Charlie Mad Dog Madson Post #2 - "Come On, Freddie Mercury"

It was just Pete and me riding bikes home the day he died, almost three months ago now. The fact that John wasn’t with us might seem weird, but it wasn’t. Pete hung out with John and me a lot, especially over the summer. John hated having Pete tag along, but honestly I didn’t mind. That day, John had to go home early to finish a 4-H project, a rocket. I thought 4-H was just for farm kids, but apparently not.

When John left, Pete and I stayed at Armstrong Park because we were not going home before we beat him at Dirty Deeds before summer ended. Dirty Deeds is the fishing game we played, and Armstrong Park is where we fished practically every day. Unfortunately, the only thing we ever caught was crappy little blue gill that spike you when you take them off the hook. It’s probably because all we used for bait was bread and bologna, which we stole (borrowed) from the McMurtrey’s fridge. I never have bologna because my mom thinks she’s a health nut, maybe because of her California background. But she’s a junk food junkie like all the rest of us small town Midwesterners.

Dirty Deeds is actually a high stakes gambling game. The concept is simple - whoever catches the most fish by the end of the day wins. The other guys have to do whatever the winner says for an hour first thing the next day. John’s famous for coming up with the absolute worst things for Pete and me to do. Sometimes he’d give me a break, but he was always ruthless with Pete.

The worst was one day at the beginning of summer when John made Pete pick his nose and eat the boogers. John grows colossal boogers. It’s some kind of super power, and he’s proud of it. He does it even when he doesn’t have a cold. Luckily, John showed mercy on me that day. I only had to take a picture of the boogers Pete harvested from John’s nose. Then, I had to take more pictures documenting the exact moment Pete licked the boogers off his finger. I’ve never been so disgusted in my entire life. It still makes me queasy thinking about it.

There’s a buy-out option in Dirty Deeds, which means the losers can buy their way out of doing the deed. The buy-out is a 32 oz. Mt. Dew from Village Pantry for the winner. Pete never had any money, but I used this option whenever I could. Trust me, it was worth every penny of my allowance.

On the morning of the booger eating deed, my asshole almost-step-dad made me empty my pockets for one of his “weed-spot-checks.” Marcus is almost my step-dad because he’s my mom’s boyfriend. They’re not married, but he lives with us and tries to act like my step-dad. He treats me like a drug dealer, which is ironic because he’s the one who’s been to rehab. He’s always saying to my mom, “You can never be too careful with kids these days.”

I’m almost 13 and still have yet to actually see weed, but try convincing my Einstein paranoid-almost-step-dad. That morning, I had three bucks in my pocket, enough to buy Pete and me both out of the booger eating. But Marcus decided that day of all days, was the day I would start saving my allowance. For what, I have no idea. He’s a real asshole.

Today, in a cold late October drizzle that’s more annoying than wet, I’m walking home alone as usual. Because the middle school is farther from our house than my elementary was, ever since 6th grade, my mom has tried to convince me to ride the bus. But I don’t mind walking, especially this year because it keeps me from having to face kids on the bus.

Not very many kids at my middle school even knew who Pete was before he died, but when a kid gets killed by an impaired driver, it’s big news, especially when the kid who died was white and the guy who hit him is black. The kids who went to my elementary school know John because he attended public school with us up until this year. So, of course, they know all about the accident. Plus, the McMurtrey family is practically an institution in Lafayette, so EVERYONE knows about Pete’s death.

And they know I was with him and didn’t do a damn thing to save him.

On the first day of school back in August, I found out John would no longer be going to the public middle school. Honestly, I was relieved. I know he blames me. Hell, I blame me.

Except for a brief and extremely awkward encounter with John at Target the week before school started, when Mom made me go with her to buy school supplies, I haven’t laid eyes on John since Pete’s funeral.

I’ve known ever since we were little that John and I wouldn’t attend the same high school, but I didn’t think his parents would switch him over to the Catholic middle school at the last minute like that.

Before Pete died, John and I had been talking about 8th grade and whether or not we’d be in the same classes. We were trying to decide if we would be going out for 8th grade football. All of John’s older brothers played football at the Catholic high school, but John said he wasn’t sure if he would. He really likes baseball and basketball better. So do I, but I would have gone out for football if John had.

My mom encourages me to make my own decisions, so I didn’t bother talking to her about whether or not to play football. But after the first day of school, when I told her John wasn’t going to my school and I decided not to play football, she cried. I thought she hated football.

Then she got me a dog – a stray German Shepherd mix – that I didn’t even want, but now have to take care of. Her name is Evie, but my Mom calls her Lemon Squeezy – short for Evie Peevie Lemon Squeezy. It’s weird – the name and the dog. She’s scared of everything, including her own shadow, literally.

Anyway, my mom tried to make it sound like John’s parents sent him to Catholic school because of religious reasons, but I know the McMurtreys are just making sure another one of their sons doesn’t die in my presence. I get it.

Mom’s been on a religious-soul-searching kick for a while now. Which means, she’s usually all open and lovey-dovey about different religions, even though recently she was railing on the Catholic church for not allowing women to be priests. It was the subject of a huge fight between her and my almost-step-dad. Marcus admits he’s a lapsed Catholic, but I guess that doesn’t mean he believes women should be priests. Whatever. I don’t care.

So, today, as I’m approaching the wet train tracks on my home from school, I turn up my iPod, hoping “Bohemian Rhapsody” will drown out the sound of my own inner voice. Come on, Freddy Mercury. I silently pray – to whom or what I have no idea.

Then I’m crossing the tracks, right over the middle of them and being careful not to actually step on the slippery metal rails. Through my earbuds, I’m grateful to be hearing Freddy Mercury instead of my own voice for once.

But then I hear Pete’s voice. I swear to God, just as Freddy’s wailing, “I’m just a poor boy, nobody
loves me,” I hear, as clear as day, the kid say, “What the F, Mad Dog?!”