Please get permission before adapting or republishing my stories. Comment below or send a message to me at billy stuart 75 at gmail Thanks!!
Troll Bridge
Every town has the place—an abandoned building, an alleyway, a wooded area—where the ‘bad’ kids hang out. You know who I mean; the long hairs, metal heads, the druggies. It’s where these outsiders go to smoke cigarettes and listen to music. For us, it was the bridge over Boot Creek, the little stream that snaked through town. Boot Creek itself was rarely any more than a muddy ditch. But at the top of the bank there was an area where kids could hang out and make noise and ride their skateboards without the nosy gazes of adults.
My friends and I took to calling it, “Troll Bridge,” on account of it was occupied almost all the time by Billy Logan and his crew of pothead screwups. Billy was three years older than us but was only one grade ahead because he’d been held back twice. I was in the seventh grade and here was this giant, nearly fifteen-year-old bully running around terrorizing everyone. Don’t look so shocked. It was the eighties. Things were just like that. It was a different world then.
Anyway, Billy had grown this sort of scraggly goatee on his chin and my friend Chad made the remark that all that hanging out under the bridge was turning him into a Billy goat. My other friend Daniel pointed out that it had been the troll who lived under the bridge, not the goats. I agreed with Daniel, that Billy was much more like the troll than the goats. And after that, it was Troll Bridge, not Boot Creek, that we avoided as much as we could.
Now, like I said, this was the eighties and things were different back then. Westport is still a tiny town but back then it wasn’t much more than a few cross streets, some churches, the schools, and a few neighborhoods. It was the sort of town that it was really big news, like front page, that they were opening a new gas station on fifth street. So, in the eighties, I lived in a town that was still very much like the idyllic American towns they showed in TV shows from the fifties. The people were pretty religious and very patriotic. There were community events and boosters and on Fourth of July, everyone in town would drag a cooler to the beach to watch the fireworks display out over the bay.
There were no kidnappers or drug cartels, no perverts or traffickers. There was nothing to be afraid of in Westport, except for maybe Satan. But, you know, it was the eighties. Everyone was scared of the devil back then. So, when it came to things for me to be afraid of, it was pretty much Satan and Billy Logan. And although we were all plenty scared of the devil, Billy Logan was someone we saw every day.
The thing was, although he was a giant asshole and I was terrified of the guy, I stood in awe of Billy Logan. Here was a guy who did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Billy dressed in nothing but ripped jeans, black heavy metal t-shirts, and combat boots. His hair was working on being long, with the back hanging somewhat longer than the front. You’d call it a mullet now but back then, it was what metal head kids did between figuring out they wanted long hair and actually having it. Occasionally I’d see him riding around town on his bike, a tweaked-out BMX with mix and match parts. He was always leaning back, riding without hands, smoking a cigarette. He was also always sure to use the other hand to give you the finger if he saw you looking.
Now, I realize that bullies are created by being bullied and that the story of Billy Logan was probably a horribly tragic one, full of neglectful parents and cries for help. I know this. Part of me knew it then, too. You had to know that this sort of thing was not normal; that kids just didn’t go around failing grades and being assholes because they were just naturally that cool. I realize that he probably had a terrible home life and was just acting out. And teachers? If I had to bet what the teachers were all talking about most of all in that tiny, smoke-filled teacher’s lounge, it was Billy Logan. He had already been left back twice; there was no way this kid was going to college. Any decent grade he made was, in all likelihood, a sympathy mark, if he even bothered to show up for the class. So, the teaches more or less left him alone. And, for what it’s worth, he obviously didn’t have parents breathing down his neck all the time. Like some throwback version of Tyler Durden, he was free in all the ways that I was not. And I craved that freedom.
Another reason I took a shine to Billy Logan was because of the way Amy Martin looked at him the day he rode his skateboard through the cafeteria at lunch time. I’d had a crush on Amy since the fifth grade and had nearly gotten up the nerve to ask her to the dance before hearing through the grapevine that she’d already been asked. Amy had an older brother that kept her informed of what was cool. She knew about music and books that we’d never heard of before. She had this sort of maturity, this, sophistication that set her apart from the other girls in class. She was also really, really pretty so, brave or not, I knew chances were slim that I’d ever have a shot at a date with her.
