Falling Into My Own Trap

A half century has come and gone since the events of this story transpired, and they say with the progression of years one learns to laugh about such things,

… but I never have, and never expect to (laugh).

I was in the throes of adolescence, perhaps 13, and at the time we were living a few miles out of town, in what we referred to as “the country,” (though since then this part of our local geography has been annexed into my hometown of Bartow).

I was an introvert and bookworm, and I had very few close friends at the time; a circumstance which hasn’t changed much with the passing years. I filled up my days with a few hobbies which required the participation of all of one person; skateboarding, bowling, weightlifting, and of course, reading.

It was common on summer days, when old Summerlin Institute, (now Bartow High School) didn’t require my daily appearance, to skateboard about a mile to the local bowling alley. I always carried my little transistor radio with me, and of course, only one band existed at the time (or so it seemed to me),

“The Beach Boys.”

On one such day, much like every other day which preceded it, I found myself bowling, alone, on my favorite lane. At this juncture, I don’t recall the number, but I remember that it was on the far right of the bowling alley.

I would ALWAYS bowl a minimum of five or six games, sometimes more, and I maintained an average of “180.” Not bad for a young fella who lacked a mentor, and who always bowled…

Alone.

On one particular day, I couldn’t tell you the week or month, much less the year it occurred, it seemed impossible for me to miss. Every roll came up a strike. And my good fortune continued throughout the game. When it was “all said and done,” I rolled

...a 280 !!!

Needless to say, I was pleased. Yes, I was pleased. I recall, Ron, the alley manager smiling from ear to ear, and profusely congratulating me. (No doubt, had a professional bowled such a score in a national championship, he would have walked away with substantial earnings.) But did I mention my prize?

Ron bought me a lemonade. (I’m tempted to add… LOL).

They say, “doing a good job around here is like wetting yourself in a dark suit… you get a warm feeling, but nobody notices.” Well, I never found this theory to have all that much merit. At least, I derived a strong sense of satisfaction from my accomplishment that day, and I still feel very good about it (especially since during those rare times I have bowled as an adult, I have been very lucky to come away with a score of more than two digits).

Who can say? Perhaps if I had finished what I’d begun, I might have “made a name for myself” as a professional bowler.

But none of the foregoing verbiage is the real focus of this chapter, but might, rather, give you some insight into my life and times.

I have told you that, as an adolescent, I was an introvert and loner, and so I was. That is not to say that I had no friends, I did, (but perhaps, rather, they filled up a nebulous space between the categories of friends and acquaintances). I hung out with one neighborhood boy, David, and among all my peers I spent the most time with him. And to quote “Forrest Gump,” I might have called him “my best, true friend.”

David and I made the decision to build a fort. After all, we needed a place “to hang our hats.” Even at this age, there’s just something about having a place to hang out, to relax, to be one’s self, (and in our particular case) to defend against ourselves against perceived enemies.

At this writing, I can’t tell you where we got the wood, perhaps from a pile of scrap lumber on David’s property. We set to work on the humble little fortification, and completed it over the course of the next week. Approximately 10 by 10, metal roof, wooden floor, and interestingly enough, a trap door. We had found some old 55 gallon drums, knocked both ends out of them, dug a trench behind our “fort,” installed them, covered the joints with tar paper, and hidden any evidence of our workmanship with the same dirt we’d dug out of the trench.

Having finished our illustrious structure, David and I began spending time there each afternoon, and sometimes on weekends we spent nights in the edifice. It seems worse than claustrophobic now, but more often than not, we would open the trapdoor, crawl into the circular darkness, and doze awhile before finding our way back out of our make-shift tunnel.

A week or two after we completed that magnificent building, that 8^th wonder of the world, that grand and glorious “maison” reminiscent of the finest architecture of the ages,

… we made our first and only mistake, (but it was a very BIG mistake).

I can’t tell you whether it was David, or rather I who suggested we protect ourselves from “our enemies.” After all, we slept in that place, and who would protect us while we were sleeping? (Even now, I have a natural sensitivity about home invasion, and I lock my bedroom door at night. I’ve mused that this might provide me sufficient time to grab and load my 38, and any would-be attacker would rue the day he broke into my house).

The Vietnam Conflict was well underway, and it’s possible we took our cue from the Viet Cong, those little guys in “black pajamas” who dug holes along heavily used jungle trails, placing sharpened bamboo sticks in the bottom, and covering the evidence with brush. Too many of our hapless soldiers and marines suffered significant injuries, as a result of falling into these unconventional traps; a tactic which has been referred to as “asymmetrical warfare.”

Wherever we got the idea, we began to dig foot deep holes around the fort, which we had begun referring to as our “hut.” But we did the Viet Cong “one better.” First driving three inch nails through small wooden squares, we placed one or two sharp side up in the bottom of each hole. As in the previous illustration, David and I covered each hole with grass and assorted brush. It goes without saying that we installed some of the traps along the trail which led to our hut.

Voila. We were done. I admit it. We felt a great deal safer than heretofore.  (For reasons that were not yet apparent, this feeling would pass all too quickly).

