KOG: The Creek Story

The humidity was high that day, very high. It was about 87 degrees, maybe a little bit above 90, but nothing cooler. I knew that for a fact, only a high temperature like that could have made that smell so strong and hypnotizing. It lingered in our noses throughout the whole summer. Some days, when the temperature is similar to that one, I can recall all the sensations I experienced that day. It never frightens me, but it makes me remember. It made me smell that stench. Breathe in the contaminated air that filled the space we occupied that day. Hear the water gently caressing the rocks and the seagulls speaking in the distance. Taste the sweat. Feel it dripping down the peach fuzz of my cheeks. Feel my hair standing on edge in the still, breezeless abyss of the space that we once occupied.

It was only five of us that day—Me, Shannon, Jason, Robbie and Wee-Wee. Don’t laugh. I know it’s kind of strange to go around calling someone by that name, but it’s one of those nicknames that you got when you were a baby that never went away, even when you were all grown-up and had kids of your own. This one was a rather embarrassing one, so, maybe, we should have stopped calling him that; after all he was almost ten, but he is fifteen now and we still call him by that name. Well let’s get back to the story. So, it was only the five of us—the only members of the “Kids On the Go” up and out that day. It was five years ago, Memorial Day, spring 1996, or maybe a day after or a day before.  I always got confused with that observed day thing and still do, and that’s probably why I can’t remember the exact day of the week and date, and, of course, it could have been the fact that my father was always right and whatever day he celebrated a holiday on—was the day it was. He came up with some strange and out of the ordinary ways of doing things, always making tasks harder than they would have been if he were a normal thinking person.

That day we were having a barbecue—or cookout, what we liked to call it—but us kids never stayed around any longer than we had to. Once we got whatever food was for the taking, in our stomachs, we could care less about anything else. Being the slim, early teen that I was, I could only handle about two cheeseburgers smothered in Heinz honey barbecue sauce, not ketchup, a steak with the same treatment I gave the burger, a little bit of rice and beans, which was made by my Irish mother and not any of my Spanish aunts—she was more than influenced by them, to start. It was always good to have a variety, some potato salad, a lot of lettuce, which I would personally pick out from the midst of those other nasty things—tomatoes, cucumbers, radish pieces, etc.—that it had to share its life boat with. Italian dressing would top that off, a can of Sprite and half of or a few guzzles of someone else’s to wash it all down, the perfect lunch or dinner or what ever else you want to call it. That’s all that barbecue was good for besides having us all together that day. I guess things just tend to fall in place.

            We were a rag-tag group of kids who modeled ourselves after the many things we heard, read, and watched on TV. There was this show that used to come on Channel Thirteen that we always watched, it was called “Ghostwriter.” The kids on the show used to get into all sorts of things. They had this friend that could appear out of nowhere and communicate with them magically through rearranging letters and words of books and other written materials. They were an urban group of kids, like us, and they solved all types of mysteries and crimes that happened in their neighborhood. Anyway, we tried to be just like them, but they were a conservative bunch and always did things the “right” way. Although we lacked the “Hollywood” magic, we had something they didn’t. We couldn’t live up to their great sense of moral and ethical values, and, more truthfully, we didn’t want to. We had to make do with what we had, our own knack for adventure and mischief. Of course good ole Helena Rubenstein and all her friends at Sesame Street couldn’t have us looking up to people that weren’t good role models for us children. They wouldn’t want us running around and getting into stupid stuff, mischievous stuff just short of illegal or a little bit above it. But we did it anyway. Of course we did it anyway, and sometimes it was far above legal.

We just knew we were the Tom Sawyers and Huckleberry Finns of today—straight out of the projects. And of course there wasn’t anyone among us, but me, who made it past the first ten pages let alone read the novels in their entirety. I guess it was because I was the oldest. I guess that was it.

