Supertramp

“Take the long way home…

Take the long way home…”

K. was not really listening when they ended the class for the day. The walkman he got for his birthday was in his bag and he was smart enough not to let anyone else know about it until late in the day. The thing about it was he made sure that he put the tape in first before he came to school. They would have asked about it if they saw it (no one else liked that group). He let the orange earphones dangle near his ears from the hook on the shared clothes rack.

“Take the long way home…”

“Mr. Donaldson, are you listening?”

He was not really paying attention, but Miss Haverback was not a woman that he could ignore. She often pointed out the “bad elements in the room,” and K. was not included. In fact, if he had to make a guess about their relationship, his least favourite teacher was someone who actually cared about him (good grades actually helped).

“Sorry, Miss…”

“Well, let me repeat it again before you knock all the brains out of your head.” She turned her bulk toward the class, a small tub of yoghurt in her hands with a plastic spoon dangling in it (he would never forget this). “We want you all to go home on the main roads if you don’t take the bus. It is Daylight Saving Time, and it is much darker now, so stay away from the trails and that forest I know you all like.” Miss H. was now addressing those elements. Tommy Curtis and Rob Salt were giggling and laughing about something K. only guessed about (at least they weren’t bothering him today).

“Okay, Miss.”

“We will, Miss.”

“No problem, Miss H.”

That made her smile. She took another spoonful of strawberry-blueberry and put the tub down.

“Now, get out of here and stay safe.”

The stampede to the hallway was always fun on a Friday.

*

There was the trail through the forest and K. knew that he would be all alone. They had already been warned about wandering off during recess or lunch into the woods which began near the edge of their field and led to the townhouses. His mother would not be home for at least an hour and he would have time to listen to the music and practice trying to play it on his brother’s guitar. It was not as hard as he thought.

“When I was young,

It seemed that life was so wonderful…”

That was strange to listen to as he stepped on a well-worn path through the scrub and trees. He was still young, maybe naïve as well (he learned that word from a reader and wondered about it). He still thought that he could do better in math with the extra books that his mother bought for him (all long division; absolutely the worst). She made it certain that she would be checking his work that week.

“Make sure you get at least three pages tonight.”

“Yes, mom.”

“And eat your vegetables.”

They were the peas and carrots she left out for him that were ready for the rice and the chicken on the stove. She had shown him how the stove, vacuum, washing machine and dishwasher work last year. And she trusted him to do that and everything else. That was part of the reason why he took this short way home.

There was also his brother’s boombox. V. would be by Curtis, or the gym for a basketball game (the downtown Y had the best court, he said; K. did not care about sports, except road hockey). So, he was all on his own.

The darkness around him was not even that scary. Through some gaps in the trees, he could see the lights of the townhouses. The gap in the fence was about five minutes away.

And then, he heard something odd.

It was a metallic hum. When K. talked about it later, that was the only way he could think of it. A high hum that was like wires getting crossed on an old radio. He knew about signals getting caught like that because of what he read and studied with Mr. Park’s class. An interesting thing…but why was it here?

He got closer to the gap in the fence.

The noise grew louder.

It was on his right, and he could not see anything strange or unusual around him. It was pretty dark, but he was not scared. The wind picked up and it was hard and sharp in both ears.

And then they caught him.

“Gotcha!”

*

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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