collision doll
at 14 we thought it would be cool if we could get cars to crash at night, on a dark stretch of road near our house in Wayne. there were nine of us. Henry, Harlow, John, Teddy, Lilian, Keith and the three Kinscherfs. we made a life-sized doll out of clothes and stuffing and strung a clothesline across the street near a bend in the road that was surrounded by trees. we dropped the line, lax with the doll looking like a ten year old child, attached at the neck. we practiced. we would abruptly yank the clothesline and the fake kid would snap to startled attention, performing like a marionette. we waited in the trees. it was past midnight. it was cool out, not cold. no shivering. we hid on either side of the road waiting for two cars. one from one end of the street, one from the other. then we heard them. we could see the headlights. we knew what to do and we knew how to escape. we knew the woods, the crazy property. as they neared, 200 yards between them, we snapped the rope and the little fake kid popped up like a deer in the headlights. both cars slammed on the brakes. tires burned rubber and screeched to a slow motion halt, but not fast enough to avoid cracking into each other. we heard the glass shattering, one headlight out, mad cursing from both drivers and doors opening and closing. we crept backwards into the dark woods and made our get away, hearts pounding, sweaty, unable or even afraid to speak. we were pretty sure no one was hurt, but that they might have been was a chastening thought. we stopped doing stuff like that afterwards. we never read about the accident or heard anything, but we knew, each of us. it was an unspoken secret. we lived, if for a few frightening minutes, on the island of the ‘Lord of the Flies’.
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
About The Paragraphs and how to order
Or here