I was the oldest and bravest of the bunch, of course—a natural born leader from as far back as I can remember. As I mentioned before, our club was called “Kids On the Go,” KOG for short, and had up to 17 members, mostly our cousins and childhood friends, but we were seldom all together at once. There was the main clique, which all of us out that day were a part of. Our friends and family, who lived in other parts of the city or other states, who weren’t around that much, weren’t part of the main clique. We liked to think of them as if they were “reserve” members—comic book lingo for members of any particular group who are only called on when trouble was brewing. For the most part, we were usually in a group of 5-10 on any given day. We always seemed to be into everything and today would be no different from any other day, except for the obvious. Adventure usually found us, but if it didn’t, we went looking for it. Our satanic little minds would take over and that guy that always whispers in your ears would start filling our heads with a few ideas. Like that one time when we spent a whole day picking up dead jellyfishes at the beach. We convinced a lady that they were “jelly candy” and got her to actually eat the goddamn things. She was from the nuthouse that was a few feet shy of the boardwalk, of course. The funny thing about it was that she paid us for our “hospitality.” We always wondered what happened to her. I still wonder sometimes.

Most people when they think of Coney Island only think of an amusement park. But there is so much more than just a beat down amusement park. Coney Island is a community. Coney Island isn’t really a true island; it was surrounded by water on three sides. I forget the name for those things. Maybe a peninsula or an isthmus. The eastern side was where the beach was located, outlined by the boardwalk. They were parallel to one another and stretched out for about 3 ½ miles. Every mile on the boardwalk was marked in huge, bright yellow letters, probably to notify the hundreds of joggers of the completed distance of their daily “plights.” Toward the north, the amusement park lies about 2 miles from the southeastern tip. There you can find the famous Cyclone roller coaster and the original Nathan’s hotdog restaurant, whose dogs I always think are overrated. You know, sometimes you feel like that when you get used to a certain thing.

I live on the southwestern tip where there was a more civil outlook on life than that of our counterparts from the project-ridden central part of Coney Island. We liked to think of our project as a community within a community in which the biggest park in our neighborhood separates us from the brunt of that uncivilized world.  We have all our cookouts there. The entrance is directly across the street from my building. We spend most of the summer in that park, Kaiser Park is its name, and although we had a few dull days, there was always something, something far greater to look forward to. Of course what was dull to us, probably would have been a whole new experience for you.

To get to the park we have to cross the two-lane street. Traffic goes in opposite directions, and there is a concrete divider in the middle of it that separates them. Just crossing the street is a journey. If there are any parked cars in front of our building, it makes the approaching cars invisible. If you don’t peek out from behind the cars, your face could become a permanent ornamental fixture for someone’s windshield, and the rest of you would have to be scrubbed off the concrete. But most likely, no one would take the time out to scrub the last visible traces of the life that you once had from the pavement; perhaps, the approaching end of the summer hurricanes would do the job. The community board was supposed to get a few speed bumps put down to prevent cars from racing down the street, but it never happened. In the long run, I guess I’ll add a few more mangled/recently deceased bodies, not in a funeral home, to my list of mangled/recently deceased bodies, not in a funeral home, that I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.

Then there was the creek. It lies on the western part of the park. On an average day the creek has sort of a run down majestic look to it. A calm, simple look—a kind of look that makes you want to stare at it all day. It is peaceful, but it has a mysterious feel to it, a feeling of tranquility that’s like something out of a mesmerizing daydream. Something that when gently touched can turn to dust or ash and fly away in a single breath. Ok, great. Some people like to call it the bay, not that it really matters because they all seemed to have the same idea about it, but it’s better known as Coney Island Creek to the public. I’ll refer to it as both, while I finish telling you the story.

According to the faded yellow spatter of writing that’s on the short iron railing—that I guess is supposed to discourage people or children from going any further toward the creek, (give me a break)—there’s no swimming. No one could tell us what to do. No one could tell me what to do and what they could tell me to do, I wouldn’t do anyway. I am sure you wouldn’t be surprised to know that we went swimming there every summer and still do sometimes, but the aura of it being such a bad place always seemed to frighten us just a little.

