My Life: Chapter 2

Once while living at the Paso Hondo house, I remember being at my neighbor’s house playing with him. We were out in the backyard stirring up some concoction of mud, water, bugs and grass in a bucket. My friend thought it would be a good idea to add his dirty underwear to the brew, so he took off his briefs, but instead of tossing them in the bucket, at the last minute he changed his mind and threw them onto the roof. We didn’t know at the time that the underwear had landed on the roof, so we went to the front yard looking for them (by this time, my friend had managed to at least put his pants back on). A neighborhood older kid was outside on his bike and saw us, two innocent victims, and immediately rode over to us with evil in mind.

“Hey guys, whatcha doin’?”

“Just looking for his underwear…you seen it?”

“Yeah, actually. I think it went inside that house.”

He was pointing to the old, abandoned house at the end of the street. No one had lived there for sometime, and the weeds were beginning to consume the property. We nervously approached the house, as if it were some sleeping beast that we dared not wake. The older boy led us to the side of the house near the garage. He cautiously opened up the side-door that led inside the garage. “In here,” he said, with a sadistic sneer on his face. My buddy and I slowly entered the dark garage; there was just enough light to know that it was completely empty. Suddenly, we heard the door slam behind us and what little light the opened door provided was now gone.
We ran for the door, but the older kid had shut it on us, and wasn’t intent on letting us out anytime soon. Panic hit like a train, and we scattered through the house, trying not to step on the broken dishes on the dirty floor. We were frantically looking for a way out when we saw the sliding backdoor. I pulled it open and we rushed through a field of chin-high grass. I led us to the back gate, which of course was locked, and we squeezed through a small opening to our freedom. As we stood there, gasping for breath and almost in tears, the older kid walked over with a sneer on his face. “You kids better not tell anybody or I’ll kill you! In fact, I’m coming back to get you with my pocket knife later!” For two six-year-olds, this was a terrifying proposition. We both split and sprinted to our houses, silently agreeing to never tell anyone about our horrific experience. Later that day I remember the older kid riding by our house on his bike as I looked out the window, flashing the sharp edge of a fingernail file.