THE GOLD FISH: The Tunnel (1.9)

If you’re new to THE GOLD FISH, start from the beginning.

← Prev. Wesley (1.8)

The tunnel wasn’t really a tunnel; it was a decaying, corrugated storm drain which ran under the Beltway, the 6-lane highway that encircled the city of Baltimore.

Barbie and Bridge didn’t have to take the tunnel to get to the 7-Eleven -- they could have crossed an overpass a quarter mile to the east -- but the tunnel was quicker and definitely more interesting. Because it was forbidden. A chain link fence attempted to block its access, but years ago someone had taken bolt cutters to it and the county had never come to fix it. So now, every kid north of Putty Hill Road used it as a cut through, and it had become a sort of way station for juvenile delinquency. A quiet place to smoke, guzzle stolen beers, or just hang out well away from the judgmental eyes and ears of adults. Archaeological evidence of these activities were strewn about its weedy slopes. Cigarette butts. Crushed beer cans. Little Debbie’s snack wrappers. Battered Playboy magazines with their centerfolds missing. And for some strange reason, what appeared to be -- to Barbie anyway -- pale deflated balloons. She’d also spotted, more than once, old underpants. Barbie understood sex in broad strokes, but still couldn’t understand why you’d do it near the tunnel or why you’d leave your underwear behind. It was gross and weird. But it had reinforced a good lesson. When you see something you don’t like, it’s best to just look away.

Like when other groups of kids were hanging around the tunnel. Some gangs huddled and whispered together, while others shouted and banged into each other like balls in a bingo cage. Both would pretend to be oblivious to anyone else, even though the threat of violence hung in the air like a fart no one wanted to acknowledge. That is, until accidental eye contact broke the invisible veil and insults, threats, and fists started to fly. If that happened, it was best not just to look away, but to run away.

Fortunately, the tunnel was deserted that particular day and besides keeping their feet clear of the disgusting water that accumulated in the bottom of the tunnel, getting through was easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. It wasn’t long before Barbie and Bridge were racing into the 7-Eleven parking lot, full to bursting with orange Slurpee optimism. They skipped around broken pieces of glass, wads of old chewing gum, and still smoldering cigarette butts that littered the parking lot, and shouted a greeting to Jimmy, the twenty-something kid with cerebral palsy who was a perennial presence outside the store.

Jimmy leaned on his crutches in his usual spot -- the shade of the external ice freezer -- overseeing all the comings and goings. He was like the mayor of the 7-Eleven parking lot. That is, if mayors were in the habit of bumming stuff off their constituents. Cigarettes most of the time, but also Cokes, Slurpees, bags of Utz’s potato chips, Slim Jims, Tastykake Butterscotch Krimpets. Basically, whatever he could get. He would toss his dirty black hair off his forehead, grin at whomever was passing by, and make his requests, usually seasoned with a compliment to preemptively grease the skids. 

At the sight of Barbie and Bridge, Jimmy called a greeting. “Hey foxy ladies!”

“Hey Jimmy,” the girls cried in response. “How you doing?”

At this friendliness, Jimmy decided to bum something new. “Good, good,” he said with an impish smile. “Be better if I had a kiss.”

Barbie shuddered, but the ever sanguine Bridge just laughed and yelled, “Dream on, suckerrrrr.”

Bridge pushed Barbie through the door, and together the girls stumbled into the blissfully cool interior. They raced to the Slurpee machine and Hallelujah!, it held both orange and cola flavors. The 7-Eleven Slurpee gods had answered their prayers.

Minutes later, the girls stumbled from the store with the Slurpee clasped between them, their teeth clutched around the two straws which had been stuffed, side-by-side, through the hole in the plastic top. Barbie’s cut-off shorts now bulged with two packs of Doral Lights and she jostled with Bridge, trying to hold the cup steady as they dodged the feet-injuring landmines in the parking lot.

“Hey Strawberry Short Face, wanna suck on this instead?” a voice called.

The girls froze, the straws dropping out of their mouths.

Four unfamiliar boys slouched over their banana seat bicycles, each doing their best Nicholson/Hopper/Fonda Easy Rider impressions. One, a husky towhead, wore a lascivious grin and clutched at his crotch. “It’s tasty, I promise.”

