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Boys Will Be

Jeffrey Briskin

    It was the twelve-pack of Coors Michael Richardson had consumed at the North High hockey team reunion that convinced him to break into the old abandoned Victorian house on the east side of town. Although “break in” was a misnomer. A feather could have opened the ancient wood door, which squealed on its hinges like a panicking piglet.
    Burton Vance, foggy and starving after sharing several bong hits with his former fellow defensemen in the high school parking lot, tapped the faded 3 on the doorpost and slurred, “This dump hasn’t changed a bit.”
    “Who lived here?” asked Michael as he turned on a flashlight.
    “Dunno. Some old lady maybe?”
    They entered a small foyer leading to a rectangular living room on the right and a square-shaped dining room on the left. The flashlight beam, combined with the moonlight streaming through the uncovered windows, revealed buckling wood floors, peeling floral wallpaper and cracked plaster ceilings with electrical wires dangling from holes where fixtures had once been mounted.
    “If the cops catch us Suzanne’ll kill me,” said Burton, stepping over a giant cockroach.
    “What’s the worst they can do? There’s nothing to steal.”
    Touring the ground floor took less than five minutes. A small kitchen with broken cabinets, a cracked linoleum floor and an ancient oven caked black with grease. A tiny pantry of empty shelves speckled with mouse droppings.
    Upstairs, a narrow hallway led to three tiny bedrooms and a nightmare of a bathroom with a mold-stained freestanding bathtub and a filthy toilet.
    Gagging, Burton asked, “Okay, you happy now?”
    Michael nodded. “Yeah, I’ve seen enough.”
    “Good. Let’s get the hell out of here. This place is total buzz kill.”
    As they were heading toward the staircase they passed a door they had missed the first time. Michael tried to open it. It didn’t budge. He smiled. “Hmmm.”
    “What?”
    “The only locked door in the whole place.”
    “You think it’s a closet with treasure?”
    Michael grinned. “Only one way to find out.”
    Burton shook his head. “I don’t know about–”
    Before he could finish, Michael grabbed the door knob, planted one foot against the wall, and pulled. The door began to bend outward. “Help me, man.”
    Burton’s mind said no, but his body complied. He grabbed the knob and pulled as well. After a minute, the knob broke off in their hands and the door swung open.
    “See?” Michael clapped him on the shoulder. “Teamwork.”
    Beyond the door was a steep flight of stairs. Michael waved a hand. “Come on.”
    “Awww, man! I hate attics. They’re always full of mice and spiders.”
    “Don’t be a wuss. Look, I’ll bet drug dealers or thieves were squatting up there. Maybe they left their stash.”
    “You think criminals would keep anything valuable in a house with no electricity, cameras or security systems?”
    “Dumb ones might.”
     “Let’s just take a quick look around. We see anything dangerous we leave.”
    “Okay, but don’t touch anything. Don’t wanna leave fingerprints.”
    Michael went up first, following the flashlight beam. At the top of the stairway they opened another door, revealing a large unfinished room with several built-in wall shelves. On one side was a small window overlooking the front of the house. Gazing through the dusty glass they could see Burton’s Chevy Impala and Michael’s rusting Ford F150 pickup truck sloppily parked across the street.
    “Damn!” exclaimed Burton in disappointment, as Michael waved his flashlight to survey the empty room in a fruitless search for hidden panels and trap doors. “Okay, let’s?”
    “Wait,” said Michael. “What’s that?”
    “What’s what?”
    Michael shined his beam on a rectangular object on the floor next to a shelf. He approached it slowly and then nudged it with his foot. “It’s a Pro-Keds shoe box. Remember those sneakers? We all wore them growing up.”
    He kneeled down and gingerly lifted the cover off the box. And gasped. “Holy crap!”
    “What?” said Burton.
    “Baseball cards!” yelled Michael, digging out a stack and examining them. “From the 1950s and 60s!”