Everyone and their mother have something or another to say about the creek, but they never experienced it like we did. They didn’t know what it was like. They just heard the second—the fourth hand stories about little John and his sister Janie who drowned in the creek of course. They drowned in such a bizarre way because: “There’s an undertow in that water, and if you get caught in it it’ll hold you under.” Another one that really cracked me up was: “There’s a drop in that water, and there’s something down there that’ll suck you under.” We had our own, resident   “Creature from the Black Lagoon.” Urban legends, that’s what they were. The truth is people did drown in that water and still do, but they don’t drown because the water was cursed or possessed of some supernatural forces. They died because they fell in, and they couldn’t swim. Everybody always wants to make something more dramatic than it really is. We are all guilty of this at some point in our lives. You know? So, could you blame them? Yes, you could.

I always think of it like I think of religion. All these religious fanatics trying to impose their beliefs on you, all these rules and regulations—(God help me)—if you do this, you will go to heaven, and if you do that, you will go to hell, and so on. You don’t want to believe in all those bible stories, but since they put all this stuff in your head when you were a young and impressionable child, it’s kind of hard to avoid thinking about, even if you really didn’t believe it. Should I be God fearing and obedient so I can get a spot in heaven? Nah, that’s too much hard work. I’d rather go to hell and see if it’s all that bad like everyone makes it out to be. Satan’s probably a decent person anyway. I’m sure God is too but I don’t think he has as much fun. In heaven your only source of entertainment is probably Bible studies. I’ll take playing Resident Evil, on PlayStation, in hell, over that any day.

“Ya’ll had enough?” Aunt Kathy and my mother asked simultaneously.

They spoke just as we were about to take off.

“I’ll take a cheeseburger,” Robbie let out. It was actually his third one, but he acted like he never had one even though it was the call for seconds. This was his third one—I’d been counting—and I think he could have stuffed two more down his trap making it an odd five. He was ten-years-old and weighed as much as me. His mother liked to call it baby fat, but we all knew it was because he ate too much. I’m sure she did too.

Anyway, we were mad that he got another burger, because he was delaying our adventure. He gobbled it down quick though, so we got over it.

“Where ya’ll goin’?” my mother asked concernedly. 

“We’re going to the pier to see what they’re catching.”

            It was a simple lie. Nothing severe. Hell, I don’t even think she really wanted to know. Not that she didn’t care for us but you know what I mean.

            “Don’t go by that water—”

“We will,” I spurt out, cutting her off. “Don’t worry,” I added to the mocking phrase.

“—and ya’ll betta not came back all sandy cuz you’re not coming upstairs with that,” she finished, managing to get to the end of her sentence. “Don’t play with me, James,” she said, finally responding to my smart remark. She was using that serious tone of voice, and she had that facial expression that spewed authority painted on her face. You know—the one your mother had—the one that you never took seriously. Well, I never did anyway.

“Ok, ok,” I murmured, just to stop her from going on and on. But of course, we were still going to go down to the bay and get sand all in our shoes and come back soaked from head to toe.

“Look out for each other too.” She really didn’t have to tell us that though—she probably knew she didn’t, but it always sounded good to say it and to hear it for that matter.

Our parents always had something to say about us going down to the bay, but, sometimes they let us and even encouraged us to go down to it and play. They just shot out major contradictions here and there and added more and more on to our notion that we didn’t have to listen to them. You know, you have those parents who are really, really strict and then you have those ones who don’t care about anything but themselves; and then you have our parents. They have this sort of bi-polar demeanor—you can do this one-day and that another and then you can’t do that today and this tomorrow. That was them all right. I don’t know if it came naturally, or maybe it was because they smoked weed all the time. But then again, my father didn’t smoke weed, and he was the worst perpetrator of that sort of behavior. Natural?—I am leaning more toward that explanation—in his case anyway.

The pier is a small one that is made of concrete. It stretches out into the creek about 15 feet. It has a width of about 25 feet and two entrances, one on the left and one on the right. It is an old pier that is held up by about ten pieces of trunk-like timber. Sometimes you could find people fishing off the pier even in the winter, but in the summer you could guarantee it every day, even if there was a thunderstorm. The fish like to jump out of the water in the rain, and I guess the fishermen like to press their luck by trying to catch them, at the same time feeling fearful of getting struck by lightning. The bunker, the bluefish, the flounders, the porgies, the stripped basses, and the blue-claw crabs that they caught, amongst many others, were their source of food. People like our Uncle Gregory depended on catching them for dinner some nights. If he didn’t catch any, he wouldn’t eat, and of course we had to feed him. That was seldom the case though. We always stopped by to see who was on the pier and what they were catching, but we never stayed for long unless we were trying to fish ourselves.

