The scariest day of my life

I never liked Karl. His name may have been Carl. But because I thought he looked like a member of the National Socialist German Workers Party, I’m calling him Karl. He was a few years older than me. He was awkward looking. Too tall. Too thin. IcabodCranian Adam’s apple rivaled in protrudiness only by his raptorlike beak of a nose, Sittin’ way up high. Sittin’ way up firm and high. Also, he had a serious case of the bitch hips. In fairness, all of this was my perspective of him at the time. Looking back on it, he was nerd-cool. But we didn’t have that back then.

He wore his stringy dark hair combed to one side in the classic style of say, Der Führer. He usually complimented his dark trousers with a turtleneck that mostly failed to mask the prominence of his laryngeal, um prominence. Rounding out the textbook nerd look, Karl sported a nice cardigan from the Mr. Rogers line and some spiffy penny loafers. Understandable dress considering he attended private school. But for the love of God man, change into some jeans and stuff when you get home. Especially if you’re going to go play tag.

At the time of the scariest day of my life, I was about 10 or 11 years old. My best friend was Steve, oh sorry – Stephen, man I still do that. Anyway Stephen was the smartest funniest bestest buddy I ever had. He was also a nerd, but I didn’t know that yet. I thought Stephen and I were both pretty much like The Fonz. Stephen a little less than me because he refused to attempt to catch any ball thrown to him. He always took evasive maneuvers. Also, he wanted to be called "Stephen".

Karl was Stephen’s next door neighbor. He went to Brownell Talbot. The only thing I knew about the school at that time was that it was where Karl went, and it sounded like the kind of a school that jerks like Karl would go to. Remember – this was a child’s impression. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized that it was precisely the kind of school that jerks like Karl go to. He commuted by Vespa. His Vespa had a basket for his books, but I always imagined he used it to steal little dogs from Kansas farm girls during twister season.

Until I was about 45 years old, I believed I would someday be a great movie actor. Renowned and loved the world over. I still maintain a glimmer of hope. Back in the day, I believed someone would just somehow discover me without me having to go through the trouble of auditioning for anything or learning how to act or sing or dance, etc. I believed I was so great that my greatness could not be hidden for too long. It was only a matter of time before my extreme talent was realized and - “Sorry parents, but I have to go to Hollywood now”. It could even happen during a game of tag.

One thing I could do was run fast. Not like the fastest ever or anything. I knew there were kids faster than me. When I was in 4th grade there were 2 kids (siblings) at the school faster than me. One was in the fifth grade and his sister was in sixth grade. But they weren’t playing any tag with us, so …

That reminds me; I annually won the long jump competition at our school too. So at the time I had my sight set on Beamon’s record. “What are you doing?” Dad asked me one time upon discovering me in the back yard running and jumping into the clothes line.

“I’m practicing because when I grow up, I’m going to beat Bob Beamon’s long jump record.”

“No you won’t,” encouraged my dad, turning and going back into the house.

“We’ll see about that,” I muttered under my breath. Ok yeah, now I’m ready to admit he was right since Mike Powell has since beaten it. I should have said more generally, “I’m going to beat the long jump record.” I’m not sure how dad knew that Beamon’s record would fall to someone other than me. But he did. Eerie.

The thing about running is that footwear and terrain both play a role. For instance, a cheap pair of tennis shoes on slick grass may not be the best, but you know what it's better than? A pair of penny loafers, that's what.

So one day, a bunch of us were playing a friendly little game of tag. I loved tag. I was typically ‘it’ when I decided to be. I was rarely ‘tagged’. But today was different. We had some older kids in the mix today. Well, it was my aunt Debbie, aged 16, and Karl, 14 or maybe 15. Debbie was there because she hung out with us sometimes. Karl was there because he was in love love love with Debbie. Karl had never played anything with us, except I think he sometimes played chess with Stephen. Oh there it is. Just drudged up the whole reason for my dislike of Karl. Jealousy. Stephen was my chess playing buddy, not Karl's! We don’t like Karl, Stephen. How can you play chess with him?

Not that Debbie would have had anything to with Karl. But it didn’t stop him trying. Debbie was cooler than all of us. She drove a cool black Mustang II with the gold racing stripes. Obviously, way out of Vespa boy’s league.

