Small Town USA #22

Eddy and I trailed slowly behind Jesse as we approached the militant’s compound of a house on the corner of Lefevre and Idaho Street. We moved through the alley behind my parents’ house, guiding ourselves through the shadows, toward our unsuspecting victim of the infamous “Knock and Run.”

We were twelve-year-old boys growing up in a town of 3,600 people — a town with no traffic lights but enough life to support three bars, a locally-owned grocery store, a liquor store, a gas station, a handful of places to eat, a post office, our own police force, and volunteer firefighters. A small house served as the community library, there was a video store (almost as big as the short-lived McDonald’s Express we lost), a pizza joint, and of course, the legendary Casey’s Market. I have fond memories of helping my mom close up Casey’s during warm summer months, walking her home with my dad. But for now, let’s get back to the story.

It was funny how Jesse always seemed to end up being the “chosen one” for the most ridiculous, dangerous, or outright stupid stunts. This time was no exception. Our target was a man rumored to be ex-military of some sort, a home-schooling father of seven, who gave us the thousand-yard stare whenever we rode past on our bikes. His yard was his perimeter, and he guarded it as if it were a military base. Eddy had once been caught trespassing and had to sit on the man’s so-called “bad-boy bench” while listening to this nut job mutter to his dog, “We got ’em, boy. It’s over.” That alone was enough to justify our retaliatory prank that warm July night.

As we reached the end of the alley, we started second-guessing our plan. But Jesse, our sacrificial lamb, felt the peer pressure from his lifelong friends. Deep down, he also craved the notoriety that came with these foolish acts. This was his chance to make a name for himself in the lore of our small town.

We crouched behind a retaining wall of stacked railroad ties, surveying the house. Only then did we notice that this man had stadium-style floodlights — beacons so bright they lit up not only his property but half the street. Jesse made his final preparations, tightening his shoelaces, pulling up his pants, and going over the rendezvous point one last time.

With fearless determination, Jesse left the safety of our hiding spot, creeping across Idaho Street. Eddy and I moved up to a one-car garage at the alley’s end, watching Jesse’s every move. He paused, turned toward us for reassurance, and we quickly shooed him onward. There was no turning back now — if he chickened out, he’d never hear the end of it.

Jesse crept up to the front door. The house had no fence, no barriers — nothing to obstruct a quick getaway. It was perfect. Our hearts pounded as he raised his fist to knock.

Then, out of nowhere, a thunderous war cry shattered the quiet summer night: “GERONIMO!”

Jesse froze mid-knock as a camouflaged figure leaped from the roof, face painted for battle. This lunatic had been waiting — literally lying in wait — to ambush us. We had heard the warnings, but none of us expected him to go full Rambo.

Jesse did what Jesse did best — he ran.

His small stature and quick feet had saved him before, and they saved him now. Eddy and I didn’t wait to see what happened next. We bolted from the alley into the street, hot on Jesse’s heels, screaming like banshees. Behind us, the madman scrambled to his feet, cursing as he tried to gain traction on the grass.

At the time, we were scared out of our minds. Looking back, it’s hilarious. But that man’s face — the rage, the bulging eyes, the sheer hatred — was burned into my memory.

We ran. And ran. And ran some more.

In reality, it was maybe ten blocks, but to a group of kids being chased by a lunatic, it felt like miles. I have to admit, I was fast back then — still am — and I left my friends in the dust, sprinting like an Olympic athlete toward our rendezvous point at Eric’s house. I dove behind his dad’s truck, heart pounding, straining to hear any sounds of pursuit. Nothing. Just the distant hum of crickets and the occasional barking dog. Then, at last, I heard the familiar slap of sneakers against pavement. Jesse and Eddy rounded the corner, breathless but safe.

There was no crazed militant chasing them after all. We would later learn that he had broken his foot during the pursuit, ending his chase but not his thirst for revenge.

We collapsed into each other, laughing in relief. Jesse and Eddy punched me for leaving them behind, but I hushed them — we weren’t out of the woods yet. After waiting a few agonizing minutes behind the truck, we crept toward the street for a final check. The road was empty, lit only by porch lights and the eerie orange glow of outdated street lamps. Victory was ours.

Just as we turned back toward the carport, Eric’s dad hit us with a flashlight beam. In our brilliant planning, we had forgotten to tell Eric that his house was the rendezvous point. Lucky for us, Eric’s dad was one of the coolest, kindest men you could ever meet. He’d bailed me out of plenty of jams before, and tonight was no different. He grumbled something about Eric being in his room, then let us be.

We burst into Eric’s room, frantically reliving the tale, talking over one another. But Eric, always the more level-headed one, interrupted with a single question:

“What happened to Jesse’s pants?”

We all looked down. Jesse followed our gaze, his facial expression sinking with his smile as he realized what we already saw — his jeans were soaked.

In the chaos of the moment, Jesse had pissed himself and hadn’t even noticed until now. Apparently, the excitement and thrill of having an ex-Vietnam vet wannabe jump off his roof and scare you, had caused Jesse to piss himself.

I wish I could say we didn’t tease him mercilessly for years to come. But that wouldn’t be true friendship, now would it?