Didn’t mean to bore you with all of that data, but I can’t help but digress. You start to think and one idea leads to another and you know what happens after that. Well let’s keep the story moving—After we finished eating, we went down to the creek and carefully maneuvered across the thousands of small boulders, lacing its northern shoreline. We were extremely careful in our every step of trying to outrun each other—secretly praying to the powers that be that we didn’t fall and become the center of attention—even though we had done this thousands of times and considered ourselves experts. If someone did fall, we would all laugh until they got up or we realized that they were really injured. We called this area, simply, “the rocks.” They span out for about ¾ mile, beginning right before the pier, actually going under it, and coming to an immediate halt at the barge.

We could tell that it was low tide because the water didn’t rise up and cover the first six feet of rocks coming toward the railing like it usually did. You could tell the water was in its receded mode because there was a green film spread out across the rocks. The film had a moist look to it and was a deep green that reminded me of lime Jell-O, the kind we used to get at lunch when we were in elementary school—we used to start food fights with that stuff. We knew this was the most dangerous part of the rocks because if you weren’t careful you could slip and fall on its slick surface. Falling the wrong way could be a very tragic thing. It was seaweed of course, but it had strange look to it. It was an area smack in the middle of the dry rocks and the approaching water of the creek. It was a sort of limbo between dimensions. The water had to balance out the off-worldly forces and this could only be done when the green film wasn’t present. The water and the rocks had to be equal—touching—nothing in the middle.

            We were there now. About five minutes ago we descended under the damaged gate that had jutted out over the water. We were at the barge now and surrounded by the many plants that we labeled exotic. They were probably common to a lot of people but not to us.

I was the leader, and I led the pack. Then there was Shannon. She was my 13-year-old cousin, the one closest to me in spirit. She was always right behind me or directly at my side. We were the closest in age and there was even a time when we were also exactly the same age. You see, my birthday came in November—the 7^th to be exact, and hers was October 14^th. For about three and a half weeks we were both the same age. When we were younger we looked forward to that time so we could tell everybody we were both whatever age we were. She also has this sort of maternal instinct that went into affect if one of us got injured or was about to get into it with someone other than us. She’d act first without any questions—especially if she wasn’t the center of attention. She probably took on this role because she had to act as the mother to her little brothers. In essence, she was the mother. She always had to watch and take care of them while their mother worked or did any other of those more “important” things that didn’t require bringing along a bunch of children. She still does, too. That was Aunt Debbie for you—I am glad she wasn’t my mom.

Wee-Wee was Shannon’s little brother. He was nine and had to be kept close to us at all times, theoretically anyway. Jason and Robbie rounded up the rear. Robbie was the type of person to say one thing and claim to mean another. He agreed with whatever the most popular person said. He was definitely the follower. You could get him to do almost anything. He always had something smart say to other people too. We all had something to say, but he couldn’t back it up. We had to do it for him. Because of this and his weight, he was a liability to us in most cases. But he was also family, and he had some good qualities that came out every now and then. Especially, his ability to steal from stores—well, I should say, his not being scared to steal from stores. It always came in handy.

So there we were, walking alongside the steep edge of the barge, which was about 3 feet wide and 500 feet from the gate to the beginning of the abandoned factory. There were cracks all through its structure and entire chunks of it just weren’t there. It had definitely taken a beating from the hundreds of hurricanes and nor’easters that rolled through. Neglect also contributed to its instability and even heightened the severity of its deadly attributes. Now the barge just isn’t there. It’s exactly what we predicted because of the shape it was in back then.

We were in a single file now and carefully passing through some of the more rugged parts of the surface of the barge. There was a ledge where the concrete had completely disappeared and the weak earth had shown its face. There was a huge wall of dry dirt that was just above the barge and cast its shadowed way out onto the creek. We had to press our backs against it and grab onto whatever seemed like it was strong enough to hold our weight if we lost our footing. So grasping the plant branches and weed stems that jutted out of the towering mass of dirt and earthly debris seemed like a reasonable choice of support—as weak as they might have been.