I was standing in the line with Chad and Daniel when the door to the cafeteria slammed open with a loud ‘BANG.’ Startled, everyone turned to see what had happened. There was Billy, riding his board, hands raised in the heavy metal devil horns salute. He coasted to the center of the room and did a 360-degree spin before stopping and kicking the board into his hand. He looked around dramatically and in his best Jeff Spicoli voice said, “Hey, there’s no birthday party for me here!”
Everybody laughed and watched as Billy began to make his way to the exit, being flanked on both sides by angry lunchroom monitors. He faked left and then bolted right, slipping just under Coach Holden’s reaching fingers and then kicked open the door to the courtyard. When he realized he was free, he stuck a middle finger in the air before hitting the hitting the final door that opened to the parking lot. As the door swung shut, we could hear him cackling as he ran away.
The cafeteria was abuzz with excitement. Billy had been bad before, but nobody had ever done something so outright crazy. Some people were shaking their heads in exasperation. Others were discussing just how the school might go about punishing him when he came back on Monday. One thing’s for certain, the only thing anyone was talking about was Billy Logan and the stunt he’d just pulled. Chad and Daniel guessed that he’d probably, finally be expelled, and we would be over the terror of Troll Bridge.
I wasn’t listening to any of it. You see, I’d only been watching Billy out of the corner of my eye. When he’d entered the room, I had been sneaking glances at Amy Martin. I’d seen her reaction to his antics. And her reaction was anything but exasperation, anger, or pity. No, hers was a serious interest. I realized that she was watching him like I was watching her. Amy liked Billy Logan! She must have felt me watching because she turned to look at me. I turned away for a second and looked back. Amy was watching Billy again.
I decided then and there that I needed to be friends with Billy Logan. Somehow, I thought, he could show me how to be cool and whimsical and free like he was. Girls like bad boys? Fine, I was going to learn from the baddest of them all. The following Friday, when Chad invited me and Daniel over to his house after school, I declined, saying that my dad was making me do a bunch of chores. What I really had planned was to head down to Troll Bridge and see if I couldn’t borrow a cigarette from Billy.
Now, I want you to realize that I wasn’t lonely or weird or nerdy or any of those things. (Although I probably was all of those things without being aware of it.) Most of my class had been together since kindergarten and everyone’s parents knew each other. There weren’t any real “out” groups at our little school. There simply weren’t enough students for that.
But that was the thing. Everyone was so boringly normal that any deviation was just so incredibly interesting. I wonder sometimes if Billy’s antics would have been received in the same way at a larger school in a city somewhere. Our school, it seemed, was just unable to deal with a delinquent like him. And whether it was good or bad, he got everybody’s attention.
Me? If I tried to pull anything even sort of silly, my folks would have my ass. My dad was former military and super strict. He had traveled the world and knew more than all the pansies out there. There was one correct way to do everything and anything other than that way was not only wrong, but almost personally insulting to him somehow. He was a man of very few words who always had his nose in a book, and most of the time that book was the Bible. My mother was also quite strict and spartan, if not just a little gentler than my dad. And, hell, I’m probably not even being fair. Mom used to tell me that Dad had a hard time during the war; that he’d seen horrible things that he couldn’t even talk about. So, I guess they were doing the best they could with what they had.
They were still strict as hell, though. Even in our tiny town where nothing ever happened, and nothing ever went wrong, I had a seven o’clock curfew, eight on weekends. I had to call and check in all the time, and when friends were getting together for sleepovers or campouts, I was almost never allowed to go. Even when I was allowed, Mom would have to call and check and double check with everybody’s parents before I got permission. As elementary school gave way to junior high, I had expected the shackles to be loosened a bit but so far, no such luck. I was wrapped just as tightly in parental supervision as I’d ever been and every day, my resentment was growing.
As I watched Billy burst out those doors with his middle finger in the air; as I watched a kid flaunt complete and total disregard for authority and rules and parents and pretty much everything else, and, well, just walk away, Scott-free, I had to be a part of this. I had to find out how he did it. I needed to know how not to give a shit. Not in the way that everyone else did. I needed to be Billy Logan’s friend. I needed to be a badass who didn’t give a fuck what people thought. I needed to find out what went on under that goddamned bridge.
The following Friday, I said goodbye to my friends with as much false sincerity as I could muster. Yes, it sucked so much. Yeah, it was gonna be hot and stupid, but that was Dad and his arbitrary chore assignment. Yeah, I’d see everyone on Monday. Well, unless I saw them at church but, yeah, see you Monday. I hitched my backpack up and headed across the football field and through the alley behind the grocery store. I stopped there to grab a soft drink for the bridge, then decided to grab a second just in case Billy wanted one.