The girls exchanged glances before Bridge yelled “you wish” at the same time Barbie moaned “ewww.”

This was really starting to get annoying, thought Barbie. Why was it everything was suddenly about sex this summer? It was soooo beat.

Despite his own request just moments before, it seemed Jimmy didn’t appreciate this strange boy’s crude suggestion either. Jimmy may be a beggar, but he had standards to uphold. He lurched towards the boys, a good-natured, non-threatening grin on his face. Repeated beatings at the hands of hooligans like these four had taught Jimmy a few lessons of his own.

“Come on, now fellas. That ain’t necessary.”

“Mind your own beeswax, you dumb spaz” growled the towhead. He looked to his compadres to confirm his bravado was being supported, or at the very least, appreciated. But all he got were blank stares. So he upped the ante and pedaled madly towards Jimmy.

Jimmy stood his ground, and at the last minute, the towhead boy veered away.  

One of the other boys giggled and mocked. “Come on, now fellas. That ain’t necessary.”

Jimmy shot a sidelong glance at Bridge and Barbie. “You two best be going now.”

The girls didn’t need any further encouragement. They ran.

Completely unfazed by the parking lot encounter, the girls now reclined on the dusty slope outside the tunnel like they owned the place. They silently passed Bridge’s cigarette and Barbie’s Slurpee between them, accompanied only by the roar of traffic overhead.

Barbie wasn’t really much of a smoker. She preferred the rebellious feeling of doing it much more than the actual experience. In fact, she couldn’t take a puff without coughing like -- as Bridge often said -- a dumb old doobie, so she only took one puff to every four or five of Bridge’s. But that seemed fair, since Bridge only took one sip of the orange Slurpee to every four or five of Barbie’s. It was even-steven math that was as intuitive to the friends as not stepping on cracks.

Bridge blew a perfect smoke ring into the air, then looked over at Barbie, and broke into song.

“Stayed in bed all morning just to pass the time...”

Barbie grinned at her. Everyone was listening to Carole King’s Tapestry this summer, and like Bridge, Barbie knew every lyric by heart. Despite a woeful, almost ridiculous lack of singing talent, Barbie joined in on the next line, “There’s something wrong here, there can be no denying.”

Bridge scooted over and laid her head next to Barbie, handed her the cigarette, and together they crooned, “One of us is changing, or maybe we just stopped trying. And it's too late, baby, now it's too late...though we really did try to make it...”

Their combined off-key voices got louder and more dramatic with each line of the song. “Somethin' inside has died and I can't hide and I just can't fake it. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.”

They sang their hearts out until they collapsed into giggles and rolled on the ground like they’d never seen or heard anything funnier.

And that made Barbie a little sad. Because for the first time in five years, she and Bridge would be at different schools come September. Barbie was finally leaving Catholic school and the nuns -- thank you, Jesus! -- and heading off to Loch Raven Junior High. Bridge had one more year at IHM. Even though they were never in the same class, Barbie and Bridge had always walked to and from school together. And the very thought of entering a brand-new school without Bridge filled Barbie with unease. But like the thought of discarded panties, Barbie pushed it from her mind. She took a drag of the cigarette, sputtered as usual, handed it back to Bridge, and changed the subject.

With as much nonchalance as she could muster, Barbie ventured, “so.... your brother... Wesley? Is he always like that?”

Like an 11-year-old longshoreman, Bridge pinched the cigarette between thumb and index finger, took a drag, then forcefully exhaled. “Yeah. Most of the time he’s worse. He’s such a weirdo. He stinks at music, but he’s always reading and writing. He says...” Bridge stood up and raised her fist in demonstration “Creativity wants out!”

Barbie sighed, “I think he’s cool.”

Bridge flicked the butt of the cigarette into the weeds and flashed her fangs. “You would.”

In the distance, the jangle of approaching voices and laughter reached the girls. It sounded like the towhead and his group of Easy Rider hooligans.

Low in her voice, Bridge screeched, “RUN!”

They ran.

Next → Sons of God (1.10)