Dead Fred

He was my closest friend and ally growing up, my imaginary friend.  See being an only child it got boring, like watching paint dry boring.  No siblings to play games within the neighborhood until the streetlights came on, the universal signal to go home for dinner.  The stragglers would have their parents screeching out of front doors or open windows for them to share that family meal.  No neighborhood actually.  I grew up on a dead-end street next to the train yard, one of only four houses.  It was a one stoplight kind of town, anonymous to mapmakers, where more than half the population was related to one another.  The kind of town you ran from as soon as you could for greener pastures.  Or at least went to a town with a Walmart, two stop lights and no kissing cousins.  Hell, I’d even settle for a Dollar General.

I was a difficult birth.

Or so I have heard about a million times.  Oh, Billy here he ruined all the works when he came out, like a bull in a China shop, this one.  He was determined to be alone in this world, she’d say. 

My mom would tell everyone from the parish priest to the mailman how awful I was at being born.  Always when I was present.  The queen of the segue she was. 

How about those Red Sox?  Oh, I remember a pair of fire engine red grippy socks that the hospital gave me for free the day Billy ruined me. 

Quite a storm last night.  Yes, reminds me of the storm Harold drove through to get me to the hospital after my water broke at midnight twenty years ago. 

Excuse me ma'am, do you have a minute to speak about the Lord and your eternal soul?  Let me tell you my soul is fine given that I gave birth to this little hell spawn. 

Needless to say, we aren’t close.

He said his name was Frederick.  Frederick Winthorp the third to be exact.  Told me to call him Fred for short.  Fred and I were inseparable.  He regaled me with fanciful tales of yesteryear, wild stories full of love, death, and mayhem.  I would create elaborate dramatic plays based on his storytelling and act them out for my parents.  We didn’t have a television.  Fancy things for fancy people, my dad would say.  No one told me that imaginary friends are supposed to be cute, fluffy pink bunnies named Mr. McGuffins or purple possums perched precariously on pine boughs playing peekaboo with their parents.  Fred was neither musical nor pastel colored.  He was more of an ashen gray, like the sky right before rain hit.  All the color washed away.  

Imaginary beings I found out were supposed to have spots, speckles, and glitter.  Maybe some crazy horns, antlers, or tusks.  Fred had a gigantic ax wedged firmly into his cranium, right above his right eye, a trail of blood constantly streaming out of it.  My first play, Death of a Colonist, artwork by me, story by Fred drew a few concerned stares and quiet muttering about doctors and specialists.  After that, I was told to find some real friends, maybe at school next year, my mom said.  “Preferably ones without humongous weapons impaled in their skulls”, joked my dad.  Fred said I had to keep our friendship quiet from here on out. “They don’t understand me like you do Billy,” he said.

School was full of bullies, idiots, and drab lifeless husks disguised as six-year-olds.  No one quite as full of vigor like Fred.  Johnny Turner was the only one I had told about Fred.  He shared he had a secret.  He had a crush on a girl.  Sally Watkins.  She was the prettiest girl in class.  I listened, offered advice.  Since he shared a secret, I decided to share mine with him. He was my best, real friend… until it got around the school.  He had told everyone that I was coo-coo crazy and to stay away from Billy unless you wanted an ax in your squash.  He never should have done that.  Secrets are private and special. Not to be spread around like gossip on the playground.  

“Hey Johnny, you know I was just kidding about Fred, right?’  

We were at recess.  Johnny was on the larger side, big-boned as they say.  He enjoyed the seesaw and seeing how many classmates it took to raise him up.  Most days it was four or five. 

“I don’t know Billy, you sounded pretty sure about it.  You went on and on about this ghost guy.  Seemed like you believed it.’  

“Nah, man.  I was just fooling around, trying to mess with ya.’

“Ok, sure.  If you say so”, he said with a smirk.

That smirk, the sarcastic smile I call it.  He was lying and we both knew it.

Liars are the worst.  No one likes a liar.  Fred said if someone says they are your friend, they won’t lie to you. If they will lie right to your face, they are your enemy.  Enemies deserve no mercy. 

It was the end of the day as we lined up for the bus home on the playground, two by two heading to our ark.  Johnny and I were waiting in line to go home. 

“I like to make up stories, always have.  Can we shake and be friends again?”, I asked with my best smile.  

“Sure Billy, why not?”, he said with a mocking grin.  

You see, it isn't that hard to trick people, you just need to smile a lot.  Everyone trusts a smile.  He never should have done that, the gossiping about or the trusting of me.  Fred says sometimes you have to send a message to be respected.  

Johnny swelled up good.  

Watching him grab at his throat, clutching at the last few strands of his life.  

I swear I could see them being cut by the fates; snip, snip no more Johnny.  

“Did you hear?  He had an allergic reaction, peanuts, I guess.  Just died right there on the playground.”  The school was a buzz concerning the demise of Johnny, the traitor.   Many theories ping-ponged around the schoolyard playground.  The ones that mentioned me might have to be dealt with later.  I’ve put them on a list.  I call it the Dead Fred.