It was a strange walk out to Boot Creek Bridge. I no longer wanted to think of it as Troll Bridge now that I was going to be one of its occupants. We weren’t bad people. We were just misunderstood. We liked music and skateboards and there wasn’t anything wrong with that. Did we like beer and cigarettes? Well, admittedly, I’d had neither. But hell yeah, we smoked and drank. It was just what we did and if you didn’t like it, you could just go on home.
I imagined myself, dressed in ripped jeans and black t-shirt playing guitar in a band while Billy screamed to the world that heavy metal had landed in Westport and everyone who didn’t like it could fuck off. I actually played air guitar as I walked across the video store parking lot. This was real. This was going to happen. I’d just need to get and learn to play a guitar and we’d be on MTV by this time next year.
I crossed over Seventh and made my way onto County Road 9 and made sure to stay far to the side to keep from getting hit by the crazies who treated 9 as their own private race track. It wasn’t far, only a couple hundred yards to the bridge. I’d crossed it hundreds of times on my way to and from school. There was nothing special or interesting or scary about it.
Except this was Troll Bridge. Billy ‘Gruff Troll’ Logan was under there. And I had come to meet him. I had come to face the monster. And not only that, I was going to try to tame him enough to make friends with me; to play heavy metal, a subject I knew the square root of fuck-all about. Under there was a kid who shined off teachers and parents alike. Grownups had nothing on him. All of their power, strength, and authority meant nothing. The monster under the bridge was beyond the control of any adult and adults were the place where kids like me placed all their hope and trust to keep things safe and normal. Billy Logan spit on all that and laughed at everyone’s attempts to even try. And here I was with an extra can of Dr Pepper and thinking I’d be able to tame the beast.
I hesitated at the place where the asphalt met the dirt and clustered sticker burrs swayed in the southeast Texas breeze. What the hell was I thinking? I leaned on the guardrail and thought back over my plan. I would go down there, act like life had just been too much to bear and pretend like I was just supposed to be there. If there was any conversation, I’d just shake my head and pretend like my problems were just too much to talk about. I would ask for a cigarette, then lean against the wall and talk to Billy Logan, man to man. Once we got to talking, I’d go for the gold.
Rambo was the biggest movie at the time and it just so happened that my uncle had taken my cousin Thomas and me to see it. Afterward, on the way through the mall to his car, we stopped into the knife store and he bought us both official Rambo survival knives. I remember being so excited on the drive home, Thomas and I sitting in the backseat comparing identical blades. It was nearly a foot long with a sharp blade on one side and a saw or something on the other. The handle had a compass on the end and you could unscrew it to get to all the cool stuff hidden inside. There were fish hooks and sewing needles, a handful of matches and a strike strip, some fishing line and thread for the needle. The sheath even had a compartment in front for a little blue sharpening stone. When I had this knife, I felt prepared for anything. Well, anything except for my father.
When we got home that day, I left my new knife on the back seat of my uncle’s car. Thomas and I ran to the backyard while my uncle talked to my dad. I have no idea what they talked about except that a while after they left, Dad came into my room holding my survival knife and said we needed to talk.
“Son,” he said, scratching the bridge of his nose, “Your uncle Darren told me he bought you and Thomas a present.”
I just looked at him before shrugging. He looked uncomfortable.
“It’s just that,” he paused and looked around. Anywhere but at me. “It’s that, I think a boy needs a good knife. I’d been meaning to get you one myself.”
Shocked, I turned to him, “So it’s all right?”
His normally serious gaze turned to a smile. “Of course it is. I just want to make sure you know how to use it. A knife, any knife, but especially one as big as this one, needs to be treated with respect. Can I trust you to keep it clean and sharp and put away when it’s not in use?”
“Yes sir!” I hopped up off the bed and gave him a hug. And to my surprise, he hugged me back.
“I’m serious, son,” he said again, “The fastest way you’ll get into trouble is to go around doing stupid things with stupid people. I want that knife either on your belt or on the top shelf of your closet. Do not take it anywhere you could get in trouble for it. No school, no church, no nothing. You can use it here in the back yard and that’s about it. Okay? We’ll go camping soon and you can do what you like, but until then, please keep it put away, okay?”
