Nolan would continue to get worse. Eventually his verbal abuse would make their visits far too painful. They would stop coming after a year. In two years theyd move to a different city and try their level best to forget theyd ever had a son.

They would keep pictures of their lost daughter on their walls until their own eventual demise. If anyone ever asked them about her they would merely comment that they lost her to an accident and change the subject.

Its interesting how throughout my daydream I couldnt remember Nolans sisters name. I had to ask Edie. Apparently her name is Rachel.

April 22, 1982

I went out to Wappella to attend Kevins graduation. Its hard to believe Ive known him since I was in grade one and he was in grade two. For all that weve always been one year apart we still kept each other as close friends. Even after his family moved out of town to try their hand at farming he and I would write back and forth. Id visit his familys farm every summer.

Its not summer now, though. The air still holds a chill from winter and what rain weve had so far hasnt been much more than very wet snow. It comes down like rain but you can still see some crystals for a few seconds when it hits the ground.

This didnt dampen the mood of the graduation class, however. They were flat out determined to party. After all, it was the biggest graduation class theyd ever had: 12 students in all. Add in the other three grades and you had some thirty odd kids at the field party after the grad ceremonies. Add in some of the kids from the surrounding counties and you had quite a party.

Someone had volunteered their parents field for the event. The whole thing was a very stereotypical Saskatchewan field party: trucks backed up, one with its stereo blaring heavy metal, all circled around a huge bonfire. Tons of alcohol everywhere.

Kevin had come prepared. I dont know where he got the Baby Duck champagne but none of the kids seemed to have any trouble getting their alcohol. This wasnt the first time Id been drunk but it was the first time Id ever been drunk on wine. More on why thats important later.

They were passing around huge bottles of the stuff. Theyre called magnums I think, those huge bottles. Felt like I was lifting a gallon jug to my lips every time. The bottle never did get empty, either. I think someone kept opening a fresh one before the other got empty. However it was done, I have no idea how much Id drunk.

Throughout the party my imagination kept filling in scenes of numerous deaths, most of them involving the bonfire. Farm kids are always daring each other to jump over, or even better, walk through the bonfire. A lot of kids took up the dare. Im amazed none of the parents ever ask them why their cuffs are singed.

My imagination was filled with the odor of burning hair and seared flesh. I had visions of each kid tripping and falling into the bonfire, the flames and hot coals sizzling on their skin as they attempt to push their way out. In a big enough fire coals can shift like sand. I imagined pushing your way out of a bonfire could be like trying to push yourself out of a sand dune. Not necessarily as easy as it looks.

The burns would no doubt be horrific, many of them probably third degree. Especially with the polyester shirts some of the farm boys were wearing. But it wouldnt be the burns that would kill them. More likely it would be the fire and smoke inhaled as they struggled to stand, the heat drying and cauterizing the lungs, the smoke layering what little remained with tar and soot. By the time ambulances arrived miles out in the middle of nowhere the kid would probably have suffocated to death.

Before I knew it the sky began to get light towards the east. As soon as it was light enough to see where you were walking Kevin grabbed my arm and told me to come with him.

Wherere we going? I asked, my drunk feet barely able to keep up with his incredibly short stride. When the hell did he find time to be sober? I guess hed been to enough field parties to know when to stop drinking. Wish hed told me.

Were off to make our mark on the world. He told me with his usual lopsided grin.

Oh, I thought to myself, were going spray painting. As I groggily propelled my body into the passenger side of his truck I spied a box I hadnt noticed before. It was placed between my feet, which meant it wasnt there when wed driven out in the first place.

Whats in here? I slurred, prying open the box. I found a six pack of spray paint cans, confirming my earlier suspicions. Pulling one out I asked him whered hed hidden them.

They were in the box, he replied. I didnt understand what he meant until I remembered box mean back of truck. The things you dont learn when youre a city kid.

I moved them into the cab when the party started up. I didnt want anyone to see them.

Why? I asked.

Well for one thing some damn fool wouldve thrown one on the bonfire. They make a hell of a bang when they explode.

I looked at the can I pulled out. In the feeble predawn light my bleary eyes could barely read the label. Aside from the under pressure and flammable warning labels the only thing I could make out were the words fluorescent orange.

The other reason I didnt want anyone to see them is because I didnt want anyone to know I had them.

Why? I asked again, looking at him suspiciously, Are they stolen?

No. he shot out, clearly insulted. I just dont want anyone to know it was me.

You dont want them to know what was you?

Youll see. His lopsided grin was back and he didnt say anything else for a long time.

I figured he was talking about the usual spray painted declaration prairie kids did when they graduated. You can see them on any major structure within visual distance of the highways in the prairies. Kids risk life and limb to spray paint GRAD 79, or whatever year they graduated, onto water towers, overpasses, or railway bridges. No granaries, though. Those tend to be repainted a little too often for the declaration to last.

I didnt relish the idea of Kevin talking me into climbing out onto some bridge to hang upside down and spray GRAD 82 in fluorescent orange letters. I began rehearsing my arguments against my risking my own life and limb for his classes graduation. If I was going to take reckless action it would be for my own grad next year.

