One Stop Town

One Stop Town

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Robbie was twelve when his father taught him about guns. I had had one too many beers with his father Tom one too many times for me to trust him to pass on such important lessons. I remember when Tom’s older brother Jim had bought a keg of beer and then told me and all my friends to form a circle and for two of us to start fighting. Dumb fourteen and fifteen year olds and even dumber older brothers. Jim sat in a lawn chair and protected that keg full of shit beer, but we all sure took our turns in the ring. I can’t remember what that beer tasted like, but I remember the look my best friend gave me after I threw a half-hearted punch and struck him in the chest. Dave was pissed and his punch would be anything but half-assed. Ten years later the movie Fightclub became a thing and suddenly parents were scared as the media filled them with paranoia. We all just smiled and nodded and remembered our once upon a time of being well ahead of the curve. None of us looked like Brad Pitt. Of course none of us had an imaginary friend bent on inspiring chaos and destruction.

Robbie had studied Judo and Karate, knife fighting, and Krav Maga. He was also one hell of a pitcher on his little league team. Tom had a gut. A leftover from of an age when one drink too many was a nightly habit. What was Robbie training for? What was he going to achieve that Tom never would? I wasn’t sure I wanted to live in a world where a twelve year old needed such skills. I certainly wouldn’t last long if that’s what things came to.

There were thirty-six people in my graduating class in high school. There were thirty-eight of us when high school began. One kid flunked. One had dropped out and was working at the ice cream shop where we’d all hang out on a Saturday night and try to get free cones. Tom had pointed out that half our class was cousins or second cousins or something far too closely related. I didn’t count, but I got his point. When he got Michelle pregnant at sixteen I didn’t do any digging. I doubt he did either.

Tom had three kids now. Jim had five. I was afraid to go watch football at their place on Sundays. Jim still owned that lawn chair. Still living in his parent’s place. That chair in the exact same spot. I didn’t want to see that chair. I didn’t want Jim to hand me a beer. And I sure as hell didn’t want to see what would happen if Tom and Jim pushed their kids into the circle the way they used to push our friends. Robbie would probably kill somebody and then I’d have to live with that shitty memory along with all the other shit memories stuck in my head.