The schoolyard was nothing but a slab of concrete with four rusty poles that once served as basketball goals. Beyond that was a field of grass that stretched out to an eight-foot-high chain link fence. The fence was there to reassure the parents, especially the parents whose children were bused across town, that their kids were safe from the dangers of the surrounding inner city. A fortress in the midst of an apocalyptic landscape.
White kids from Antioch were bused to a predominantly black neighborhood. The noble, righteous reason was to diversify schools and bring racial strife to an end through exposure and familiarity. The practical reasoning, or so my dad believed, was economic. The school was dilapidated and underfunded. The conspiracy was founded on the belief that rich white families would be forced to pay for the school’s reconstruction. The problem with that theory is that there were no rich families in Antioch.
The highest strata achieved in my neighborhood was middle class. Antioch was very economically diverse. There were kids that had everything they needed and other kids who struggled to make it look like they owned more than two pairs of blue jeans. All these kids lived together in one place.
There was one particular street that represented the quintessential category of those living without. It was a dead-end street that abruptly stopped at the edge of the forest. It wasn’t circular so you could turn your car around. The houses were very small, with about four rooms each. It was as if the construction company had leftover materials, and decided to downscale so as not to have anything go to waste. I almost believed they would have built a one room log cabin if that’s all they had left.
That street was rough. There was always a fight at the end of the street, or an audible argument between husband and wife, or boyfriend and someone else’s wife. There was always drama on public display. If you wanted to see how dysfunctional families lived, then that was the street to visit.
I once had a kid from that area try to steal my bike with me still on it. I had come down off a hill and was feeling the cool wind hitting my face. I tested fate and closed my eyes concentrating on the repose of letting the bike go wherever it wanted to go. I should have turned left and avoided the dead end, but my trance was deep. I felt a shoulder crashing into my ribs. The bike and I fell to the road, my elbow hitting first, sending a spike of pain up through my arm. Standing above me was Bubba Bragg.
In my neighborhood there was a hierarchy of bullies. The low-level bullies were just doing it out of necessity. They really needed the money. The middle-level bullies didn’t need the money; they did it just to impress the girls. They never asked for money. The high-level bullies, like Bubba, did it because they were truly sadistic. They enjoyed inflicting pain. Bubba was the top, the king of suffering. The only thing I ever heard anybody say good about him was his mother bragging about how he had graduated to smoking Marlboro Reds when he was only six years old. In her mind, it was the greatest achievement a precocious psychopath could achieve at that age.
Bubba was tugging at my handlebars, trying to pull the bike away from my tentative grip. Luckily, my shoestrings were tangled up in the chain. I pushed my foot against the ground so that my shoe wouldn’t fall off.
“Give me that bike. Let go or I’ll punch you in the face.”
He never said anything he didn’t follow through with. Bubba reached down and punched me in my nose. My eyes watered and blood flowed down my lips and into my mouth. I begin to lose my grip and my shoe was slipping off my foot.
“Get the fuck in here boy and finish those dishes.”
Bubba let go. His mom’s boyfriend had saved me and my bike.
All you could do on the playground, if you could call it that, was play either kickball or dodgeball. We were playing kickball one day when a kid named Davis kicked it all the way out to the fence. I went to retrieve it and when I got to the fence, I saw a dead body lying on the sidewalk. He had a knife sticking in his neck. I was frozen in awe and fear. I could hear everyone yelling at me to throw the ball, their demands getting more frustrated the more I ignored them.
Bubba had been smoking cigarettes with Stanley in the corner of the yard. Even though they were from two different parts of the city, and of different races, they had a lot in common. In most ways, the busing failed to bridge the gap between black and white. Most white kids hung out with other white kids and most black kids did the same, but there were some friendships forged. I know it sounds ignorant, but I realized that every one is basically the same. I mean the same cast of characters exists across every culture. You have good folks, weird folks, and assholes. Bubba and Stanley signified a victory for racial harmony, but unfortunately through the worst possible characters.
“What are you looking at dumbass?” Stanley inquired.
I pointed to the dead body.
“Oh shit,” exclaimed Bubba.
By that time all the kids had run over to see what was happening. Everyone gasped and one girl yelled.
“Go tell Ms. Gentry.”
“Is that the knife?” my friend Mike asked.
“Yep, from what I’ve heard of it” answered Davis.
Bubba flicked his cigarette, walked forward, and grasped the fence. He was mesmerized by the body, or at least I thought so.
“What about the knife?” he asked.
“White folks brought it. Put it in our neighborhood back in the 30’s or something. It belonged to a killer, a killer they put in our neighborhood to terrorize black folks. A white serial killer.”
“Oh, come on Davis. Quit hating on white people. That’s crazy,” I heard someone say.
“I’m not crazy. The serial killer died and left us, but that knife keeps showing up.”
Bubba started climbing the fence.
“What are you doing Bubba?”
“Shut up Stanley. I want that knife.”
Usually, Stanley agreed with everything Bubba did, but on this occasion, he was a little hesitant.
“That knife is cursed and aren’t we messing with a crime scene or something?”
Davis interjected. “Let him have it. It belongs to white people anyway. Let him take it back to his neighborhood where it belongs.”
I found myself worrying and believing what Davis was saying. “No, leave it Bubba. It belongs here,” I blurted out in fear. I immediately felt guilty and reworded my statement. “I mean, let the police deal with it.”
Bubba disregarded the reasonable pleas and jumped from the top of the fence to the ground. He grabbed the knife and pulled it out. I expected blood to flow out but there was nothing but a trickle.