It felt like wed driven for maybe two minutes, but the ride out to the farm had been a good hour or more so I knew wed driven longer than that. I think I must have passed out partway through the trip.

The next thing I knew we were parked by the side of the road. The highway was divided, with two lanes on each side, so it had to be the Trans Canada number 1. The only other divided highway in the entire province was hours away and the sun still hadnt come over the horizon yet.

Where the hell are we? I asked Kevin as he spun his way out of the drivers seat.

Bring out the whole box. He said to me, ignoring my question.

As I stumbled out of the truck, box held loosely under one arm, I saw a cattle crossing sign nearby. I reasoned we were halfway between Wappella and Moosamin. The kids from Wappella actually attend school in Moosamin, their town being too small to support a school of its own. On the way to the grad ceremonies Kevin had pointed out the lone cattle crossing sign to me, remarking how it was exactly halfway between the two towns. It was how he gauged whether or not he was late for school each morning.

Kevin grabbed a can from the box under my arm.

Grab a seat, he said, shaking the can and grinning, this is going to take a while.

Propping myself up against one of his rear tires I watched him begin to spray a long, straight line from the base of the cattle crossing sign out across the road. Once he reached the other side he immediately began working on another line crossing back.

Exhausted and drunk I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me.

What?! I demanded, pissed off that he wasnt going to let me nap. Then I saw the road.

Kevin had painted a frighteningly realistic crosswalk across it, originating at the sign and crossing both lanes. He even added in the thick, diagonal lines typical of a big city crosswalk. It looked picture perfect.

Uh, okay, I said, I guess thats kind of funny.

Im not done. He said, squinting a grin in my direction. The sun had risen from the horizon behind me and the day was just starting to heat up. I realized then that I was freezing. Sleeping on cold asphalt had leeched whatever heat I had gained from the bonfire. With my arms crossed and shivering I followed Kevin partway across the road.

He began painting again, but not straight lines this time. As he worked I kept a nervous watch over my shoulder. It was too early for cross country travelers to be glazing their way across the wide ass prairie, and the farmers were already in their fields, so the risk of traffic was pretty minimal. Still, it made me damned nervous to be standing in the middle of the highway.

Looking back at Kevin I finally saw what it was he was painting on the crosswalk. The outline looked to be about five ten. He had half the body outline, the legs and waist, on the crosswalk itself with the head and arms splayed out beyond. Other than the fact it was done with spray paint it looked like a perfect crime scene outline straight from every cheap crime thriller movie.

Theres a reason Kevin and I have remained friends for so long. We share the same grim sense of humor. I had to smile at his little joke.

Okay, I admit, that is funny.

Oh its still not done. He said, moving to wards the truck. Get in.

I hopped back in the truck and Kevin drove across the median, taking off down the road into the sunrise..

Where are we going? I asked, genuinely curious. I thought hed told me the crosswalk wasnt finished. Are you out of paint?

No, I still have one left. But I dont need much.

I sat back, more confused than before.

Suddenly Kevin slowed the truck. At first I thought he was going to park again and maybe draw something else, but instead he guided the truck back across the median as soon as the truck was moving slow enough.

As soon as he was pointed back west he gunned the engine, rapidly brining the truck up to the speed limit then a little beyond.

Forget something? I asked. He just shook is head.

I saw the cattle crossing sign coming up quickly but Kevin didnt slow down. I barely had time to realize what he was doing before he slammed on the brakes and threw the truck into a skid.

Once the truck came to a complete stop he threw it into reverse, driving back to the crosswalk on the highways shoulder.

Getting out I finally saw the genius of his creation. Hed planted four perfect skid marks right across the dead body outline. Taking his remaining can he deftly touched up the diagram, making sure the body outline was on top of the skid marks while leaving the cross walk lines beneath.

As soon as he was done my mind was filled with an image.

The scene was at night, a cold spring rain pelting down in stinging drops. With cars occasionally zipping by the man is surprised to find a crosswalk out in the middle of nowhere. His car is miles back down the road, a thrown rod rendering it into a half ton paperweight.

Walking down the highway hes frustrated that no one seems willing to stop for him. Hed been driving for 48 hours, determined to make the trip from Toronto to Calgary in less than three days. So now hes exhausted, frustrated, and chilled to the bone.

So its not surprising that the crosswalk might confuse him into thinking hes finally found evidence of a town. Stumbling his way across, intent on reaching some imaginary gas station beyond, he doesnt even see the speeding car coming towards him.

The impact immediately snaps his legs into several pieces, along with his pelvis and much of his lower spine. Bouncing out onto the road breaks his arms. Falling beneath the car the wheels end up crushing his skull. Its unlikely he even had time to register the impact itself.

As I gazed at the crosswalk I had to struggle to not tell Kevin that the outline was too close, that the body would have been dragged several meters down the road. Instead I congratulated him on his wicked sense of humor and did my best to laugh convincingly.

We continued in to town, making it in time to be the first to the grad breakfast. Eating our portion of pancakes, sausage, and eggs, we were amused to hear the other kids come in talking excitedly about evidence of some accident out on the highway. They were all so well convinced it was hard to not tell them how I envisioned it happening.