Murphy’s Stream
The letter only had twenty-one words, but it brought me back fifty years. Once again ten years old trying to understand that strange complicated friendship.
During those long lazy summers, Jason Smith and me spent most our time across town in Old Man Murphy’s barren field. Jason delighted in crushing grasshoppers like Godzilla stomping army tanks in Tokyo. “They eat the crops,” he always said - an excuse that might’ve made sense had milkweed and crabgrass been considered crops.
On that day, we sat on a crumbling cement slab, looking down at Murphy’s Stream, which was really just a drainage ditch on the south end of the field. The giant slab was stuck into the spongy ground of the weed-covered ravine.
A resident mother duck and her six ducklings swam around in the steady flow of water coming from a three-foot wide drainage pipe. Across the ravine about ten feet beyond the ducks was an ancient rusted wheelbarrow. Me and Jason could spend hours chucking rocks at that old iron beast. Sometimes we even hit it.
“Timmy, betchya can’t hit it with your glasses off,” Jason said to me. He was right of course. Without my thick coke bottles I could barely see him sitting next to me let alone the wheelbarrow. But I knew the etiquette of “betchya can’t” and immediately accepted his challenge.
“Just point me in the right direction,” I said and picked up a fist-sized chunk of cement. I turned toward the wheelbarrow and handed my glasses to Jason. “Watch this.”
I threw the cement hard as I could but an instant later heard only the disappointing kerplunk of my cement hitting the stream. Then a second fluttering kerplunk.
Jason howled, “Man, you hit a baby duck!”
I put my glasses back on, and was horrified to see the momma duck and only five of her babies scattering. One poor duckling floated lifelessly, spinning in the weak current.
“I…I didn’t mean to…” I said. “I’m sorry…I…”
“Aw, it’s just a duck,” Jason said.
“Yeah, but…”
“Don’t worry. People hunt ‘em all the time.”
“But it’s…it’s a baby.” Tears welled up in my eyes.
“Look, if you want to beat yourself up, try this.” Jason reached into his back pocket and pulled out something small, red and rectangular. “I swiped this nine volt battery from my pa’s transistor radio. If you give it a lick, it’ll shock that guilt right outta you.”
That wasn’t the type of penance I was looking for.
Jason could tell. “I bet you, and you lost. And you hit that poor defenseless baby duck. You have to lick the battery.” His smug “you have to” suggested he’d laid out a logic that I could not refute.
And I couldn’t. I grabbed the battery. It was an EVEREADY with that evil-looking black cat on the front. As I brought it toward my mouth, the two round contacts reminded me of some alien space pod ready to shoot lasers at me. I paused for a moment.
“C’mon, Chicken,” Jason said.
I stuck my tongue out at him then pushed the contacts against it.
A sharp pop reverberated through my tongue and teeth. A zap not at all pleasant but not as horrible as I’d expected either. Still, my knees felt obliged to buckle.
I lost my balance and tumbled down into Murphy’s Stream. My glasses flew off. Sitting in the water, I couldn’t see him, but I heard Jason laughing hysterically, sounding like some warped skipping record. I could handle my numb tongue and that taste of copper. I could handle the soaking wet. But Jason’s soulless laugh chilled my blood.
Something rubbed against my arm and I flinched. The dead duckling had drifted into me. Jason continued laughing, and from under the wheelbarrow the blurry momma duck scowled at me. Without warning, a horrific guilt exploded from my chest in heaving sobs. Jason’s laughter slowly faded. He was walking away.
We never spoke again.
I didn’t question how he got my address from prison. After all, the reporters found me during his trial. I told them the truth. “I haven’t seen Jason in forty years.” Then I lied. “But it’s hard to believe he’s a killer.”
The news said he didn’t have any last words, but I received his letter this morning.
Timmy, I threw a rock too. It was mine that killed the duckling. Now, it’s my turn to lick the battery.
Back to Andrew's Page
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.