So we’re playing tag and I’m “it”. Karl is near me showboating for Debbie. I’m thinking the strategy must have been something like, “Hey Debbie watch me torment your little kid nephew, thus proving the fates have determined you and I should go steady or something.”

Everyone else was farther away, so I went after a backpedaling Karl. I must have surprised him because he had to jump out of the way to evade getting tagged. He was just a little late. Perhaps it was the penny loafers. By the fingertips, I was able to tag the inside of his right arm. I was very proud of this accomplishment. I had caught and vanquished a “big kid.” As ambassador for all of the children who actually belonged in the game, I was a bit of a hero. There was much shoulder patting and celebration. You know how when David slew goliath, the Jews were all happy and stuff? I imagine it was pretty much like that.

What happened next was really not much of anything. Karl with his head hung low, walked over to the railing by the front porch, grabbed his cardigan and went home. Wow, we collectively thought. What a sore loser. No wonder he never plays with us. Or talks to us. Or looks at us. Oh well who wants to be ‘it’ now that Schicklgruber left?

“Engine, Engine number nine …”

“Excuse me? Which one of you is Fred Hinsley?” The voice belonged to an elderly lady. Well dressed, smelling of some fine fragrance like ‘Charlie’ or ‘Shower to Shower’. She had been given my name, but didn’t know which of us was me. My heart leapt. This is it! Finally the bozos in Hollywood got their shit together. This woman is obviously from the Talent Agency of Movies and Everything.

With a sly smile, a little click of the tongue and a wink, I pointed to myself, “Right chere, ma’am. So long suckers. Don’t be too jealous when you get the postcards.”

As this nice lady roughly grabbed my arm and started pulling me across the yard, I realized that if I’m going to be in the movies, I’m going to have to learn that their ideas about courteous behavior differ from ours. When she started saying things like, “They oughta keep people like you in a kennel.” I began to get a little bit terrified. When she dragged me against my will into Karl’s house It became clear that She was Karl’s mother and she was mad at me for something and she was going to take me into her house and kill me. I began to cry.

Three minutes later, I had been pushed down into a kitchen chair by the nice smelling evil fucking witch. Karl’s dad was pacing back and forth seething. “Have you had your rabies vaccination, you little animal?” he inquired. I was all out bawling at this point not knowing what to do. I was sure they were going to murder me to death and I had absolutely no idea why.

Karl’s mom is shouting something at me. I’m too distracted to understand what she is saying. Then I remember English. She is asking me what my phone number is. I’m still terrified, but relieved. For one thing, my parents had never abused me in this way. For another, if my dad answers the phone and finds out what is happening he will be killing Karl’s dad in roughly 9 seconds.

I give my phone number in a voice that would have won an academy award saying “A dingo ate my baby.”

Mom answers. Damn. Karl’s dad completely oblivious to the fact that a flip of the coin gave his mortal coil a stay of execution.

Witch: Um yes, Hello. Is this Fred Hinsley’s mother?

Mom: wahwahwahwah

Witch (in a very dramatic voice): Your son has bitten my boy!

Mom: wahwah

Me (protesting in 'dingo dines on baby' voice): I DIDN’T BITE HIM!

Witch: Doh! What’s this?

Karl’s Dad: Karl. Come down here.

Witch to mom: Hold please.

Karl’s dad: He says he didn’t bite you.

Karl: Actually no he didn’t.

Witch to mom: Sorry, hee hee, wrong number. Click.

Karl’s dad: Then what the hell happened to your arm?

Karl(suddenly adopting a british accent): Funny story that. He scratched me purely on accident during a little game of tag. Nothing too serious, I’m sure.

Witch to me: you’re free to …

She probably said “go” but I don’t know because I bolted out of that house faster than either of the siblings at my school have ever run. Karl’s dad was removing his belt. Hopefully to just whip Karl but I didn’t stay to find out.

Then the scariest thing in my life happened. I imagined what it would be like to grow up where Karl was growing up. My attitude of him changed instantly. I saw that he wasn't just some supreme asshole for no reason. I saw that he was a human being with fears and emotions just like the rest of us. And also, he was a supreme asshole.

Later when I got home and dad had been briefed, he went over to Karl’s house. Karl and his parents disappeared in the night a few days after that.