I had been shocked but also just so damn happy. It had been the first time I could think of that my old man spoke to me like I was a man and not some little kid. I’d kept my word, too. I’d kept it on the shelf when I wasn’t camping. It was the least I could do to keep my prize.
Today, however, I had gone the other way. Today, that knife was stuffed between the soda cans in the front pocket of my backpack. Today, if soft drinks and small talk didn’t work, I would prove to Billy that I could be cool. After all, only cool people would have a knife like mine, right? Or rather, only cool people would have the nerve to carry it around in their backpack at school. I would show him the knife and he would think I was cool and I’d be allowed into the gang and that would be that. It couldn’t fail.
I hesitated a moment longer before hitching up my pack and walking down the sandy embankment on the side of the bridge. Just a few feet off the road, in a spot that was not visible from up there, were many layers of spray paint in different colors. I couldn’t make out what most of it said as it was painted over itself and nearly impossible to read. There were the names of bands such as Slayer and Iron Maiden, among others. Most of these I failed to recognize. Further down, the graffiti got heavier, and I could make out swastikas and little phrases that I imagined were song lyrics. Among these phrases, more prominent than the others were the phrases, “Hail Satan,” and, “God is Dead.” For whatever reason, the “Hail Satan” message didn’t bother me, but “God is Dead” gave me pause. Not for the first time, I thought I was making a mistake and should just turn and go home.
“The hell are you?” a voice called from under the bridge. I took a few more steps, then followed the voice. Billy Logan was sitting against the concrete embankment smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine. To say he looked surprised to see me was an understatement. He regarded me carefully, “Who’s with you? What do you want?”
“Nobody’s with me. I came by myself,” I sighed and tried to play cool, “It’s just been one of those days. Teachers all on my ass. Needed to come and think.”
Billy just watched me as I walked around considering the graffiti. He set his magazine down and leaned forward, his arms hugging his knees, then stood up slowly. I did not know what to make of him moving like that. He seemed almost like a cat ready to pounce. I had expected him to say something, but he didn’t. This wasn’t going well. I gestured to his cigarette, “Mind if I get one of those?”
He exhaled a giant plume of smoke through his nose before reaching into his shirt pocket and tossing me a stick. Of course, it fell short and I had to walk over to pick it up. I looked at it for a second and then put it between my lips. I then patted my pockets as if looking for a lighter we both knew I didn’t have. “Got a light?”
Rolling his eyes, he produced a Zippo and tossed it as well, but I caught it this time. I flipped the top and struck it, puffing on my first ever cigarette, getting it lit before closing the lid and tossing the lighter back to him. I took a mouthful of smoke and blew it into the air. I looked at the cigarette and back to Billy, “Hmm, Camel. I haven’t had one of these before,” I shrugged, “It’s good.”
Billy narrowed his eyes and moved away from me. He knew I was full of shit; knew that I didn’t smoke. He knew that I didn’t belong here. The only thing he wasn’t sure of yet was why. Why was I here? What did I want? He walked over and stood over a rusted oil drum, the kind you see in movies being used as a fireplace by homeless people. He kicked it a couple of times. It made a deep ringing sound that echoed loudly off the concrete that surrounded us. He still stared at me and said nothing. His silence was suddenly terrifying. I started to say something, thought better of it, then remembered the cigarette in my hand and brought it up for another puff.
“That’s not how you do it, dweeb,” he said, “You pull it into your mouth, then you inhale it. Like this.” He took a drag, inhaled, then let it out in a slow exhale. “What’s a kid your age doing smoking anyway? What are you, twelve?”
I hesitated before answering, “Uh, thirteen, actually. I mean, almost. In a few weeks I’ll be thirteen.” The cigarette burned between my fingers and I tried again, following Billy’s instructions. My biggest fear was that I would start coughing. I didn’t. What happened was that I was immediately dizzy. I felt nauseated. Something was wrong. I looked up at Billy through teary eyes and he laughed.
“Jesus, kid. You are pretty fucking stupid.”
The nausea soon passed but was replaced by a keening headache. I had no idea why. My only guess was that I had somehow smoked the cigarette incorrectly. Too fast or too much at once. Either way, I was pretty miserable now. That feeling was made worse by the laughing bully I’d come down here to impress. I tossed the cigarette away and turned to leave. This whole thing had been a mistake. People like this, places like this; they were all out of my league. Girls like Amy Martin were just as unattainable. I would just have to accept that.