    He pulled out individual cards. “Look, Burt! A Mickey Mantle rookie card! And Willie Mays! Duke Snider! Carl Yastrzemski! Pete Rose!”
    Digging through more of them, he said, “Growing up I had a collection just like this. I even kept it in a shoebox?”
    He paused. “Wait a minute.” He gazed at one side of the box. “Oh my God, Burt–this is my collection.”
    “Oh come on,” Burton laughed.
    Michael held it up. “Look! See the writing on the side?”
    Barton squinted to read the messy black magic marker scrawl: MICHAEL RICHARDSON BASEBALL CARDS KEEP OUT.
    “I wrote that to keep my brother Curtis from getting into them,” said Michael.
    “How in the world did they end up here?”
    “I have no idea,” replied Michael in a trembling voice. “I always thought my mom threw them away when I went to college.”
    “You think whoever lived here at the time pulled them out of the trash?”
    “Could be. I never forgave her for tossing ‘em.”
    Burton nodded. “I know how you feel. My mom got rid of my comic book collection when I...”
    He paused. “Give me the flashlight.” He shined the beam at another area of the room, illuminating a square packing box. He knelt down next to it and tore open a flap. “No way!”
    “What?”
    Burton pulled out a stack of comic books. “It can’t be! My Amazing Fantasy #15 from 1963–the first Spider-Man comic book! I bought it for $6 at Waxman’s Comics back in 1974. And the first X-Men from 1975! And my original Mad Magazine comics from the 1950s! You know how much these are worth, Michael? Thousands of dollars!”
    He put them down. “But that’s impossible. I know my mother tossed them when we moved from Walnut Street to Langdon Road. I remember seeing the trash truck taking away the bags and running after it hoping to get them back.”
    Michael returned the cards to the shoebox and stuffed it under his arm. “You know how much I’ve thought about these cards over the years? Now that I’ve got them back I can sell them and retire. No more Angela busting my stones to get a new job.”
    Burton grabbed his box. “Yeah. But I don’t know if I can sell mine. They were a huge part of my life growing up.”
    At the bottom of the stairway, as they headed into the hallway, Michael said, “You know the first thing I’m gonna do–”
    He stopped. “What the–where’d they go?”
    Burton looked down at his empty hands. “Whaa–?”
    Michael leaned against a wall. “I know I’m trashed, but I’m not hallucinating. You saw the shoebox. And the cards, right?”
    Burton nodded. “Yeah. And you saw my Spider-Man, didn’t you?”
    Michael shivered. “I’m going back up there. Maybe I dropped them or something.”
    They both returned to the attic. “There it is!” Michael shouted, pointing the flashlight at the shoebox. Burton located his box several feet away. They both looked inside to confirm the presence of their treasures and picked up the boxes.
    “Okay, let’s try this again,” said Michael. “I’m going down slowly, step by step, and I won’t take my eyes off it. You do the same.”
    The ancient stairs creaked as they gingerly headed downstairs. Burton went down first, keeping his eyes focused on the box. The flashlight was perched on a flap. As he crossed through the doorway into the hallway, it fell to the floor.
    “Damn it!” he shouted, grasping empty air. Picking up the flashlight, he spun around and shined it on Michael, who was still standing on the stairs, both hands tightly clenching his shoebox. “You’ve got yours still.”
    “Yeah,” said Michael.
    “Okay, I’m watching you come through.”
    As Michael stepped through the doorway the air rippled. The box was gone. He slapped himself on the forehead. “There’s some really weird crap going on.”
    Burton nodded. “Someone trying to punk us?”
    “I don’t know. But I gotta get home, sleep this off. Let’s come back tomorrow night when we’re sober. But don’t tell your wife about this. She’ll think we’re out of our minds.”
    Running his fingers through his hair, Burton replied, “I’m not sure I’m not.”

    They returned at 8 the next night. Burton told Suzanne he was attending a free financial planning seminar. Michael told Angela he was going to look for a new truck.
