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A Long Time Passing by Rick Beck Chapter Seventeen "Knuckle Ball" Back to Chapter Sixteen On to Chapter Eighteen Chapter Index Rick Beck Home Page  Mystery Teen Boys Vietnam War Death and Survival Proudly presented by The Tarheel Writer - On the Web since 24 February 2003. Celebrating 21 Years on the Internet! Tarheel Home Page |
Michael K. Clark, blood type, 0, religion, no affiliation, followed by a long string of numbers, 2393------. Why would the boy think I wanted these dog tags? What was he doing with them? It made no sense to me at all.
It took me a few seconds to digest what I was looking at. The dog tags dropped into my lap when I tried to pick them up. My shirt felt incredibly tight around my neck and the pit of my stomach churned once before the bottom dropped out completely. I felt dizzy and hot and I stood up, thinking it would help me catch my breath and slow my heart, grabbing for the beat up dog tags, they again slipped through my fingers and clattered to the floor, bouncing under the table. I started to bend in order to reach for them and felt all the blood rush to my head. I pushed past Dr. Jordan who stood next to me. I slipped his grasp and moved toward the exit.
"I've got to get out of here. I can't breath," I said weakened. Dr. Jordan bent to retrieve my errant purchase.
I was on my way out of the back doors, when the judge yelled, "Mr. Brittle, this court is still in session. Mr. Brittle take your seat." I heard no more because of the upheaval in the hall as I moved toward the marble stairs. The only thought in my mind was to get to the stairs and outside into the brisk morning air so I could breathe again. Searching for daylight and outdoors when I hit the bottom step, I halfway expected police to stop my escape, but no one seemed interested in my departure.
Being outside was no better than being inside. The exhaust and stale air hung close to the ground, gagging me. My lungs seemed to be deficient of air and lacked the capacity to discover some new source. I stopped to lean against the soiled front of an old gray building, holding my heart and thinking it might burst. I was still dizzy and I felt faint. I needed to get out of Baltimore. The town was closing in on me.
I looked back toward the courthouse thinking someone might be after me, and I went down the next street to make it impossible for them to see me if they did come looking, taking a circuitous route back to where I left my car. I sat behind the wheel shaking. My insides were in turmoil and my brain was in some sludge of a fog. Where to go? What to do? First I had to get out of town.
"Keith," I heard myself say. "Keith?"
It was a shock to see the name of a long dead friend on a set of dog tags. How did anyone know? There was no connection between him and I then and who I was now. He was long gone from Baltimore before I left. When I left Baltimore he was already long dead or so I was told. I'd buried his memory with the memory of my childhood.
Once I was an adult, I moved on, leaving everything to do with my childhood behind me. Keith was only remembered in the context of his name. He was one of the boys in my neighborhood. He was my best friend. He died or so I thought, never having any proof of it. Never having any way to confirm it.
sychiatric report. Dr. Jordan, who filed the report, has also come to see that there are no questions about his findings," Mr. Morales said, as he approached the bench.
"Where is he? Stand up! Step forward please. How say you about the mental health of the defendant, my learned friend?"
Mr. Jordan stepped up beside me looking quite official in his dark blue suit and burgundy tie.
"I've submitted a report and wanted to make myself available if there were any questions. Mr. Brittle has certain typical childhood issues that have impacted him as of late, but his mental health is quite good. He isn't a danger to himself or to society in general."
"He's a pretty normal guy?" the judge said.
"He is, your honor," Mr. Jordan said.
"If that's all you had to say. Thank you for your expertise."
As the judge started chatting with the two lawyers, Dr. Jordan turned to give me a reassuring pat on my shoulder.
"Hi," Francis Crumb said, standing in front of the table. "You want my address, huh?"
"Hi yourself. You set me up for the cops," I said without doubt in my voice.
"Yeah, man, I had no choice. They were holding shit on me. Tagging you got me off the hook. I didn't mean for you to go down on anything. It's the law of the jungle, man."