I took a few steps back toward the road when something crashed into me from behind. By knees buckled and I went down on my stomach and face on the concrete. “Where ya goin’, Kiddo?” Billy laughed as he pulled my right arm up behind me and pinned it against my backpack. The pain was so sudden and so immense that I barely had time to register what had happened. Billy was dragging me to my feet by very nearly ripping my arm out of its socket. I screamed as I staggered up and then forward, my arm being used to steer my body. He walked me to the oil drum and then stopped.
“You owe me a cigarette, asshole,” he said, “I think there’s one in there. Go get it.”
And with that, he shoved my head into the drum. He pushed and pulled until I was inverted in the can, my arm now pinned between my backpack and my steel prison. He then lifted my legs and gravity pulled me to the bottom of the can where my head and left arm splashed into a nasty slush of rancid water and wet cigarette butts. The odor of this and whatever else was in that liquid immediately made me throw up and now I was covered in that too. I used my left arm to try to push myself out, but it was no use. I was stuck fast. And even if I wasn’t, I wasn’t able to do a one-handed inverted pushup, even when I wasn’t covered in vomit and shit water.
It was completely dark. Whichever way I was situated in the barrel, there was no light. I could not move and as my body settled, either through relaxing muscles or gravity pulling me, I felt myself getting stuck even tighter than before. I kicked my legs frantically, hoping to throw the can off balance so maybe I could crawl out. No such luck. Then Billy must have kicked the can because I was assailed with a tremendous noise that rattled my teeth. He kicked it a few more times and each time was just as bad as the first. Then everything went quiet.
The quiet was the worst part. The quiet was where I could begin to think about what had happened to me. All at once the walls of my prison began to close in on me. Everything that had been black in the darkness went a sudden and stark white.
I was going to die. I knew now. Nobody knew where I was. I was stuck in this barrel, my arm losing feeling. Billy could just leave me here and there was forever and always nothing I could do about it. My body slid another half inch into the barrel and my neck turned at an odd angle. This was it. My stupid, stupid self. I tried one more time, kicking, pushing, screaming, every ounce of energy pushed as hard as I possibly could against a captor that could not yield. Breathing was becoming difficult with the way my body pressed on my neck. I tried again to shift a little, just to help myself breathe but it was no use. I could not move.
Then something happened.
I wiggled the fingers on my pinned right hand and when I did, something in my backpack shifted. I had an idea. If I could somehow shift the contents of my bag, it might make enough room for me to slip out of the barrel. I didn’t have time to think about it. It was my only hope.
I began to probe the pack with the limited range of motion I had. There, right next to my thumb was a zipper. I worked my fingers until I moved the zipper enough to make a hole, then I pulled the compartment open. One of the soda cans fell out and landed with a splash next to my head. Using my hand to push on the inside of the compartment, I inhaled and pushed and the second can fell out as well. I then gripped the handle of my knife and pulled it free of the bag. When I relaxed, I slid further into the can. My right arm came free and I was able to throw the barrel off balance and knock it over. I scrambled out of the barrel onto the sandy concrete under the Boot Creek bridge. I gasped for air and then choked. Giant hacking, choking coughs followed as I rolled over and coughed up a cigarette butt. I then threw up again, although this time there was nothing left but bile.
I sat there for a moment, on my knees, trying to focus, trying to see, trying to make sense of anything at all. My ears were still ringing from when the barrel had been kicked. My eyes, nose, and mouth were full of vomit and shit water.
I glanced up to see the shape of Billy Logan approaching me. He appeared to be smiling and had a hand out. I needed to run, to escape, to get away. He had done this to me. He hadn’t meant for me to escape. He was going to put me back there, back in the barrel. I scrambled backwards as he came toward me. I looked to my left and then to my right and then I noticed I was holding my knife. I quickly popped the snap and pulled it from its sheath. I then held it in both hands and lunged at Billy Logan and sunk its blade, all ten inches of STAINLESS CHINA into his belly.
Billy’s eyes went wide as I stabbed him. He screamed and staggered backward, taking the knife with him as the blade slipped from my hands. He tried to pull it from his stomach, but the inverted saw teeth on the back side of the blade held it in. A blackish red stain appeared on his Iron Maiden t shirt and he fell to his knees. He tried to speak but all that came out was a blubbering nonsensical slur and a pained hiss. He then toppled over and rolled down the embankment into the littered ditch that was Boot Creek. He landed on his back, the handle of the knife now laying flat against his stomach. I thought for a second of all the damage that thing must have done as it got knocked side to side and up and down as he tumbled. He kicked a time or two, weakly, in the wet scrabble of trash at the bottom of the ditch, then went still.
