STAND BY ME: Chapter 9
Chapter 9
DARKNESS IN THE FOREST
We walk another kilometer and then decide to stop for the night. There is still some light, but no one wants to keep going. We are very tired. The dump and the bridge took a lot out of us. We were exhausted. But it is more than that. We are in the forest now.
Somewhere out there is the body of a dead boy. A broken body, covered in flies. We don’t want to get close to him at night. We stop here because it feels safe. It feels far enough away. We know ghosts are not real. But still… we don’t want to be wrong.
Vern, Chris, and Teddy collect wood. They build a fire. Chris puts stones around it and clears the ground. The forest is very dry. He is careful. While they work, I cut some green sticks. I push balls of hamburger onto them.
When the fire is ready, we cook the meat. But we are too hungry to wait. The hamburger is black on the outside, red on the inside, and completely delicious.
After we eat, Chris opens his bag. He gives us each a cigarette. We lie on the ground and smoke. We feel like grown men. It feels good. “There’s nothing like a smoke after food,” Teddy says. “Absolutely,” Vern says. We lay our blankets on the ground. We lie down.
For a long time, we talk. We talk about fishing. We talk about sports. We talk about the summer that is almost over. Teddy tells a story about a time he was at the lake. A man jumped into the water and hit his head. He almost drowned to death. We talk about school. We talk about teachers. We do not talk about Ray Brower. But I think about him.
There is something horrible about night in the forest. Darkness comes too quickly. It doesn’t seem natural. There are no lights. No cars. No voices. No mothers calling from houses. In the forest, night feels different. It feels sudden. It feels wrong. I think about Ray Brower.
I am not frightened. I do not think he will suddenly appear as a ghost. I feel sadness for him. He is all alone in the dark. If something comes to eat him, it will. His mother is not there to stop it. His father is not there, either. Or any of his friends. No one is there. I feel something inside me start to break. If I keep thinking, I will cry.
“Hey, tell that story,” Chris says suddenly. “What story?” I ask. But I already know. I always feel uncomfortable talking about my stories. I know the others like them, but writing my stories feels private. I don’t feel I am ready to share them.
One day, another friend of mine, Richie, found my stories in my room. They were hidden under a pile of comic books. He picked them up and asked, “What’s this?” “Nothing,” I said, trying to take them back.
But I did not try very hard. Part of me wanted him to read them. Part of me did not. I felt proud. And also embarrassed at the same time. Richie sat on my bed and read for hours. When he finished, he looked at me differently. “You’re pretty good,” he said. “You should show these to Chris.” I told him no. I wanted it to stay secret.
But Richie told the others anyway. And soon, they all read my stories. Most of them liked what I wrote. Most of my stories were about violence and danger. People died, criminals returned from the dead, and heroes fought them with guns. I also wrote a series about soldiers who fought in the War. Teddy loved those stories more than anything.
He would read them for hours. His eyes were wide. His face was tense, like he could hear the guns and explosions inside his head. I felt excited that he liked the stores so much. But sometimes it scared me a little.
Now my writing is just work. It doesn’t feel the same as it did when I was young. It is still important to me. But it’s harder now. Sometimes I think I won’t have any more good ideas. And that thought scares me more than I would like to say.
“What’s the story?” Vern asks nervously. “Is it a scary story?” “No,” Chris says. “It’s funny. It’s a little disgusting, but funny. Go on, Gordie.” “Is it about the War?” Teddy asks. “No,” Chris says. “It’s about a pie-eating contest.” “I haven’t written it all yet,” I say. “Yeah, you can still tell it,” Chris says. “OK,” I say.
“It’s about a fake town called Gretna.” “Gretna? That’s a stupid name,” Vern says. “It’s not a real town,” Chris says. “Gordie just said that. Stop talking and listen.” I continue.
“In this town, they have a big festival every year. On the last night of the festival, they have three main events. First there’s a running race for the little kids. There’s an egg catch for older kids. And finally there’s a pie-eating contest. That’s the biggest event.”
“The main kid in this story is named Davie Hogan. But everyone calls him Lard-Ass Hogan. He’s about our age, but he’s fat, really fat. He weighs about a hundred kilos. People make fun of him all the time. They laugh at him. They’re really cruel to him.” The others all nod. They understand.
“So Lard-Ass can’t take it anymore. He wants revenge. He joins the contest. There is a prize of five dollars if he wins, but he doesn’t care about that. He wants everyone to remember him.”
“On the night of the contest, there is a big crowd. The street is full of people. There’s a platform and a table for the contestants. The pies are blueberry pies that year. They have to eat the pies with their hands behind their backs.” I can see they are all paying attention now.
“The contest starts. Immediately Lard-Ass eats faster than the others. He pushes his face into the pie. Blueberry juice covers his face. He finishes the first pie. “Done!” then another pie, “Done!” then another, “Done!” People are surprised. They start cheering.”
“But something else is happening,” I say. “Lard-Ass never wanted to win the contest. Before the contest started, he drank a whole bottle of cooking oil. Now, something starts happening in his stomach.” I pause for a moment.
“His stomach begins to twist. It feels heavy and tight. It feels like it is going to explode. But he keeps eating. He pushes the pie into his mouth. He’s breathing harder and harder. He forces himself to keep eating. Then suddenly he stops. He lifts his head. His face is covered in blueberry juice. He looks at the crowd… and he smiles.”
They are very interested in the story now. They are leaning closer, in expectation. I continue. “There is a deep, terrible sound in his throat, like a volcano about to erupt. Then suddenly… He throws up. It comes out in a warm and stinking jet of vomit, right in the face of the contestant next to him.”
“The guy doesn’t have time to react. And he starts to throw up too. Women in the audience scream. One person in the audience looks at the vomit and begins to throw up too! Then another person pukes, and another, and another.”
“It’s like a chain reaction in the crowd. Mothers puke on daughters. The Franklin twins puke on each other. The Memorial War Veterans Group puke on their wives who sit in front of them. A little Pekingese dog escapes from its owner. It runs towards the platform. Marge Clemens pukes all over the dog as it runs by.”
“People are shouting. They are trying to get away. But it’s too late. Many in the crowd are throwing up. Some people slip on the wet vomit on the floor. Others just stand there in shock. Then the smell fills the air. It is thick and terrible. Vomit is everywhere, and people are slipping and falling into it.”
“The whole place is in chaos. But in the middle of all this, Lard-Ass just stands there. He is covered in pie and vomit, but he’s smiling. He finally got his revenge… and that’s the end,” I say.
They do not say anything for a moment. “What?” Vern says. “That’s it?” “Yeah,” I say. “That’s it.” “That’s not a very good ending,” Teddy says. “You could’ve made a better ending. Maybe he runs away or does something big.” “Maybe,” I say. Chris looks at me. The look on his face says, “See, I told you.”
It is getting late. But they want another story. So I tell one of Teddy’s favorites. It’s a story about a World War II soldier fighting the Germans. It isn’t very good, but Teddy loves it. The night gets quiet. We go to our blankets and lie down. One by one, we fall asleep.
