Edgar and the Long Night

JOE WOODWARD and I were running from a truck at 2:00 am Saturday morning. We were both eleven years old.

Joe and I had wanted to have a sleepover. We had been talking about it in Mrs. Lambert’s 5th grade class. A friend of ours named Chris Edgar wanted to have a sleepover too. His Mom approved of all us staying the night at their place. I think Joe and I dreaded this slightly, but we were eager for sugar fueled pre-teen adventures.

In order to understand our dread of the sleepover you must understand, no one fully trusted Chris Edgar. There were two sides to him. We all liked him. He was a friend. He could be charismatic, and was often the leader of a group. I really liked Edgar. He had even punched a kid in the face for me once.

The kid Edgar punched had, first, kicked me in the face during ‘King of the Mountain.’ King of the mountain is a game we played when it snowed. First, someone would make a pile of snow. Then someone would stand on top of the pile. That someone was King of the Mountain. Everyone in the immediate vicinity would then viciously charge the ‘King.’ Whoever knocked down the King took his place, and everyone proceeded to attack the new ‘King.’ It’s all very Shakespearean. There are so many social metaphors I can see associated with this game. Yet it remains as brutally simple as another childhood favorite, ‘Smear the Queer.’ So this kid in our grade had been ‘King’ and I pushed him one way while someone else pushed him towards me. This kid jumped in frustration and kicked me in the face. The webbing between my top lip and front teeth split. Tears filled my eyes, and blood came from my mouth amidst hot winter breath seen on the air. The recess bell rang and everyone started running towards the school to line up for class. I was on my back and Chris Edgar helped me up. He had been playing the game and saw the entire incident. I think his words were something like "That dick! I’m going to punch him in the mouth next recess" Chris Edgar made good on his promise. That kid, who is so important I forgot his damn name, never really came near me again.

As opposed to Edgar’s leader-defender role, was his extreme-selfish anger. Edgar used to freak out. I mean he really went nuts. Everyone in our little friend group, sometimes called “The Krew,” (This was our gang invented by Joe Woodward) knew that Edgar was dangerous when he lost control. Personally, I spent a lot of energy trying to prevent any ‘freak out’ episodes when I was with him.

I recall the first time I went to Chris Edgar’s house. He lived in a basement apartment. In his room he had a World War II era bayonet. He kept it on top of his television. He showed it to me. Then he jumped up and down jamming it into his ceiling. He was yelling, “My fucking Mom! I don’t fucking care!”

I wasn’t really sure what he was mad about. I still don’t.

After he created about fifteen holes in his ceiling we went outside and played guns. I had an orange water gun that looked like a police issue semi-auto, and Chris had a black sub machine gun. His gun looked real, but it wasn’t. It was from the 1980’s. Back then you could sell toy guns that looked authentic. There weren’t any bright colors to warn the police that you were just a kid. We started by hunting down “The Predator” (from a popular movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger). And we finished with an epic showdown versus a large dragon. We fired thousands of rounds at that dragon. Edgar finally grabbed a (plastic) sword to stab its heart. While I finished the job with a grenade shoved into the creature’s fiery mouth. As we walked away satisfied the creature came back to life briefly. We had to quickly turn around and fire a few hundred more rounds to finish the job like heroes from an awesome 80's movie.

Another time at Edgar’s my pants got wet during a water fight with “Super Soakers,” balloons, and a backyard hose. Chris lent me a pair of blue-jeans. Joe Woodward was there that time too. Joe and I decided to go to his house to play a Nintendo game. Chris was going to come also, but his Mom came home and said he couldn’t. Edgar started screaming at his Mom. He said she was a “stupid bitch.” Joe and I went outside while Chris and his Mom yelled at each other. We stood around for a minute, but decided to just take off.

I remember it was a cloudless and beautiful summer evening. The Sun was shining just right through the green trees of Holladay. We were a few houses down when Edgar came running at me like a man on a mission. If you’ve ever seen The Red Hot Chili Pepper’s video for “Under the Bridge,” and watched Anthony Keidis running in slo-mo, well, that’s what Edgar looked like. He grabbed my shoulders and said, “No. You’re staying at my house.”

I said, “Uhm… I think I want to go to Joe’s House.” I looked over and saw some cute girls, about our age, walking by and staring at us.

Edgar screamed, “Okay! Take off my pants! Take them off!” He started to grab at the jeans he had lent me. “Give them back now!”

I was like, “No way man. Come on.” My pride was destroyed, in front of cute girls and everything. Somehow I felt like a bigger jackass than how Chris was actually acting.

Eventually Edgar’s Mom showed up and somehow talked him into letting me go. She was sort of a pushover with him though.

My Mom and I brought his pants back that same week.

So, later on Joe and I scheduled a sleepover. And like I said, it ended up at Edgar’s. Now, as to what event caused Joe and I to leave at 1:55 am on a Friday morning, I can only imagine. Because I don’t actually recall what he did. But it was scary enough for two 11 year olds to brave the dark streets. So we snuck out while Chris was in the bathroom. We shoved all our gear into our backpacks. We slipped quietly past his sleeping Mom. (She slept in a bed in the kitchen area.) And Joe Woodward and I went walking to his house at a brisk pace.

Now, walking in the dark is something I didn’t want to do. I had a lot of fears as a kid. One of those fears being that of the dark. I was also afraid of the possibility of some older teenagers seeing us and harassing us, possibly pounding us. Teenagers didn’t see us, or pound us, that night. But when Joe tapped my arm and pointed towards the headlights coming from behind us, I thought I was a dead man. My heart went “heeeuggghckkk!” Joe, ever the sharp survivalist, jumped into some bushes to our right. I followed promptly.