Sspplliiaarrrsshh!! The warm water of the creek had let out a hair-standing-on-edge scream. I turned back to see what it was that had made the splash—

“Oh shit, Shannon fell in,” Jason screamed in amazement, twisting my thoughts.

—and saw a head with a red scrungy barrette, which fastened a bun on its head, pop out of the water.

Although she could swim (somewhat), the shock of the plunge had frightened her, and she lost control. Her hands smacked wildly against the water in a seemingly uncontrollable episode of fear. Her head began to bob up and down and sudden gasps for oxygen leapt from her mouth like the air from a dying balloon. Her muffled attempts to cry out for help only flooded her mouth with the salty water of the creek.

“What the fuck we gonna do? She’s gonna drown.” Wee-Wee began to sob—tears forming in his eyes.

“Sshhuutt Up!” I myself, recovering from the initial surprise of the sudden mishap, spat out. “Shannon, calm down and grab the goddamn pole.”

There were wooden sticks that littered the immediate vicinity of the barge’s vertical descent into the water. God’s knows what they were there for but they’d definitely come in handy. Still frightened, she slowly began to regain her sense of place and reached out for the rotted pole.

“I got it,” she yelled out nervously. “Get me out, get me out.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, but my eyes are burning. Hurry up and get me out of this shit.”

About 10 feet separated us from her and our arms couldn’t reach out and grab one another. I thought of that trick they always do in cartoons—I’ll grab Jason or Wee-Wee’s feet and lower them down to grab her and Robbie and the remaining person would pull us all up. It was a lovely thought but yeah right, I knew it could only be a thought. Something like that would require a lot of strength, and we just didn’t have it. I knew she wouldn’t get up by herself, and I wasn’t about to let her be another ghetto urban legend or statistic.

            “Everybody look for something so we can get her out,” I said.

            “There’s a big ass piece of plastic thing over there,” Jason followed up.

            “Go get it then. Robbie go help him.”

            “Aiight.”

“And hurry up.”

            We pushed the surprisingly light piece of plastic off the barge and into the water. It was definitely a floating device and could fit four people on top of it at max. It was big and box shaped and was probably thrown off a loading boat and abandoned. Lucky us, it was just what we needed. The perfect find that would bring us into our next “mission.” From the brink of death to adventure—we were always getting away with something like that.

Like I said before, she was always scared shitless if she was the only one doing something. So, I knew I had to jump in after her. The floating device was just a foot or two away from the barge’s slimed up wall. I backed up a little and plunged into the warm but not so inviting depths of the creek.

Together we could make it to the rocks and back to dry land.

“We are gonna get in trouble,” Shannon said laughingly.

“They won’t know ‘cause we gonna dry off before we go back to the barbeque.”

“We still gonna be smelling like fish and seaweed though,” she went on.

“So what, let’s have our fun anyway then. What they gonna do? Beat us?”

           

We put our hands on the plastic box and kicked our feet through the water. Wee-Wee, Jason and Robbie followed us—walking across the barge and back to the gate. I glanced at the far end of the creek, which was beset with sunken ships—old, wooden boats that we had dubbed “the Christopher Columbus ships.” There was also the old, yellow submarine that could barely be seen sticking out of the water at a full high tide.

We were almost to the rocks, and that’s when we all saw it. It was a soggy, black garbage bag. It floated back from the distance and toward us. I think Robbie or Jason made its appearance noticeable. There was an awkward look to the bag and strange bulges here and there. The sun had singed the plastic and pieces of debris hung from the rear of the bag. As the bag slowly drifted in our direction, a faint smell that grew stronger and stronger crept slightly ahead of it. It was vile and reminded me of the hundreds of dead cats, rats, and the occasional dog that we had come across in our many journeys. Like I said, it just reminded me of that smell but it had its own distinct aroma. An aroma that I only encountered once before, but it was never so powerful.

             “You smell that?” Shannon asked, with a disgusted twist to her face.