What had I done? Oh my God, what had just happened? Adrenaline and panic rose, almost as badly as it had been in the bottom of the barrel. Bile rose in my throat and I threw up for the third time that afternoon. What now? Should I call the police? Should just I run away? I should get help. That’s what I should do. But what help? I was no doctor, but I imagined a ten-inch blade making random cuts inside the body cavity of a person. There was no help for Billy Logan. The kid was dead. If not now, then definitely by the time I could find someone and bring them back.
I should just run. Go out to the train yards and hop on the first one going anywhere. I would just live as a man on the run, telling stories to younger men about the dangers of bridges and trolls. I shook off the thought.
“What are you, twelve?”
Billy’s voice in my head. I was. I was just twelve. And I had just stabbed a guy to death. What kind of prison do they send a twelve-year-old murderer to? Certainly not Juvie, the place they send shoplifters and vandals. No, my prison, the one for murderers was, had to be, much worse. It was full of kids just like Billy Logan except, no. Logan might have been a dick, but he was no killer. So, it was full of kids that were even meaner than Billy Logan.
I shuddered. I could not go to prison. Not for this. This was an accident. This was self-defense. This was retaliation. Anyone could see my clothes and know that he had it coming. I was a good kid with good grades. My father was a decorated war veteran. Billy Logan was a piece of shit criminal who once tried to set the school on fire. If anything, I had done everyone, including myself, a favor.
I looked back at the now still body with the giant knife poking out of it and I knew that I was kidding myself. All the judge would have to ask was why I had that knife with me and why I had chosen to go under the bridge in the first place. Billy Logan had terrorized me in some way and I had gone down there seeking revenge. He had fought me, but in the end, the one with the huge knife used it to murder the harmless prankster. The gavel would come down and I would be escorted out in chains to spend the rest of my life among dangerous and violent criminals.
I had to cover this up. Had to conceal it. I had to get rid of the body.
Thunder pealed off in the distance to herald a coming storm. I stared at the body for a long time, daring myself to move. I knew that when I began to move, whatever I did, and whatever the results were, they were permanent. I was dealing with forever here and as the storm got closer, I knew my time was running out. How was I going to get rid of him? I looked around for an answer, then I found it.
The Barrel.
I would shove him in and close the top somehow. When Boot Creek came up with the runoff from the storm, Billy, barrel, and all would be washed out into the bay. Flushed away. Gone, gone, gone. I could think of no other solution, so I got to work. I took off my backpack and stashed it high on the bank, then rolled the barrel down into the ditch. The echoing noise it made as it bounced off the concrete was deafening, and I was sure that someone was going to hear and investigate. I couldn’t worry about that.
I ran down and pulled the knife from Billy’s belly. The saw teeth held chunks of flesh and gore that I would have to scrub to get off, but for now I needed to hide the knife as well. Then, if anyone came along, I could say I found him like this and was trying to get him out of rather than into the barrel.
I rolled the open end to his head and then lifted his head and shoulders into the can. He was heavier than I thought he would be and I wasn’t sure if I was strong enough to get the job done. I was also creeped out by his half-lidded eyes. I half expected him to jump up and grab me like the killer in a monster movie. I hoped he would, even. But I knew that he would not. He was dead, and I had to get him into this barrel.
I worked the barrel from side to side and inched the body into it little by little. Once I got a little past his hips, his head hit the bottom of the can and I couldn’t get the rest of him in. I sat there for a second thinking. When I’d been upside down in the barrel, my neck had turned and when it did, my body shifted and more of me had fallen in. I needed to use gravity to help.
I went to the open end of the barrel and tried lifting it up, but it was too heavy. I then bent Billy’s knees and tried to shove them in. One of them caught on the side of the can and made it easier for me to get a grip. I held onto the side of that barrel and pushed with all my strength. Harder and harder than I had ever tried to do anything before and little by little, the barrel righted itself and the body of Billy Logan slipped further inside.
Once I was done folding the other leg and pushing the corpse in, the barrel was only about three-quarters full. I thought about how to close the top.