"Yeah, well, you might be off the hook but I'm not. You know I never touched you," I said.
"Sure, hey, I got something for you. Slim said you'd pay good money for it. This 'll make you feel better."
"What?" I asked.
"Nah, don't work that way. Fifty bucks up front. He told me you'd pay fifty bucks for it," he said, leaning over close to my face.
I reached into my jacket pocket and fished out my wallet. I laid two twenties and two fives on the desk, keeping my hand wrapped around the bills as he fished in his pocket for my purchase.
"I don't think you should be talking to him," Dr. Jordan said, leaning over the desk with us and whispering in my ear as he glanced toward the judge as he spoke to the two attorneys.
Jingling loudly he removed the object, tossing it on the desk next to my hand, Francis collected the fifty dollars and was putting it into his pocket as I looked to see what my money had bought me.
"Your honor, he's talking to the witness. Get away from there. You give the attorney your address. Don't speak to the defendant," Mr. Short vehemently objected to our lack of decorum.
"Mr. Crumb, wait for this attorney and speak only to him, please," the judge ordered.
My eyes focused on the object on the table. It was a set of dog tags. They weren't unlike any pair of dog tags I'd seen made at novelty shops while I was in school. These were different. They were bent and discolored. They looked as though they'd been drug under a car and run over a few times for good measure. Fifty dollars for a set of beat up dog tags. I'd been taken again. Then, I picked them up and read what was pressed into the metal.
Michael K. Clark, blood type, 0, religion, no affiliation, followed by a long string of numbers, 2393------. Why would the boy think I wanted these dog tags? What was he doing with them? It made no sense to me at all.
It took me a few seconds to digest what I was looking at. The dog tags dropped into my lap when I tried to pick them up. My shirt felt incredibly tight around my neck and the pit of my stomach churned once before the bottom dropped out completely. I felt dizzy and hot and I stood up, thinking it would help me catch my breath and slow my heart, grabbing for the beat up dog tags, they again slipped through my fingers and clattered to the floor, bouncing under the table. I started to bend in order to reach for them and felt all the blood rush to my head. I pushed past Dr. Jordan who stood next to me. I slipped his grasp and moved toward the exit.
"I've got to get out of here. I can't breath," I said weakened. Dr. Jordan bent to retrieve my errant purchase.
I was on my way out of the back doors, when the judge yelled, "Mr. Brittle, this court is still in session. Mr. Brittle take your seat." I heard no more because of the upheaval in the hall as I moved toward the marble stairs. The only thought in my mind was to get to the stairs and outside into the brisk morning air so I could breathe again. Searching for daylight and outdoors when I hit the bottom step, I halfway expected police to stop my escape, but no one seemed interested in my departure.
Being outside was no better than being inside. The exhaust and stale air hung close to the ground, gagging me. My lungs seemed to be deficient of air and lacked the capacity to discover some new source. I stopped to lean against the soiled front of an old gray building, holding my heart and thinking it might burst. I was still dizzy and I felt faint. I needed to get out of Baltimore. The town was closing in on me.
I looked back toward the courthouse thinking someone might be after me, and I went down the next street to make it impossible for them to see me if they did come looking, taking a circuitous route back to where I left my car. I sat behind the wheel shaking. My insides were in turmoil and my brain was in some sludge of a fog. Where to go? What to do? First I had to get out of town.
"Keith," I heard myself say. "Keith?"
It was a shock to see the name of a long dead friend on a set of dog tags. How did anyone know? There was no connection between him and I then and who I was now. He was long gone from Baltimore before I left. When I left Baltimore he was already long dead or so I was told. I'd buried his memory with the memory of my childhood.
Once I was an adult, I moved on, leaving everything to do with my childhood behind me. Keith was only remembered in the context of his name. He was one of the boys in my neighborhood. He was my best friend. He died or so I thought, never having any proof of it. Never having any way to confirm it.
Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com
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