Johnny Wraith Stories

We all sat in a double-wide mobile home, a run down dump in the bad part of a small town, somewhere in Middle America. The carpet was stained, the walls paneled with damp, rotting wood, little nails coming out of it. Smoke filled the air with drunken laughter. Beer bottles clanked and cans were stomped into flat disks on the scarred linoleum floor.

We were a bunch of kids playing Quarters on the top of an old door turned into a table. Maybe 12 of us were there, and I was the odd man out. I didn’t fit in. I wasn’t a rough or poor kid, though I was already 220 pounds of muscle at 17, and earned respect just for being big. How did I end up at that party anyway? We were all drunk and didn’t care.

3 of the dozen kids lived in that rundown double-wide alone, and always threw wild parties, every weekend. None of them were over 18, probably emancipated when their parents went to jail or rehab and never came back. One of the three residents was a kid who’d kicked about everyone’s ass and everyone knew he could do it. If he didn’t kick your ass, his gang of loyal followers would gladly team you and do it at his command. He was tall and wiry, mean as hell, named Dillinger. Nobody fucked with him and knew better. He rode a loud motorcycle. Two abandoned trailer park teenage girls, always bare-footed and dirty, lived with him. They had a few good years left because their youth still kept their breasts firm, stomachs flat, and teeth white. They wore jeans cut off to the crotch. Dillinger slept in the same bed with them, fucked them both. He said so.

The two girls sat each side of Dillinger at the table. Everybody else, either standing or sitting in metal, folding chairs, were young 15-18 year old guys, Dillinger’s loyal followers – his gang. I wasn’t one of them. Maybe I was there because I had a chance to join their gang. I might make good muscle. I don’t know or remember. I’d had a lot of beer and tequila.

It was my turn. I took a quarter between my thumb and forefinger, and aimed for the filled beer mug. It bounced off the table, clanked the rim of the glass, didn’t fall in. It spun to a stop on the table.

“You missed. Drink up fucker!” Shouted Dillinger, across the table. Everybody was laughing. I was laughing.

I’d had about 15 beers and 5 shots of tequila already. I lifted the mug and chugged it down. A little spilled over my chin. I was drunk, happy, and warm. I slammed the empty mug down and looked across the table at Dillinger.

“Good thing I missed. Fucker. Else you’d have had that beer,” I slurred to Dillinger. I’d called him “Fucker” in a playful spirit, or so I’d thought. But his face was reddening with anger over my choice of words. I could see in his eyes the night wasn’t going to end well for me. The room was getting smaller. My ears were ringing with silence. I had to act or get my ass kicked, or killed.

I made the first move. I flipped the table over onto Dillinger. It knocked him, his two girls, and a couple of guys out of their chairs. Beers and legs went flying. Next I knew I was on him, shirt clenched in one fist, my other fist finding his face. Somebody grabbed me from behind. I turned and swung without looking. My fist slammed into a girl’s mouth. I felt her teeth break. Only she had acted and come to Dillinger’s rescue. All the others were too slow to act. Maybe seeing their leader go down had stunned them. I barreled straight for the flimsy Styrofoam-filled front door of the trailer, and no one stood in my way. The door flapped against the side of the double-wide. I ran for my car, started it up, and put it in reverse. Gravel shot out and sprayed the nearby, parked cars and pickup trucks. I got on the blacktop and was off. I thought I’d escaped.

I was a mile away on a winding, dark, country road when a single headlight appeared. It neared my rear bumper. I drove for miles, beer and tequila sweating over my forehead. It was a long drive home. Only me and the pursuing headlight. The headlight stuck to me for a harrowing eternity. 10 minutes? 1? 3? It kept dodging and bobbing angrily, back and forth, from one side of the car, then to the bumper, then to the other.

A mad hornet was pursuing me and it wouldn’t stop.

I dropped into third gear, from fourth, the next time the headlight neared the rear bumper.

There was a slight thud – very slight. The motorcycle flipped off the road and into a barbed wire fence. I saw it in the rear view. I didn’t see where the rider went.

I stopped the car. Got out. Left it running in the middle of the barren country road, lights aimed for safety through dancing gnats, driver door hanging open, car beeping. I Looked around. My knees were weak. No cars, anywhere.

Squinting into the darkness, I saw a body dangling and contorted in barbed wire, motionless, about 30 feet from where the motorbike had landed.

I looked at my rear bumper. Nothing. I got in my car and drove off. Back for home.

The night was over.

I never played quarters again.