Of course I “talked it up” to family and friends. I mean, who would build such a noble edifice and not brag about it? And of course who would build such an innovative structure without showing it off?

On one memorable day, I invited my mother to “drop by for coffee.” (Well, not literally.) She and my sister, Linda, first crossed a busy four lane highway, and proceeded to walk across a large, virtually empty field; empty, except for what in later years I have referred to as an “old shack.” (Obviously, I would never have used such terminology at the time).

As I recall, I was the only one guarding the fort at the time. David was apparently elsewhere. Suddenly, I saw mama and Linda coming down the well-trod pathway. No doubt, I was beaming with pride. I had little doubt I was about to receive

… “The American Mothers Best and Brightest Architect of the Year Award.”

Mama was walking hand in hand with my two year old sister, and as my mom gained her first view of the hut, it seemed to me she wore a look of both curiosity and pride on her face; (well, to be fair, perhaps more of the first, than the second).

Suddenly, a portion of my mother’s right leg disappeared. She had been wearing light sandals at the time, and almost as suddenly she seemed to scream in pain. All the efforts I’d expended in the past couple of weeks, and all the pride I subsequently felt, disappeared as quickly as my mother’s leg. She was sitting now, examining her foot. Several nails had pierced her sandal and embedded themselves in the sole of her foot. Needless to say, she was irate.

“Royce! What were you thinking, son?”

At this stage, I began to question my own sanity. What had I been thinking?

Tears were running down her cheeks now.

“If Linda has been walking ahead of me, those nails might have gone through her foot.”

(Now, that put an interesting spin on the subject).

In spite of the trauma I had accidentally visited upon my mother, I was very close to asking her,

… “But don’t you want to see my fort? After all, I didn’t put that trap there for you.”

Yet I thought better about that question, and I never asked it.

My mother almost shouted now, “Are there any other traps around that Thing you built?”

By this time, I was as upset as she was, and I expect her reference to “Thing” hardly fazed me.

I admitted that, indeed, there were several other traps in the area. Mama shook her head, and may have emitted an involuntary,

… “Damn!”

(and I had NEVER heard my mother use such a vernacular expression).

“I want you to come home with me, NOW! Your daddy can decide what to do with you.”

Her phraseology made me wonder if they might decide to ship me off to a French penal colony, or sell me to the nearest zoo.

Of course, I dutifully followed my mother as she “did a 180,” and limped her way back to the house. (She never returned to “the scene of the crime,” and I never received that afore mentioned, prestigious award).

I wondered about my forthcoming punishment throughout the rest of the day. Daddy was a self-employed exterminator, and he wouldn’t return home for several hours. It was the age before cell phones, so that hadn’t been an option for her. When I heard his truck drive up, I just knew I was “in for it.” No sooner had my dad walked in the door than I heard mama exclaim,

“Henry. Do you have any idea what your son has been doing today?”

Well, he knew it had to be good, ‘cause he knew me, and I’d never done anything halfway.

“No Erma. Honestly, I don’t have a clue.”

My mother proceeded to tell him “all about it.” And it was then that I thought I saw a faint, involuntary smile appear on his face. I think he stifled it though, and my mother was rattling on at such a clip that she didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m leaving this all up to you, Henry. If it was up to me, I might kill him.”

By this time mama had contacted the doctor, driven to his office for a tetanus shot, and wore a white gauze bandage on her foot.

Daddy motioned for me to join him outside, and as surely as I followed mama out of that field, I followed him out the back door. (I began to think about that penal colony again.)

“Son, what in the H_ _ _ were you thinking?”

And before I could answer, it seemed that little smile played about his lips again.

“Listen. I probably did worse things that this when I was a boy. And I know you didn’t mean to hurt your mother. Tell you what, son, get back out there, and cover all those traps up, and…”

He didn’t finish his sentence. It was obvious his monologue was over, and the subject wouldn’t be revisited.

Apparently, I’d avoided being sold to the nearest zoo.

The guilt was overwhelming, and that I’d avoided being punished didn’t make me feel any better. I felt such a sense of self-loathing.

A singular thought sprang into my head,

“D_ _ _, D_ _ _, D_ _ _, I hope I fall into one of those traps!”

Like Carl in the movie, “Sling Blade,” there was this proverbial washing of the hands, and the thought repeated itself,

“I hope I fall into one of those d _ _ _ traps!”

My friend and I hadn’t bothered mapping out our handiwork, and it never occurred to us that what had been meant for the “black hats” might put the “white hats” in danger.

Well, my reader, you guessed it.

For the second time in one day, those Vietnam-style traps claimed a victim.

Oddly enough, after the initial pain, a sense of satisfaction overwhelmed me, and the guilt began to abate. My dad told me later that he’d considered some sort of punishment, but after I returned from my perilous mission wearing my “war wounds,” he had been closer to awarding me a purple heart, than relegating me to Bora Bora.

By William McDonald. Excerpt from "Snapshots of a Life (Not Always So) Well Lived," Vol. 1