By Ed Longstreth
It’s been thirty years and it’s time to confess. I was in my front yard throwing hard-tipped darts with my buddies Mike and Robert. Robert, a ten-year-old “Italian Stallion” with fully grown armpit hair was hurling them like a catapult, trying to pierce the back side of my dart board.
“Mike, get out of the way,” I said. “Robert’s whizzing those stickers pretty hard.”
“It’s my turn next,” said Mike. “I’ll show you guys how it’s done.”
“Whatever, Mike. Just get out of the way,” I said. Robert leaned back and widened his stance. He swung, throwing like a Spartan heaving a javelin over Olympus.
“Raaah.” The dart flew and we heard a thunk, like a sledgehammer hitting a tree. I looked at the target expecting to see his projectile penetrate the dartboard, flights and all.
“Where’d it go?” I noticed Mike standing about eight feet from the target with his left hand in a fist against his head. He staggered in the grass doing the noodle-leg Polka.
“Nice one, Mike,” I laughed at his antics. Then our eyes met and his face formed a ghastly demeanor.
“Oh my God, oh my God!” cried Robert. “What ‘r we gonna do?”
Mike’s eyes turned from fear to terror as Robert freaked, walked in circles, and mumbled. The dart was stuck in Mike’s head like Wiley Coyote after a Roadrunner trap gone bad.
“Someone’s got to get that thing out of his head,” I coolly declared as I inspected the wound.
“It’s not so bad. . . it’s not even bleeding. Are you dizzy or having trouble seeing stuff?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Mike stood there acting like a dart sticking out of his head was normal.
“Rob, you’re gonna have to pull it out,” I said.
“I’m not doing it. You do it.”
“Look Robert, you’re the one who put it in there. If Mike’s mom sees that dart in his head she’s going to sue your parents and your whole family will be on the street. Just pull it out. How hard can it be?”
“All right, I’ll do it.” Robert gently placed his hand over the mini-arrow and Mike screamed. Robert quickly let go.
“Come on, Rob. Remember your family, you know, the streets . . .” Robert sighed and this time grabbed the dart with a determination that left me cringing. Screams bellowed as Robert tugged with all of his might. After what seemed like an eternity, the dart popped out and Mike stood tall with a satisfied look.
“There you go. You’re gonna be fine,” Robert proudly announced.
As the words left his lips, a six-inch fountain of blood shot from Mike’s head. Robert and I looked at each other and screamed.
“Put your finger on it, Mike!” I shouted. His finger went straight to the hole and the bleeding stopped.
“You’re all…rr…right,” stuttered Robert. He looked at me and nodded. That was my cue.
“Look, no more blood. You’re gonna be fine,” I reaffirmed. Mike smiled and removed his finger from the wound. Blood squirted again.
“Jesus Mike, keep your finger on it!” Robert screamed as the blood splashed onto his face.
“Look Mike, you can’t tell anyone,” I insisted. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Mike agreed as we rinsed the blood with a garden hose and sent him home. Shortly after our daring dart experience, he moved, never to be heard from again. Wherever you are Michael Levindowsky, let us know. We put a hole in a loyal friends head, but now the gap is growing in our hearts.
Ed Longstreth is a member of SLO NightWriters, the premier writing organization on the Central Coast of California. He is the author of The Joy In Wealth, about how to gain and maintain financial security in a debt-ridden society. He is presently finishing Wild Canyon, a historical teen fiction novel that takes place during the two most exciting times in our American history – the gold rush and prohibition.
Photo credit: Dennis Eamon Young.