The headlights, as it turned out, belonged to Edgar’s Mom’s truck. They were looking for us, presumably to take us back. We did not want to go back. They were driving very slowly. I could see the dark shapes of mother and son as they drove by. Of course, they seemed to drive even more slowly when passing our hiding place. I’m surprised the headlights didn’t reflect off my eyes, which were about a mile wide with fear.

It was a rush. But it kind of felt cool too. It felt like I was living a little bit of an adventure. I thought that’s what it’s like to be in “The Krew.”

The truck turned a corner and Joe was up and running. I was right behind him. Now I could feel the adrenaline and my hands shaking with excitement. It wasn’t really a life or death situation, but going back to Edgar’s that night would have felt like prison. Because of how the neighborhood was setup we knew the truck would be coming back around our way. We had 100 yards or so to get to Joe’s house.

It seemed like 400 yards.

We finally reached Joe’s driveway, and there were headlights coming! Joe’s Dad had his old beat-up truck in the driveway. There was a shell on the back. Joe lifted the window of the shell and we both scrambled in. Joe actually made sure I was in first. He was a good guy that way.

Joe and I peeked through the shell window and watched Edgar and his Mom drive back the road we had just sprinted. We had made it. But now we were tired. And Joe’s parents were kind of weird. For some reason they wouldn’t have understood that we needed to get away from Chris Edgar. I don’t think they even allowed sleepovers at their house. They didn’t even like Joe’s friends to eat dinner with their family. I was never allowed to. Joe’s Mom would cook up some crazy looking casserole. I would be at their house all day and practically starving by dinner time. This woman, who was either sadistic or just oblivious, would then take the casserole out of the oven, have me and Joe set the table, and then say, “Call your Mom to come pick you up now Nick. We’re having dinner.”

No shit lady! I’m starving.

I wonder now if it was Joe’s Dad. He was a pilot. I think he was one of those guys who wanted his house to be a quiet refuge. As far as I’m aware Joe’s parents weren’t very affectionate to their children.

Also as a side note: Joe’s Mom had boobs that drooped down to her waistline. It looked like they just popped out of her stomach. Her belly button would’ve been the cleavage area. It was pretty gross.

So there we sat in the bed of a truck. We didn’t have sleeping bags or pillows. We had backpacks with toothbrushes and candy. Joe knew there would be hell to pay if we knocked on his door, and he didn’t have a house key. I think it’s a law of nature that eleven year olds don’t carry house keys. So we tried to sleep on the hard, uneven metal of a 1978 GMC. (I’m guessing the year and make of the vehicle. But it sounds good, doesn’t it?)

Well I couldn’t sleep. I don’t think Joe could either, but I complained more. To this day I just really like mattresses and pillows. I finally convinced Joe to try and break into his house. Getting inside was a long process. I have to hand it to Joe though. He would’ve made an excellent cat-burglar.

We snuck ever so quietly to the side gate. Joe took about five minutes to open it, as to not have it squeak. Then we stepped through, and there was another five minutes to close the damn thing. We sat on the back porch and whispered for a bit. (On this same back porch, later and in the daytime, we would roll maple leaves into paper and pretend to smoke it. We also would later obtain dirty magazines and read them in the bushes on the other side of his house. For having prudish cold parents, Joe’s house was a pretty fun place.) Joe still needed some convincing. He was really afraid if we got caught it would not be good for him. He was pushing his glasses in the middle of their frame.

Joe was known for his thick glasses and blue “chums.” Chums were pieces of thick cloth that acted as a security belt for if a kids glasses fell of his face. They turned your glasses into the dorkiest necklace of all time. Joe was always pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose when he was thinking hard.

I don’t remember what I said, but I can be very manipulative at times. I’m sure I used this attribute. I was sick of being outside. And the back of a truck for five more hours was just too much for me, if there was a possible option of a bed. Only a sliding glass door, a living room, and hallway separated us from our goal of Joe’s room. Finally Joe went quietly into his garage, through the window. I stayed outside. He came back with a screwdriver. He jimmied this tool into the bottom of the sliding glass door. A cut broom handle was in the metal to prevent one from opening the back glass door. Joe wriggled the wood up onto the carpet. He then whispered, “Let’s hope the top lock isn’t locked.”

It was.

But Joe, bless his soul, silently wiggled that damn door until it somehow lifted off the lock and slid open. The sliding open process took another five minutes; and of course five minutes to close too. I’m not exaggerating about that either. When it came to silent break-ins, Joe was a perfectionist. It was a long ten minutes for myself. Long.

I hadn’t actually seen him like that before. He was always loud and crazy. His parents must have put some serious fear into his mind. It was like seeing him act as an adult. He was taking a sort of responsibility I hadn’t seen him act on before that night.

The screwdriver was put into Joe’s back pocket. The wooden door-stopper was replaced ever so quietly. We snuck across the living room, down the hallway and had another long wait as Joe, slooowly, opened his bedroom door. Then slooowly shut it behind us.

Morning light was sneaking in through Joe’s curtained window. We crawled into Joe’s bed and relaxed. He explained that in the morning we would go outside and pretend to walk home from Edgar’s. That plan actually worked too.

I really liked Joe at that point. I was happy he was my friend.

Joe, crazily enough, turned on some music. There was a small tape player at the top of his bed. He assured me his parent’s wouldn’t hear it. He pressed play and a very low volumed soundtrack to “Super Mario Bros. 2” came on. He had recorded it from the game himself by putting the tape player up to the TV speakers.

We were talking in sleepy whispers when we heard a door open in the hallway. It shut and footsteps came towards us. They walked pass and into the kitchen. We could hear running water. Joe said, “My Dad’s making tea. My parents just had sex.”

I believed him. I didn’t ever ask him how he knew that his parent’s had just had sex. But I still believe him to this day.

We both slept well.