    They loitered across the street from the old house until they were sure no one was around. They then ran in and quickly returned to the attic.
    Michael sighed in relief. “Still here.” He skipped over to the shoebox and began pulling out cards. “Hey! A 1941 Ted Williams! The year he hit .406! I never knew I had this one!”
    Burton began pulling out comic books. One made his jaw drop. “Wait a minute. This is the first Batman comic book, from 1939. It’s gotta be worth at least $25,000!” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t remember getting this.”
    Suddenly, they heard a noise from downstairs, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.
    “Damn it!” Michael hissed. “Someone’s coming!”
    “The dealers!” Burton whined, cowering in fear.
    A moment later, a balding, pear-shaped man with a scraggly moustache appeared in the doorway. He wore dark chinos and a blue polo shirt with a Wal-Mart nametag. Waving the beam of a penlight across their faces, he announced, in a nasal voice, “Good evening!”
    Michael grimaced. “Walter Bacon. A face I hoped I’d never see again.”
    Pushing his thick glasses higher on his nose, Walter replied, “That’s not a nice thing to say to a fellow North High Bobcat.”
    Michael sneered. “You were never on the hockey team.”
    “Yes I was. I was the assistant manager.”
    “Assistant towel boy, you mean.”
    “I didn’t see you at the team reunion,” said Burton, carefully hiding the Batman comic.
    Walter shrugged. “My supervisor wouldn’t give me the night off.”
    “What are you doing here?” Michael demanded.
    “I saw you two break into the house. You’ve been here a long time. I wanted to see what you were doing.”
    “Well, now that you’ve seen it, you can get the hell out of here.”
    Patting his pocket, Walter replied. “I heard you talking about the?” He stopped. “Are those my–?”
    He waddled across the room and sat down next to four boxes. “My records!” He began pulling out 45s. “Yes! My original Sun Records recording of Elvis Presley’s Blue Moon of Kentucky!” He pulled out another stack. “And my Parlophone versions of Please Please Me and From Me to You by the Beatles!” Excitedly, he reached into another box and pulled out an LP. “I can’t believe it! The Yesterday and Today LP with the original butcher’s block cover! It’s worth more than I make in a year!”
    Burton turned to Michael. “I didn’t see those last night.”
    “Neither did I. Damn.”
    Opening another box, Walter said, “I could have sworn my mother gave these to the Salvation Army when she sold the house after my dad died. I can’t wait to tell my girlfriend!”
    Michael laughed. “You have a girlfriend?”
    The fat man ignored him and headed for the door with a box. Burton said, “You think he’ll make it?”
    Watching him disappear down the stairs, Michael replied, “I hope so. Then maybe he’ll go away.”
    A minute later, Walter returned, empty handed. “What did you do with my records?” Then his eyes brightened. “No, wait! There they are!” He rushed back to his boxes and began rifling through them again. Satisfied that his collection was intact, he turned to Burton and asked, “The same thing happen to you?”
    Burton nodded. “Yes.”
    “So, I guess we can’t take this stuff out of here.”
    Michael groaned. “That means we’re stuck with you.”

    For several hours, they examined their collections. Finally Burton looked at his watch and groaned. “Man, it’s 1:30! I gotta be at work at 8 tomorrow.”
    Michael stood up. “Yeah, I gotta call it a night, too.”
    Burton waved a thumb at Walter. “What about him?”
    Shaking his head, Michael approached the fat man, who was staring at the cover of a rare promotional version of Steely Dan’s Aja. “We’re going.”
    Walter shrugged. “Goodbye.”
    “You, too.”
    “No, I’m staying.”
    Michael balled a fist. “I said we’re all going.”
    Burton grabbed his arm. “Come on, man–”
    Without looking at him Walter removed a small pistol from his pocket.
    “Whoa!” exclaimed Burton, withdrawing to a corner. Michael raised his hands and took a few steps back.
