On The Lam

Up, over the first fence. Chain link, about 3 or 4 feet tall. Heart pounding, face on fire and blood in my ears. THUD. My sneakers hit the ground. THUD THUD THUD THUD. Run….run faster. Remember Speed Camp. Coordinate alternating arm-swings with opposite leg-strides for top speed. Lean forward, drive your knees to your chest. Turn on the jets, hit the gas, GO.

Sounds over my left shoulder, I look. Just a second. Make sure I’m safe. Flashes of blue and red cascade across the darkened faces of neighboring houses. Big Brian Townsend, the defensive end, lags behind. His massive frame heaves as he pants, but he races on. Over my right shoulder now: a gaggle of girls, heels in hand, running through the wet grass of the backyard towards the chain link. The bass cuts off, the music is caput. Shadows cut across the illuminated backdoor entryway as kids pour out. Abandon ship! Large silhouettes with boots and Billy clubs and tasers and guns and glittering shields of Authority emerge in hot pursuit.

“Hey….HEY! YOU KIDS GET BACK HERE. IF YOU COME BACK, YOU’LL BE IN LESS TROUBLE. THOSE OF YOU WHO DON’T…”

The second fence looms ahead, a wood fence, taller than the chain link. The cross beam is on the other side; this side is flat and hopeless. This yard is barren. No grass. No trees. Just dirt and a rusty railroad spike hammered into the ground and anchoring a taught steel chain holding back a snarling pit bull with tense knotted muscles and slobbery teeth in black gums and a mangy coat. He pulls and pulls and pulls at the chain and it gives and gives and gives ever so slightly to each mighty tug.

A scream, high and piercing, melts into sobbing, and finally settles in a state of theatric whimpers. The girls. Busted. Big Brian Townsend’s now in the backyard desert wasteland with me, running towards the fence.

“WOOF! WOOF WOOF WOOF!!! WOOF!”

“Oh shit!”

Big Brian, now aware of the dog, approaches the fence. The dog pulls and pulls and pulls, and that railroad spike, being as old and rusty and unreliable as it is, continues to give and give and give. I back up, appraise, no other options, and go. Go. Charging forward, I take the leap of faith. My hands catch the top of the fence. Millions of rotten splintery teeth gouge at my palm. A plank breaks.

“There are more kids over here!”

Heave ho!, lifting myself up and over. Another plank breaks, but just the top. I’m on the other side, standing on the cross-beam. Watching Big Brian. He tries to jump the fence like me; his weight breaks a plank and he falls backwards into the dirt and weeds. But he’s up in a second, and tries again with the same result. He’s too heavy. Too much protein and strength conditioning or something. The dog is really goin at it now, like REALLY. With one last mighty tug he unearths the spike. The pigs in their navy blue are at the chain link, one is already over. Both animals converge on Big Brian, but at the last second the dog veers towards the officer and blindsides him. He’s got a hold of the man’s arm, really gnawing and throwing his head to and fro. The officer is screaming for help. I drop from the fence into a green pasture of a yard. A tree or two. A bird feeder. Benches and a BBQ grill. There’s even flowers.

The mess on the other side continues. I want to help everyone. I want that dog off the man. I want Big Brian safe in the green pasture yard. I mostly want to save my own skin. An explosion of dust and splinters and nails and timber erupts from the fence and Big Brian surges through the hole with his head tucked and shoulder forward like a battering ram. Through the hole 2 cops beat the pit bull’s brains onto the dirt with their billy clubs. Brian and I look at each other, grin, and fly like bats off into the night.