Slayed by Joy

HUMOR

The long lost days of friends

The excitement of lighting a bomb is the excitement of lighting a birthday cake when you know for a fact that your most reckless wish is going to come true, in seven to ten seconds.

As a child, I knew this excitement well.

I lived for it.

That day, the day of the great bomb, I was in my room, imitating people from church and recording them on a tape player. My brother suddenly burst in. Somehow, I knew he would.

Joe was breathing heavily, his face red from running. And he was giggling. Diabolically.

“I need your help,” he said.

It felt wonderful to be asked. Joe was older, and older brothers work very hard convincing younger brothers they are unnecessary. Expendable.

But I was needed.

Indispensable.

A punkier me might have made Joe work for my help a little bit, but I wasn’t punkier, so I didn’t hesitate: “Sure!”

But why had he asked for my help?

I possessed a number of skills: I was fast. I was strong. I was Knife-Boy. I owned many knives and knew how to wear them all on a single belt. Also, I could imitate the voices of church members in hurtful ways and record them then play them back and kill myself laughing.

Which of my skills was needed?

Before I could ask, Joe ran: down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door. I followed. He didn’t tell me where we were going. He couldn’t. And I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. We were running too fast to speak.

We raced along a grassy path beside the family woods. It led to a deadly road. Route 3, a road as fast as a highway and ripping through our little country town, killing pets and scaring parents.

Joe stopped within the trees on the side of Route 3 and I stopped too.

Like him, I looked to the road.

“What?” I said.

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