            “Yeah, I do,” I said, “that shit stink.”

            “I think it’s coming from that bag.”

            “I know it is.”

            “What ya’ll doing,” the rest of our crew called out from the rocks.

            “Get us a big branch, quick,” I responded.

            “Why?” Jason asked.

            “Just get it!” Shannon yelled.

We dragged the bag with the branch they had thrown us while still paddling through the water. When we got to the rocks, I handed Jason the stick and told him to hold it on the bag so it didn’t float back out into the creek. Robbie and Wee-Wee helped lift us out of the water and onto the rocks. Now the smell was a strong as could be, and we all cringed at its arrival.

“What the fuck is that smell?”

“It’s probably a dog or something.”

“I think it’s something dead.”

“What if it’s a baby?”

“It can’t be a baby cuz it’s too big.

“It could be a kid.”

“Whatever that shit is, it’s making me wanna throw up.”

“It’s too damn hot and that smell ain’t helping.”

Our conflicting thoughts leapt from our minds, confusing us and adding to the fearful anxiety of the situation.

Deep down, I knew what it was in that bag, and I wasn’t scared. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before in some way or another. Clichés and images from horror flicks flooded my head—glimpses of here and there, images of the past and the future streamed on. I thought of that poem Emily Dickinson wrote, the poem we had discussed in 8^TH grade English class with Mr. Kubit—“Because I Could Not Stop For Death.” But we did stop for death.

After getting out of the water, I took the branch back and pulled the bag onto the rocks with Shannon’s help. I held it on an area of the bag and dug it into the plastic, stretching it and lifting it up a little. She took one of the razors, which we always carried with us in our book bags, out—everything else was soaked—and sliced a hole in the bag. We could see a patchy surface ridden with hair. We poked it with different sticks and made indentations that didn’t seem normal. The surface was bloated and gushy and smattered with all types of distorted colors. Shades of gray and purple with hints of blue and dark patterns of black and yellow were everywhere. Shannon tore the bag a little more, and I could feel everyone’s heart jump along with mine—there it was, the confirmation of what was in that black bag.

“What the fuck?!?” Shannon spat out.

“What is it?” we all asked curiously and in suspense.

“It’s a dick,” she said with a little hint of humor in her voice.

“IIILLLLLL…” we let out simultaneously.

There was a man’s penis, right there in our faces. It had pubic hair so we knew it was a man and the size of the body helped convince. We didn’t know what they called it then, but we had found a human torso. From the knees to shoulders is all that was there. No legs, or arms, and no head. They had been chopped off and most likely thrown into the water along with the torso, but they were probably eaten by fish or just sunk to the bottom of the creek.

“We finally found a body,” Robbie said this like it was a dream of ours, which was somewhat true.

Naïve thoughts once again flooded our minds and increased the tension. The stigma of death and the smell, which belonged only in hell, had fueled our imaginations.

“What we gonna do?”

“Call the cops?”

“What if the people who killed him come after us?”

“What if it’s some drug dealer?”

“Or the mob.”

“What if they try to kill us?”

“Let’s leave it.”

“What if there is a reward?”

“We can get mad money.”

“We gonna be famous.”

“What if his ghost is right next to us?”

“What if he haunts us?”

A hazy cloud of fear and dread had passed over us. We found him. We gave him life again. We would give him back his identity—something tangible, visible. I wondered where his spirit went. Was he in Heaven? Or was this murky grave the last and only thing he would ever know? I didn’t want to lose the realness of the moment, so I blocked out all of those other images and tried to focus more on the present. We discovered him, and what did we get for it? The hell if I know. But maybe I do, and I just can’t admit it. 

Because of many of my actions I always thought of myself as a person not good enough for heaven, not bad enough for hell. I guess it was the drama of the poor people—more willing to believe in the Devil than to believe in God. There we were—somewhere on that line—that when you cross it—you are either walking in good or running in evil. These were all the fanatical delusions of us young adolescents. Well, me anyway.