    “It’s a Glock G42. And, yes, it’s loaded.”
    Michael waved a hand. “Okay, okay. You can stay, psycho. But don’t touch my stuff.”
    “Baseball cards and comic books are for children,” sniffed Walt, examining a first pressing of Jackie Brenston’s Rocket 88.
    Michael opened his mouth to respond, but wisely stopped himself. “And don’t tell anyone about this place. It’s our secret.”
    Walter shrugged. “Whatever.”
    As they were leaving the house, Michael said, “I still don’t get it. How did our stuff end up here?”
    “And, more importantly, why can’t we get it out?”
    “Maybe we’re not supposed to carry it out. Maybe if we throw the boxes out the window?”
    Burton shrugged. “It’s worth trying.”
    “Tomorrow night.”
    Burton groaned. “Suzanne and I are supposed to meet with Reverend Cabot to discuss Linda’s confirmation.”
    “Make an excuse.”
    “She won’t like it.”
    “Do what I do. Say you have to work late.”
    He nodded. “The old reliable.”

    “Crap!” Burton exclaimed as he spied the line of cars parked in front of the house the next night. He parked on the next block and nervously played with his keys until Michael maneuvered his truck halfway onto the sidewalk in front of him.
    As they approached the house, Burton shook his head. “This can’t be.”
    “You didn’t say anything to anyone?” asked Michael.
    “No.”
    Michael slammed his fist into his hand. “That fat little turd!”
    They heard a murmur of voices coming from the attic as they climbed the stairs. “Son of a bitch!” Michael exclaimed when they discovered nine men sitting and squatting next to a variety of boxes, bags and milk crates.
    “They’d better not?” He saw his shoebox perched on a shelf and quickly grabbed it. Burton squeezed between two men to retrieve his box of comic books. Walter was sitting in a corner with his records.
    “Hey, towel boy!” yelled Michael. “I told you not to tell anyone.”
    Walter shrugged. “Who made you king of the attic?”
    They recognized a few of the newcomers. Rob Maslow was posing a collection of green plastic army men on the floor. Kent Watson was thumbing through a cigar box full of old stamps. Chris Reycroft was sorting through an enormous jar of wheat-field pennies and buffalo-head nickels. Foster Kirsch was examining a crate full of Atari 2600 video game cartridges. The men they didn’t know were examining collections of Hardy Boys books, Pez dispensers, Star Wars action figures and vintage rock concert posters.
    A short, well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair appeared in the doorway and whistled. “Wow. It’s true.”
    “Look, Michael, it’s Lawrence Jeffries,” murmured Burton.
    Michael looked up. “Who?”
    “He was in our English class. He became a novelist and wrote Humpty’s Fall. It was a best-seller. They’re making a movie version with Ben Affleck.”
    The man suddenly cried out and barreled through the crowd to a shelf, where he carefully picked up an ancient school composition book. “Good Lord! It’s The Farting Giant! My first book! I wrote this in Miss Caro’s class in third grade! She confiscated it and gave it to my mother, who said she burned it. I knew she was lying!”
    Over the next few hours several more men joined them and sat down to peruse their childhood collections of bottle caps, Matchbox cars and Playboy magazines. At around midnight, Burton yawned. “I’m getting tired.”
    Michael shrugged. “Then go.”
    “You’re staying?”
    Holding up a 1948 Jackie Robinson rookie card, Michael replied, “I won’t let anyone steal my cards.”
    “They can’t,” Burton replied. “Remember? They disappear when we leave the attic.”
    Michael shook his head. “My biggest regret in life was losing these cards. Now that I’ve got them again I won’t let them go.”
    “So, what are you going to do, live here?”
    Michael shrugged. “I don’t know.”
    “Your wife. Your kids.”
    Michael sat in silence for a full minute before answering, “Screw ‘em.”
    Burton felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. “Michael, something’s really wrong here. It’s some kind of trick. Or voodoo.”