The rain was closer now. I could smell it in the air along with the sludge and cigarettes from the barrel. The creek was flowing a bit more than it had been as well. I needed to hurry. How would I close this thing? There was no lid. Then I saw one of the Dr Pepper cans that had fallen from my backpack. It had fallen out and rolled down here with us and the top had been crushed somehow in all the confusion. I had a flash of inspiration and cast about looking for as big a rock as I could find.
I found what I needed and set to work collapsing the top of the barrel on two sides. I then hammered the sides in, basically sealing the top by crushing the top in on him. If I was lucky, the barrel would float away, maybe as far as the bay, and by the time they found the body there would be nothing to connect me to it in any way. As the rain began to fall around Boot Creek Bridge, I left the barrel and the worst mistake I’d ever made behind. I collected my backpack and my knife. I wondered about the spots of blood that glistened here and there on the concrete, but as the water began to flow down the sides of the culvert, I was comfortable that it would wash away. And even if it didn’t, it would blend with the swastikas and other graffiti down there. “God is Dead,” indeed.
I walked home in the rain, very slowly. I needed the water to wash me clean. I stopped behind the car wash and rinsed the blood and chunks off the knife. I would take a toothbrush to it later, but this would do for now. I cried as I worked. For the first time since Billy had attacked me, I had been able to actually think about what had happened. A series of full-bodied shudders shook me, and I cried from my core. I cried for myself and what was going to happen when they found me. I imagined the looks on my parents’ faces, my grandparents. I cried for my teachers and my friends and everyone I’d let down by trying this stupid stunt. Strangely enough, though, I didn’t cry for Billy Logan. I could still feel the wet, nasty cigarette butt lodged in my throat. No, although I cried for many, many things on that walk home, Billy Logan got none of my tears.
When I got home, Dad was still at work and Mom’s car was gone, meaning she was out running errands. And that meant I had time. I was completely drenched and fully exhausted, and the entire contents of my backpack were thoroughly soaked. I took out the knife and shoved it into my pants before dropping the bag in the laundry room and going to my room. I set the knife in its spot on my closet shelf and peeled my clothes off, running to dump them into the washing machine. I then got into the shower and scrubbed my entire body over and over again with the hottest water I could stand. When I was done, I brushed my teeth longer and harder than I ever had before or since. Then I started over again.
In the days that came, every phrase that anyone uttered scared me. I assumed that at any second, someone would call my name and there would be a cop waiting to take me in. I was a murderer, after all. In English class, we’d been studying Poe’s story, the Telltale Heart. Of course we were. I sat quietly as that heart beat in that crawlspace and that killer gave himself up to the cops. I felt like I was being tested. Like they knew it was me and were giving me a chance to give myself up. I started to wonder if cops got bigger paychecks if the criminals confessed because then they didn’t have to pay the lawyers as much.
Well, I was going to make them work for it. I wasn’t going to say a word until I had no other choice. Even if they put me in chains and took me away, I’d never tell anyone what I’d done. I tried to convince myself it had all just been a horrible dream anyway and that Billy Logan would come bursting through that door any minute now, middle fingers blazing. I knew he wouldn’t, of course, but I hoped.
It was a full five days before anyone reported Billy missing. Apparently, his attendance at home had been just as sporadic as at school and nobody even realized he was gone for almost a week. When the first missing person sign showed up on the bulletin board in the cafeteria, I just about fainted. People talked, of course. There were rumors. I listened to whoever was talking about what they’d heard. Billy had run away. He had a drug problem and owed a dealer. He moved to California to start a band. He got kidnapped by Satanists. He moved to California with a bunch of Satanists to start a band…
I relaxed a little as each one of these stories came out. At least none of them claimed to have seen Billy getting his guts pulverized by a twelve-year-old dork under the Boot Creek Bridge. Days turned into weeks and weeks to months. The local police had never liked that kid and were probably just happy that he had moved on. Everyone pretty much agreed that he had just run away from home. His mom showed up at city council meetings and swore that if he’d just run away, he would have at least called her by now. But she was a mean drunk who had punched a cop in front the Dixie Mart on Christmas Eve, so they didn’t like her either.
The missing persons signs faded and with them, the memory of Billy Logan. I turned thirteen without having been caught. Then fourteen. My folks moved from Westport to Dallas, then from Dallas to Tallahassee. I graduated high school, then college, and went on to have a family and a career in a city and state I’d rather not mention. In the end, nobody put much effort into finding Billy Logan. Not much effort at all. I suppose when all was said and done, he wasn’t someone I needed to be friends with, after all.