“This dude has been dead a while and he’s been stabbed all over.” Bubba knelt down and cleaned the knife off against the uncut grass. He held it up to his face and investigated every aspect of it, twirling it around as if he was holding a diamond.
The knife had a long rusty, blood covered blade. The blade stood in stark contrast to the elaborate pearl handle. The hilt and the cap at the end of the handle looked like silver with interior swirling rainbows.
Bubba climbed back over the fence and approached Kathy, a girl that lived on his street.
“Put this in your backpack.”
“I don’t have my backpack. It’s in class.”
“Alright, I’ll sneak the knife in, but I need you to carry it home in your backpack.”
“I don’t want that in my backpack.”
Bubba walked over to Kathy and pushed her to the ground. “Where is your backpack? What does it look like?” he said as he waved the knife in front of her face.
“It’s the purple Ms. Pacman bag.”
“What’s going on over there?”
The teachers had finally realized that something was amiss. As Mr. Adams approached, we all instinctively pointed to the body.
“Shit.”
Two weeks later, on an early Saturday morning, the rays of the sun peeking above the horizon, I was riding my bike through the neighborhood. I went down my favorite hill, but this time with every intention of turning left and avoiding the dead-end.
My bike was moving fast. Pedaling was useless so I coasted to the bottom of the hill believing I could make the turn without pressing the brakes. I imagined myself leaning deep, my knee hovering an inch above the road, like those racing motorcyclists.
As I went into the turn, leaning my bike to the left, and more than an inch from the ground, I heard a scream. I pushed back on the pedals, coming to a hard stop, and knocking myself off the bike.
The scream was coming from Bubba’s house. His mom had run out into the yard, yelling that her son had gone crazy. Bubba ran out after her and pushed her to the ground. He climbed on her back and started stabbing her. She struggled to push herself up, but Bubba shoved her head into the ground and stabbed her in the neck.
Bubba looked up and noticed that I had been watching. He pulled the knife out of his mom’s neck and started running after me. I got off the ground and hopped on my bike. Struggling against inertia, my bike moved slowly. It felt like I was pedaling with ten-pound weights on my feet. I couldn’t get the damn bike moving fast enough. Bubba gained a lot of ground. I found a much-needed burst of energy when I looked back at Bubba and saw that his eyes were white, without pupils and there was blood around his mouth. I could hear him breathing loudly. He reached out and barely missed grabbing the seat bar.
The pedals felt easier to move as I gained momentum. I stood up to gain more energy and swayed from side to side, thinking that’s how you go faster. I put a little more distance between him and me, but I had a problem. I had two ways to go, but either way involved me pedaling up a hill. I wasn’t fat, but I was no athlete. The first hill was less steep and closer. The other hill was on down the street but far steeper and more difficult to climb. I usually couldn’t even make it up the hill. I would have to get off my bike and walk it the rest of the way, but that’s the hill I chose. It would give me more time to pedal on a flat street with no ascent.
When I got near the hill, I looked back. Bubba was still pursuing me. He ran with the knife in his hand, never without a pause, or a moment to catch his breath. His energy was inexhaustible. As he came to the intersection with the smaller hill, a car ran the stop sign and crashed into Bubba, slinging him in the air and across the street. He fell back to the ground, torso bending back, snapping his head in an awkward position, and slamming against the street.
Bubba laid dead still. A man got out of the car and walked over to Bubba. I was too far away to hear anything, but I could tell by his mannerisms that he was panicking, yelling at Bubba, probably pleading for him to wake up and be alright.
Bubba was not alright. He died. I confess, I wouldn’t miss him, but I was concerned with what would happen with that knife. I waited for a little bit just to make sure he didn’t move. When enough time had passed, and I felt a little safer, I pedaled back down to the scene.
The man was indeed pleading, talking to himself, praying to God, and apologizing to Bubba.
“Is he dead?” I asked.
“No, he’s alright. He just passed out. Call an ambulance. Where do you live boy? Hurry up… go dammit.”
“I don’t live far, but how bout I knock on someone’s door?” I didn’t need to because by that time the noise had awakened the entire neighborhood. They were slowly coming out of their houses, sleepy eyed curious zombies. I looked around for the knife. I didn’t see it at first but then there was a glint of light from the lawn behind Bubba’s body. I casually walked over and picked up the knife.
I got on my bike and rode up the smaller hill. I went as fast as I could to get to Mill Creek, convinced that the longer I had the knife in my possession the more likely I would be possessed. When I got to the bridge I didn’t hesitate. I threw the knife into the creek, done with it forever, or at least I thought.
Thirty years later I was shopping at Sunflower grocery store. I had bought a sandwich and large soda from the deli. It was a hot, sweltering day, so it didn’t want to wait for later. It didn’t take me long to finish off the soda, the loud slurping sound signifying that there was no more left. I walked over to the dumpster to throw the cup away. There was a horrible smell but I just figured it was the contents of the dumpster. The smell became worse as I approached, like a dead animal. It made me gag. Behind the dumpster I saw a pair of feet. I walked behind the dumpster to get a better look. There was a dead man with a knife in his chest. I couldn’t see the blade, but the handle was pearl white accented with a shiny silver hilt and cap. I called the police.
The detective that interviewed me seemed familiar. I asked him his first name. He told me his name was Davis. I told him that I thought we knew each other.
“Yeah, I remember now. We went to school together,” he responded. “Wow, sorry we had to reunite under these circumstances.”
“Well, it only gets worse,” I explained. “Have you seen the weapon?”
“What? Yeah, of course I have. What’s so special about it. A knife, just like any other…” and then he stopped and seemed to be seeing something in his head, remembering something from his past.
“Damn, I knew I should’ve never moved to Antioch. I forgot all about that knife.”