    Michael didn’t respond.
    Burton gazed at the other men. “Guys, we’ve got to get out of here. Something really bad’s happening.”
    “You wanna go, go,” replied Walt. Several men nodded. The others ignored him.
    Burton slowly backed out of the attic and had to keep his hands pressed against the wall to keep from falling down the stairs, fighting off the urge to stay, stay, stay.

    “So they’re here?” asked Angela Richardson.
    “Yes,” said Suzanne Vance. “That’s Burt’s car parked on the next block behind Michael’s truck.”
    They stood on the sidewalk in front of the house.
    Angela removed a Marlboro Light from her purse and lit it with a Bic lighter. “3 South Irons Drive, of all places. I must have passed this dump a thousand times and never thought twice about it.”
    “Yeah, me too.”
    “How did you know Burt was here?”
    “Paula Haney was at that financial planning seminar Burt said he was going to. He never showed up. Then when he said he’d have to miss our meeting with Reverend Cabot because of work I got suspicious and followed him here.”
    “Thank you for calling me,” said Angela, exhaling a stream of gray smoke.
    “No problem.”
    They stood silently for a while, looking for signs of life within the house.
    “What do you think they’re doing in there?” asked Angela.
    “Drinking? Drugs? An orgy?”
    Angela snorted. “Maybe the first two.”
    “Whatever they’re doing, they’re awfully quiet.”
    “Why don’t we crash their party? Catch them in the act?”
    Yes, why don’t we? Suzanne wondered. She wasn’t afraid of the old house or worried about what she might find her husband doing in there. But, for some reason, every time she took a step toward the door she felt a strong aversion to moving any closer. “I don’t know about you, but I really, really, really don’t want to go in there.”
    “Me neither,” replied Angela.
    “Then what do we do?”
    “Wait until they come out and rip them a new one?”
    “Sounds like a good?wait!” She stopped. The front door was opening. Someone was staggering out. “Burt?”
    Shambling like a zombie, Burton tripped down the front steps and landed on his hands and knees on the walkway.
    “Honey?” Suzanne called. She tried to rush forward to help him, but something held her back.
    He began to crawl toward her. “Suzanne...help...”
    Fighting her resistance, Suzanne began to move forward, as waves of dizziness overcame her. It felt like a million invisible hands were pushing her back.
    “Suzannnnnne....” he croaked.
     When they were a few feet apart, she extended her right hand. “Burt! Grab my hand!”
    Staring up at her with bloodshot eyes, he lifted his right hand. She leaned forward and grabbed it. With her remaining strength, she wrenched him back to the sidewalk, where he collapsed.
    Kneeling down to examine him, she said “Burt! What the hell is going–”
    He grabbed her arm and gasped, “The attic...comic books...baseball cards...Michael... Walt...others...”
    Cradling his head, she cried, “Burt, you’re not making sense! I need to take you to a–”
    “Suzanne, look!” Angela pointed at the house. A window below the roof was shimmering with a yellow glow.
    “What the–”
    A flash of light momentarily blinded them. When they opened their eyes the house was dark again.
    “Michael!” screamed Angela, tossing her cigarette and sprinting toward the house. Suzanne followed, totally forgetting about her husband. Using Angela’s lighter to guide them, they ran up to the second floor and raced up the attic stairs to find–
    An empty room.
    “Where’d they go?” asked Suzanne, her voice filled with panic. “Burt said that Michael and some other men were here.”
    “Is there another room up here?”
    “The light–” Suzanne walked over to the window and looked out. The cars were still there and Burt was still sprawled on the sidewalk. “That flash. It came from in here.”
    Placing her hands on her hips, Angela growled, “If this is some kind of goddamned joke–”
    Something landed on Suzanne’s shoe. She picked it up and held it up to the window, where it was illuminated by the moonlight.
    A long, red feather. It smelled faintly of perfume and the sea.

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