I always thought I’d die sometime before the age of 30. It wouldn’t be one of those simple deaths, nothing calm and peaceful. I decided sometime around the age of seven or eight that I wouldn’t go gentle into that good night—I would rage against the dying of the light. How cliché, but that’s what I was going to do. You know how when they ask how someone died and they say, “He died in his sleep”? I always found that extremely funny. How did they know what happened? They weren’t the one who was dead. Who’s to say that he didn’t wake-up, sometime during the duration of his beauty sleep, gasping for a breath of air or staring blankly at the ceiling realizing that his heart would soon have its last beat? I always see people who “die in their sleep” as being mistakenly assumed to have had a pleasant death. Their real demise was always horribly downplayed.

There we were—gagging on the thick, nothingness of death. Waiting. We had become one with death. We were its guardians. We had to smell the rotted flesh of it, something that once breathed. That walked. That talked. Something that could have been something more. I felt sorry for him, I really did. But what was I to do? I didn’t know him. I had no tears. I felt guilty for an instant—I had remembered the day when my pit-bull, Midnight, attacked one of our smaller puppies because it was eating from her dog bowl. She snapped at it and punctured his eye socket causing his right eye to pop out. It had resembled a fish eye, just hanging there—all moist and sporadically twitching. I felt that chill that runs through your body when you’re so scared and can’t react, but this was a human and that chill just wasn’t there. I thought maybe I was the stoic, because the body didn’t have a face. Yeah, that was it. It didn’t have a face—I couldn’t see into his eyes. He was just a lump of meat, only noticeable as a human because his sexual organs were visible. I didn’t care for the partial corpse. I thought about death, my death. I could face death as long as it was my own, but I couldn’t face having to be left alone. Having others that I loved die before me. I guess it’s because I’m weak. I know I can’t go on without the people I love.

            I knew that this poor soul didn’t die in his sleep though. He had one of those horrible deaths, and it was very apparent. We summed up his life as if it were just a murder—murdered in whatever way, chopped up, placed in that black bag, and thrown into the creek. That’s the only thing we defined it as—what else could we possible do or say? What did he do to deserve this? But then the thought of fame overshadowed any sense of feelings we had for the rigor mortis ridden torso that was once a man.

We all sat around the TV that night with that feeling of great anticipation and accomplishment consuming our thoughts. Today was our day. We would be the envy of all our schools tomorrow—people we knew from school would see us on television tonight. It would be the talk of the school and our newfound popularity would make us famous. Our fifteen minutes of fame wouldn’t just be fifteen minutes of fame. It would be different. We were kids. What did we know? Channel 11 was the news program that interviewed us, but we had this urge to flick to other channels. Maybe if we thought about hard enough we would be on them too.

How could our story be overshadowed by that beat down ride known as the Coney Island Jumbo Jet?  It had derailed that same day. No one got killed. There was no blood. No explosions. Most of all, no dead bodies. Just a 2.5 second glimpse of a still ride. What was wrong? There went our reward. Our popularity. Our fame. All gone before we even had it. But maybe we could make the morning paper, just maybe.

And then I thought of all the things that happened that day. There was the barbeque and the passing by the pier and the crossing of the rocks. There was the creek and the barge and Shannon’s drenching. There was the heat and the stench and the warmth of the water. There was that floating device and the gate and the abandoned factory. There was the contrasting red and blue of the uniforms that the members of the Fire Department and the NYPD were clad in. There was that Spanish lady-detective with one of those Latino ethnic last names. You know, those names with the “ez” sound ending that everyone seemed to have—like, Rodriguez, Torres, Diaz, or Ramirez. There was the sergeant, the lieutenant and the police captain—all of whom took the credit. There was the brightness of the sky etched in light blue, and the Verrazano Bridge standing still in the distance. There was Frank Ucciardo of Channel 11 News and his cameramen. There were our parents and the food we ate. There was the time that passed while we were waiting for the story to appear on TV and the disappointment. Most of all, there was us—connecting through more than just blood and friendship. We had lived our childhood to the max and packed our brains with memories, memories that would always be with us—that would last a lifetime. We had spent many hours together. Time that we let our youth consume, that we couldn’t have back—a time when we looked forward to watching “Ghostwriter” every Sunday night on TV. A time when we were the KOG.