Bang Bang

Bang Bang

Not for the first time, I woke up in a sweat, covers wrapped around my torso and calves. I felt like an embryonic beast, trying to break out of a chrysalis, the vivid dream already fleeing away in all directions, leaving only trailing wisps. I latched onto one, an insubstantial puff, and held on as it went the way of deep sleep. I already knew this dream. It was the same recurring dream that had plagued me since childhood….

           We called him “Bang Bang.” He stood, taller than a baby elephant and just as broad, at the intersection of Willow and Main, catercorner from Alamo School. Early each morning he went to work, firing finger-pistols into the air, the Lone Ranger of the neighborhood. In those days three of us guys walked the three blocks to and from the elementary school, picking up interesting rocks and wildflowers along the way, soaking in the sunny blue skies, the tangy scent of the nearby ocean, and the melodies of birds. 

           We would deposit ourselves into wooden desks with right-hand arms and cubbyholes underneath, complete our first grade seatwork, copying sentences and problems from the blackboards, then rush out for recess. Bang Bang was still there, across the chain-link fence of the playground, a solitary cowboy, preserving law and order with his fingers still pointed high.

           After school Bang Bang’s harrumphing voice welcomed us once more, as if the responsibility of getting us home safely was his alone. The older kids shouted at him as they walked by, “Get out of the street, Retard,” or “Go home, Nitwit,” but Bang Bang’s smile stayed frozen on his ruddy face, and he remained on his post.

           As one of the younger kids, I was fascinated by Bang Bang. His sheer size and the volume of his gravelly voice soothed me as I walked past, especially when I had to cross Willow and walk past the Hawkins house. There a pack of Doberman pinschers howled ferociously in the picture window, leaping on and off the living room sofa and twisting the curtains, as we walked by. Even at six, I knew better than to admit to being afraid, but the sheer violence of the dogs’ movements, the baring of teeth, and the volume of their voices, even through the walls of the house, struck me with a fear so great that I rabbitted down the street as fast as my short legs allowed.

           Sometimes Mr. Hawkins would come home from work early, screeching his Oldsmobile 98 from Main onto Willow, oblivious to speed limits, walking children, or his grinning neighbor’s shoot-em-up motions in the street. Mr. Hawkins would lean out of the open car window and yell, “Get outta the street.” He shook his head in irritation, as if the street were his alone.

           Whenever possible, I avoided being on Willow when Mr. Hawkins came home, not just because of his attitude, but because the first thing he would do after halting his car in the driveway and climbing out, would be to let loose the dogs. Then the mad rush of black-furred canines would dash into the yard, jumping on Mr. Hawkins, circling around him in a crazy competition for attention, then turning fearsome yellow-brown eyes on any nearby interlopers.

           The little kids would run, the big kids would walk fast, and even Bang Bang would holster his finger-pistols and call it a day when those dogs were out. Urban legend held that once one of the Dobermans took a chunk of flesh from a kid, riding by on a bicycle, and the hole was so big the emergency room doctors couldn’t stitch it. Supposedly, Mr. Hawkins didn’t even apologize for his dog’s attack. “Just tell your kid to stay off of Willow next time,” he told the parents.

           One evening I overheard my parents talking about a petition circulating in the neighborhood. “I feel so sorry for those people,” my mother said. “It’s not their fault that their son is retarded.”

           “No,” Dad replied. “But they could institutionalize him, I guess. Get him off the street.”

           “What if they can’t afford that? And besides, what harm is he doing?”

           “Petition says he’s a threat to the neighborhood, scaring children, affecting property values.”

           “Well, I’m not going to sign it. I just don’t think it’s a neighborly thing to do.”

***

           The next few weeks, Bang Bang was absent. The walk down Willow Street was eerie without the scenes from the Wild West, and I wondered where he was, if he was okay, and if he would ever come back out. 

           Mr. Hawkins’ dogs were charging at the window, even more violently than usual. They reminded me of the Big Bad Wolf, intent on huffing and puffing and blowing the house down. I, for one, did not want to be there when they did.

           One day, when I was walking home, I glimpsed Bang Bang peeking out from behind a curtain in his house, as I walked by. Glad to know he was okay, I held up an index finger and gave a quick salute in his direction. I hoped he saw me.

***

           One day at recess, Ben and Mark and I looked across the chain-link fence and started talking about Bang Bang. “Hey, I miss the guy,” I said. “It’s so quiet now.”

           “Maybe he moved away.”

           “Nah, he’s in there. I see him looking out the window when we pass by.”

           “Let’s write him a note,” I suggested. “Maybe we can get him to come out again.”

           “Can he read?”

           “I dunno, but it’s worth a try.”

           When we returned to the classroom, I pulled out a piece of Nifty notebook paper and wrote, “Please come out. We miss you.”

           After school we drew straws to see who would run up on the porch and put the note in the mailbox. Ben drew the short straw. I handed him the note. He bent to tie a loose shoelace, stood tall, inhaled, and sprinted off to complete the errand, to the tune of vicious barking in the background.

***

           The next day when school adjourned, Bang Bang stood in the center of the street like a happy Colossus, no sign of the cowboy, though. 

           “Hey, where ya been?” one of the older kids asked.

           Bang Bang didn’t reply. He just stood there.

           Ben and Mark and I laughed and punched each other. “Our note worked,” Mark said.

           “Looks that way,” Ben said. 

           As I walked past, I did my one-finger salute, and to my surprise, Bang Bang saluted back at me. My heart skipped a beat.

           Just then, Mr. Hawkins spun around the corner at the speed of light, screeching his brakes when he saw Bang Bang in the street. “Get outta the street, you dope,” he shouted. “Or I’ll call the police and have you carted away to the loony bin.”

           We all scooted past, eager to get past Willow Street before the dogs were let out.

           That night I said an extra bedtime prayer. “Please watch over Bang Bang, and don’t let Mr. Hawkins or his dogs get him.”

***

            Things went along fine the next few weeks with nobody stopping Bang Bang from being outside when we walked past. He even came out again when we had recess. He was quiet, though. He just stood and watched.

           One afternoon, about two weeks before school was out for the summer, Ben and Mark and I picked up an old baseball in the playground. We threw it as high into the air as we could and ran beneath it for a fly catch, taking turns. I remember the smell of oleander blossoms, thick in the air, as we crossed Main to get to Willow. It was my turn with the ball, and I wound up a dozen times, like I’d seen the pros do on tv. I was so intent on my sky-high pitch that I didn’t hear the approach of Mr. Hawkins’ speeding Oldsmobile.

           “Watch out!” Ben screamed, too late, as the car cut across the corner, barreling toward my back.

           I don’t remember what happened next, but Ben and Mark have told me over and over again so many times that it’s woven into the fabric of my life.

           Apparently at the last second, Bang Bang rushed into the street throwing himself between the car and me. Mr. Hawkins applied the brakes, but it wasn’t enough to keep the car from plowing into Bang Bang and then me.

***

           I came to in the hospital with casts on both legs and one arm, a mummy bandage around my head. I didn’t return to school the rest of that year, but I was promoted to second grade anyway.

           The next fall, a “for sale” sign with a diagonal “sold” banner was planted in the grass in front of Mr. Hawkins’ house. No dogs barked as we walked by; no gentle giant greeted us. It didn’t seem right.

***

           The dreams started soon afterwards and continue all these years later. The ferocious animals, the speeding automobile, the relentless villain, and the sudden, last-second rescue by a retarded guy who sacrificed his life for me.