Another boring, hot day in North Texas. Almost no breeze is stirring. The loud cicadas sing unmindful of heat, so many thousands of them that their mating calls come in waves. It’s fascinating for a while, then you want to hold your ears after a while.
I went outside to get away from the model airplane glue that I’d smeared all over the place trying to build another P-51D “Mustang” model airplane. I wasn’t that great as a model builder and ended up with some pretty ugly planes….which I would blow up with fire-crackers within weeks. It was fairly common in our neighborhood to hang a wire from a tree limb which was connected to the doomed airplane. Pour a little lighter fluid on it, give it a shove with a stick and you have a spiraling, flaming copy of the old WWII movie dogfights. We eventually learned to build the firecrackers into the model while it was being built. Picture this, a swirling, flaming airplane that explodes at some unexpected moment sending flaming pieces of melted plastic in all directions! Yep, we were safe. Nobody ever got hurt, but the grass caught on fire a few times, and not wanting to admit that the grass fire might spread beyond our control, we all learned to quickly stomp them out…before we got caught by Mom who might not think a wild grass fire was funny, having grown up in Oklahoma where a grass fire can wipe out a farmer’s livelihood . We had a couple of fires run through our back field and neighbors would come running to stomp, hose, and beat the flames.
So, the day I met the crazy naked boy, I wasn't confused at all when I smelled the burning grass and saw the blue-gray smoke moving up the hill from the lake into my back yard.
A normal person would have run back into the house, called the fire department, alerted the parents, and stood ready with a water hose. Not me, I went directly into the smoke. I imagined it could have been a meteorite, or an airplane part from one of the fighters from the from the air base, or just mean spirited butthead who like to build fires where they’ll spread.
As I headed through the smoke, eyes watering, I heard something. I thought I saw someone behind a tree that was only about fifty feet from our house. There was the head and shoulders of a freckle-faced red-headed kid about my age hiding behind the tree. This was very curious, so I took a couple of steps toward the boy and the tree. I slight breeze parted the smoke to reveal the boy was butt-naked and speaking right to me. ‘Hey kid”, he said. Mouth open I said, “Yes?” he said “Do you have any clothes?” Again, I said, “yes”. “Well can I borrow some?” Now I’d been skinny dipping in the lake at night with my friends, but I never really seen them naked since it was always night. This kid seemed really comfortable standing stitch-less by the tree. This time, I said, “Ok, but what happened to your clothes?” He said, “A motorcycle gang grabbed me and beat me up, then burned my clothes.” “Holy Cow!” I replied. I sprinted for my house, knowing that I was on to something BIG! Roving, evil motorcycle gangs at Waterloo Lake, what else! In literally one minute I was back with an old pair of tennis shoes, a T-shirt, and my best blue jeans for the poor kid. I was already fantasizing about being on the front page of the Herald. “Local boy saves boy from motorcycle hooligans!”
He quickly pulled the clothes on. I said, where did they beat you up? He pointed toward the woods and the still drifting smoke. Of course I followed him.
We worked our way down the slope toward the trail that led to “the cave.”
As dumb as I was to follow the kid, my overwhelming curiosity shoved me forward.
I also knew that I could run, as my father would say, “like a scalded dog” if in danger, and nobody knew the trails and hiding places like me.
Soon we were standing on the middle of the winding foot path where the “attack” happened. The leaf fire had mostly burned out but the smoke refused to leave the muggy air. I naturally assumed the hooligans had made a hasty departure after their wicked deed. We weren’t standing there thirty seconds before a portly man in a cheap, brown polyester a suit and tie, wearing cowboys boots came walking down the trail.
To me, the grown man in a suit, one hundred yards from the road in cowboy boots was weirder than the weird recently naked kid in my clothing..
He looked at the kid and said, “Hi, Jimmy.” Jimmy, dropped his eyes. I recognized the man as a local police officer as soon as I saw his badge. Since Jimmy was looking at my ash covered high-tops and not talking, I immediately I took it as my duty to explain to the officer what had happed to poor Jimmy, thus anchoring my importance in this obvious travesty.
“Officer, a motorcycle gang beat him up and burned his clothes!” The officer, with a bead of sweat dripping off his nose said, “What’s yur name, son?” I answered, “Eric.”
“Where do you live, Eric?” “I pointed up the hill, “My house is right up there.” He nodded tiredly and said, “Do you see any motorcycle tracks?” Jimmy’s eyes were still averted,. and I quickly looking around I realized Detective Sweaty was right and I was confused.
Looking back at the detective, I watched as he turned Jimmy around on the trail that led to the nearest road. He looked back over his shoulder at me, and twirled his finger around the side of his head…the universal sign of “crazy.” I just stood mouth agape, and watched them disappear into the gray smoke.
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