The older kids had sought out a fishing spot thirty feet down from us. They had been there for hours. Not as long as my brother and I, but nearly. They had drunk themselves sober and were now arguing over whether or not they should begin using M-80s on whatever fish they caught. M-80s were a little expensive to be using on catfish. One of them said they should just drag their catch from the bumper of their car. The lone female, and there is always a lonely girl hanging out with older kids, said they should take their fish home, scale them and eat them. Her simple more normal method was ignored. The girl is always ignored, until around midnight or so. Sometimes they do not wait that long and finish when the bickering is at a standstill. At that time, the girl always becomes the focus.
My brother recognized that we knew of these kids. These were the Kennedy’s. Joe, Carrie and Teddy. They lived in a house where we grew up, and were widely regarded for their capacity for alcohol and pain. Their dogs ruled the neighborhood streets after dark. These were lonely animals, proud and dangerous. They were little balls of matted fur and starved, bitter anger. I had been attacked once by a tag-team made up of the collie and the terrier. The bite marks on my legs and the claw marks on my lower back drew laughter from the owners. They pointed at me from their screened-in front porch and suggested that I run faster next time……