Old Stomping Grounds

The rusted-out white sedan swerved into oncoming traffic toward a gray pickup. Ethan braked, bracing for the oncoming impact. At the last possible second the car swerved back into its lane and the two girls driving the pickup laughed as they passed.

“Idiots,” Jake said.

They followed them into the parking lot. Ethan drove over to the front doors. The car they followed parked—its muffler nearly dragging on the ground. Jake rolled down his window.

“Learn how to drive, you idiot!”

Ethan drove to the front of the building and dropped them off. Driving away, he looked in his rearview mirror to see the driver of the white car on foot and running toward his car with a bottle in his hand. He hit the gas. The driver threw the bottle in a high arc, end over end, but it fell short and shattered on the concrete.

Turning right out of the parking lot onto the street, Ethan stopped to wait for a produce truck. He looked into his mirror again and this time saw the passenger of the white car open his door and run after him in a full sprint. He caught a break in the traffic and accelerated as the boy slapped his trunk.

When he came to the next stoplight he checked the traffic and ran the red light. He got through the intersection, but so did they. There were three of them in the car. Pushing his four-cylinder Dodge as fast as it would go, Ethan sped into a residential neighborhood of lower middle-class families.

Going directly to class wasn’t an option. The driver, Cunningham, wasn’t in school anymore. He had been expelled and then arrested the year before for dragging his girlfriend out of class by the hair, throwing her to the ground and kicking her until a teacher stopped it. Ethan drove as fast as he could and eventually lost them when he ducked into an alley—watching in his rearview as they drove past. He made it to class fifteen minutes late.
Jake drove to lunch the next day and they ate pizza at the mall. Afterward Ethan had class in the shop building off campus. Jake dropped him off at his car. He put on his coat. The sleeve was twisted and with one arm in his sleeve and one behind his back the door to his car opened.

“Get out of the car!”

Cunningham stood in the doorway in a red coat and glasses.
“What? Wait.”

“Get out of the car!”

“Dude, hold—”

He leaned into the car, wrapped his arms around his waist, and tried to pull Ethan out. He still only had one free arm but his feet were braced against the floor of the car. He wriggled his left arm free and got it around Cunningham’s neck and squeezed. It got quiet for a second. He quit struggling, so Ethan let him go. He stepped back out of the car, then picked up his right foot and kicked, narrowly missing Ethan’s face. He shut his door and started his car.

He drove over to class, again fifteen minutes late. No one there knew what just happened because class was underway and he couldn’t talk about it. He sat in silence, not looking at his book, not looking at his teacher.

Then he went back to the main campus after class and as soon as he walked in the hallway one of the guys on the wrestling team approached him.

“Damn, man! You got messed up! I saw Cunningham stomp your ass! A whole bunch of us saw it. We were all hanging out in the hallway on this end, waiting for the bell to ring, and somebody was like ‘Oh, damn! Fight!’ Then someone yelled and a bunch of people came down here and we all saw Cunningham boot your ass. It looked like he really messed you up.”

He went to his locker. While he spun the combination Taylor came over.

“Are you okay Ethan? We all saw the whole thing.”

“I’m fine. He didn’t hit me.”

“Oh. Okay. You’re sure you’re okay?”

He walked through a hallway of audible snickering. Everyone thought he had been beaten-up easily. The day went on and his pride started to get the best of him. He left school with his neck taut, not talking to anyone.
By the next morning his friends were silent around him. As they decided who would drive to lunch, they saw Cunningham pull up in his car. Victor went out to the parking lot and arranged the fight.

The mid-afternoon February sun that melted the snow faded during seventh period. The temperature fell and when Ethan got out of class and walked to his car he could see his breath in the air.

That night they all met at Jake’s. Nate, the only one of their friends that actually had experience fighting, gave him some advice.

“Hit him as hard as you can, immediately. Don’t waste time. Don’t talk. Just hit him. That’s the best advice I can give you. And stay off the ground. He likes to kick. I saw what he did to his girlfriend, I was in that class. Watch out for his feet.”

Jake turned on some music, their buyer came back with beer and vodka, and they talked and drank and told jokes. Ethan was nervous. They didn’t offer him a drink and he didn’t ask for one.

Then it was time to go. He looked in the mirror, thinking it would be worse for people to think he didn’t show than to lose. Jake pulled his car out of the garage. Ethan took the front seat. It had grown cold. He rubbed his hands together. There were five cars following them as they left Jake’s. No one spoke. Ethan drummed on the dashboard, cold fingers making small noises. Their trip was short—the grocery store only five blocks away.

Ahead of them they saw a line of ten or fifteen sets of headlights waiting to turn left into the grocery store parking lot. There were already two dozen cars in the parking lot. They were a few minutes late, but everyone was still there. Jake drove into the lot and down the rows of cars to the middle and waited.  Snowflakes flew like mosquitoes in the lights.

“We can’t do it here,” one of their friends came up and said. “There’re too many cars. We’re moving it out to Lacy Park.”

A thin white layer of snow covered the windshield as they waited for the cars to clear out.

“We’ll go over there late. These people aren’t going anywhere,” Jake said. “We’ll build up the drama. They know you’re coming.

They drove out of the parking lot, taking the long way, watching the stream of cars head out to the park. It was snowing harder now. Ethan bent down and relaced his boots.

They drove up from the west. Lacy Park’s road was shaped like a horseshoe. On the outer edge of the road were six chain-link backstops for the softball leagues and two large dirt parking lots. As they approached they could see that the dirt lots were full and cars were parked side to side diagonally around the road. As they pulled onto the road doors opened and people got out of their cars. They drove slowly up around the crest of the road. Jake stopped in the middle and shut off the car and shut off the music. They waited as the snow came down in big, quarter-sized flakes. Ethan watched out the window as people he knew lined up along the road. He watched in the rearview mirror as Mike came up to his door and opened it.

“Which one is he?”
Ethan got out and stepped onto the snow-covered dirt road—everything except the people covered in white.

“The one with the red jacket and glasses,” Mike said, pointing.

Cunningham stood a hundred yards away waiting. Ethan walked onto the lawn toward him with a steady quick stride, his friends following. He walked faster as he got closer until he could see Cunningham’s eyes behind his glasses. They glinted once as he approached and he said, “what’s up bitch?” Ethan hit him with the full power of a good stride and wind-up with his right hand in the nose. His face dropped back. His glasses were gone. He tried to duck the next blow but he hit him again in the temple with his right hand, then again, and as Ethan stepped in with his left foot he stepped too far and twisted his hips for the fourth punch. His foot slid out ahead between his legs. He grabbed a hold of Cunningham’s red jacket as he fell back. Then they were on the ground.

They rolled on the wet grass until Ethan got him on his back and reared up big with his fist cocked back and the circle of the mob squeezed in tighter, yelling. Then he bucked him off and they rolled again, this time coming loose, and he was on his feet and they still yelled but they couldn’t make out the words. Then Cunningham kicked Ethan in the face. It was a good shot and everything started to swirl. Ethan was on his hands and knees and he could see him out of the corner of his eye, pulling his foot back to kick him again and he felt the toe of his boot again against his temple. It knocked him to his side and he stepped forward as Ethan tried to get up, and again, his foot thudded against his face. They still yelled, and he covered his face with his hands and held his head. Cunningham was still there, with a broken nose from the first punch and blood running down his face. He won in front of the mob and they were all still yelling so he drew back his foot again and kicked but he only got Ethan’s arm. He must have decided the one-foot kicking wasn’t getting him anywhere, so he took a step back and ran then jumped with both feet in the air. The snow fell and covered everything in a thin blanket of white.