The letter only had twenty-one words, but it brought me back fifty years. Once again ten years old trying to understand that strange complicated friendship.
During those long lazy summers, Jason Smith and me spent most our time across town in Old Man Murphy’s barren field. Jason delighted in crushing grasshoppers like Godzilla stomping army tanks in Tokyo. “They eat the crops,” he always said - an excuse that might’ve made sense had milkweed and crabgrass been considered crops.
On that day, we sat on a crumbling cement slab, looking down at Murphy’s Stream, which was really just a drainage ditch on the south end of the field. The giant slab was stuck into the spongy ground of the weed-covered ravine.
A resident mother duck and her six ducklings swam around in the steady flow of water coming from a three-foot wide drainage pipe. Across the ravine about ten feet beyond the ducks was an ancient rusted wheelbarrow. Me and Jason could spend hours chucking rocks at that old iron beast. Sometimes we even hit it.
“Timmy, betchya can’t hit it with your glasses off,” Jason said to me. He was right of course. Without my thick coke bottles I could barely see him sitting next to me let alone the wheelbarrow. But I knew the etiquette of “betchya can’t” and immediately accepted his challenge.
“Just point me in the right direction,” I said and picked up a fist-sized chunk of cement. I turned toward the wheelbarrow and handed my glasses to Jason. “Watch this.”
I threw the cement hard as I could but an instant later heard only the disappointing kerplunk of my cement hitting the stream. Then a second fluttering kerplunk.
Jason howled, “Man, you hit a baby duck!”
I put my glasses back on, and was horrified to see the momma duck and only five of her babies scattering. One poor duckling floated lifelessly, spinning in the weak current.
“I…I didn’t mean to…” I said. “I’m sorry…I…”
“Aw, it’s just a duck,” Jason said.
“Yeah, but…”
“Don’t worry. People hunt ‘em all the time.”
“But it’s…it’s a baby.” Tears welled up in my eyes.
“Look, if you want to beat yourself up, try this.” Jason reached into his back pocket and pulled out something small, red and rectangular. “I swiped this nine volt battery from my pa’s transistor radio. If you give it a lick, it’ll shock that guilt right outta you.”
That wasn’t the type of penance I was looking for.
Jason could tell. “I bet you, and you lost. And you hit that poor defenseless baby duck. You have to lick the battery.” His smug “you have to” suggested he’d laid out a logic that I could not refute.
And I couldn’t. I grabbed the battery. It was an EVEREADY with that evil-looking black cat on the front. As I brought it toward my mouth, the two round contacts reminded me of some alien space pod ready to shoot lasers at me. I paused for a moment.
“C’mon, Chicken,” Jason said.
I stuck my tongue out at him then pushed the contacts against it.
A sharp pop reverberated through my tongue and teeth. A zap not at all pleasant but not as horrible as I’d expected either. Still, my knees felt obliged to buckle.
I lost my balance and tumbled down into Murphy’s Stream. My glasses flew off. Sitting in the water, I couldn’t see him, but I heard Jason laughing hysterically, sounding like some warped skipping record. I could handle my numb tongue and that taste of copper. I could handle the soaking wet. But Jason’s soulless laugh chilled my blood.
Something rubbed against my arm and I flinched. The dead duckling had drifted into me. Jason continued laughing, and from under the wheelbarrow the blurry momma duck scowled at me. Without warning, a horrific guilt exploded from my chest in heaving sobs. Jason’s laughter slowly faded. He was walking away.
We never spoke again.
I didn’t question how he got my address from prison. After all, the reporters found me during his trial. I told them the truth. “I haven’t seen Jason in forty years.” Then I lied. “But it’s hard to believe he’s a killer.”
The news said he didn’t have any last words, but I received his letter this morning.
Timmy, I threw a rock too. It was mine that killed the duckling. Now, it’s my turn to lick the battery.
Back to Andrew's Page
Can not be reproduced or used without written permission Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved.