Sunday, September 20, 2015

7183. BELOW THE WATER LINE, pt. 13

(pt. 13)
One time, on an extended Easter-Week vacation from school,
Jim Yacullo and I found a railroad siding leading off to the
rear of the prison receiving area, for supplies and things. There
was a few boxcars, filled to the hilt, each, with 50-pound bags
of flour. Sure enough, what do we do? Kids being kids  -  the
useless, miscreant kind anyway  -  we run home and get our
pen-knives and return and spend a goodly fifteen minutes 
cutting pen-knife slits, not long or full, but slits nonetheless,
into the side of at least as many flour bags as were facing us.
God knows what retribution and/or problems were caused for
someone by this action, but fellas, we admit,   -  or at least I
do, Jim already having eaten himself to death, as I pointed out
in a previous section  -  that it was us and we was it. The Dead
End Kids, or even the Bad News Bears, when you come right 
down to it, had nothing on us. This hundred or so acres, whatever
it was, was ours. Kenny Lackowicz, another friend, with his
bows and arrows  -  we'd spend hours 'stalking' whatever it was 
we were stalking, and then wildly shoot arrows, at near random, 
into the piled up stacks of cornstalk. Kenny and his brother
Donald  -  no evidence ever to me  -  always claimed, on their
own time, to have gone back there and bagged all sorts of 
edible game animals, rabbits by the hundreds, ground squirrels,
groundhogs, pheasant  -  a veritable wild kingdom  -  but
I never saw any of it, nor did another friend and me, together,
John Hugelmyer, the time we went back there meaning to hunt 
too. Turned out really all we wanted to do was talk about girls
(he was sweet on my sister, but she could have cared less). 

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