The Elixer

THE ELIXIR

Rocky turned just in time to deflect the blow to his head. Mike
Radcliff, or "Rad," as he was called, was thoroughly enjoying himself.
He enjoyed pummeling Rocky, especially since Rocky wouldn't fight back.
After all, he reasoned, the field belonged to Rad and his buddy, so Rad
was justified in his mind for beating up Rocky. The
charge-trespassing.
"Hit him again Rad!" said the voice from behind. Rad reeled back with
his arm crocked at the elbow and let loose with a cannon like punch to
Rocky's chin. It landed like a sledgehammer as Rocky fell face first
into darkness. "He aint movin' Rad," said his partner, Bobby.
Bobby Horton was the single child of a father who was doing time in
prison for vehicular manslaughter while driving drunk in a stolen car.
In the meantime his aunt, who slaved over a two-dollar an hour job at a
convenience store, was busy raising him. He didn't have any friends and
it looked like he was headed in the same direction as his old man.
Maybe that's why he latched on to Rad one day after Rad asked him to be
a lookout while he pilfered a carton of cigarettes. Bobby felt honored
that Rad would use him as a lookout. Pretty soon they were hanging out
together and extorting lunch money from some of the kids, ostensibly to
insure their protection from some of the other bullies who were doing
the same thing.
Bobby was fourteen years old, slim, with buzzed red hair and splotchy
red freckles on his cheeks and nose. He wasn't a very bright boy, his
only saving grace was that he was good at repairing broken electronic
gadgets. He was basically a coward, and would only rear his ugly head
when Rad was around to protect him. Bobby liked to provoke Rad into
doing dirty deeds, while he would watch from a safe distance and giggle
uncontrollably. He felt like the king of the hill when he hung out with
Rad. But the truth was, Rad was the king, and Bobby knew it.
"You must have hit him so hard you killed him," said Bobby as he
warily poked Rocky in the ribs with his foot.
"Ah, he aint dead," said Rad as he rubbed his sore fist. "The little
turd's just too chicken to get up. He should have learned his lesson
the last time. Come on, let's get out of here."
Bobby lit a cigarette while he continued to stare at Rocky's crumpled
body, then choked and gagged embarrassingly when he inhaled. He never
really caught on to smoking, but he thought it impressed Rad.
"Next time I'm gonna get a piece of him," said Bobby with a false
bravado as he swung wide into the air at an imaginary foe. "Pow! Nobody
trespasses on our field and gets away with it. We're the kings here.
Ain't that right Rad?"
"Sure Bobby, that's right," Rad answered, as one would humor a little
child. Then Rad turned and started walking toward home with Bobby in
tow, still sparing with the air.

************************************

Large raindrops pelted Rocky's body intermittently as he lay in the
grass. The heavy gray clouds loomed overhead and threatened to burst
all at once.
The previous rains of December caused the grass to grow wild and knee
high, allowing the jackrabbits and other denizens of the field a safe
advantage from human interlopers. Reeds also grew tall and thick,
springing up and creating a walled perimeter around a creek where Rocky
spent most of his time. It was on the swampy banks of the creek where
the fight between Rad and Rocky began earlier. Earlier Rad found Rocky
crouched on its bank trying to catch some guppies with a small
net.
"Well look who's here Bobby, our dorky little friend Rocky. Thought
you could sneak home from school without paying your dues, eh?"
Bobby stood behind Rad and giggled stupidly. Rad's ominous posture
told Rocky what was coming next.
Rad was stocky and a head taller than most of the boys. He wore his
tee-shirt sleeves rolled up to his broad shoulders. He started to grow
his hair long and it began to flare out at the top of his ears, which
looked like horns, giving him a devilish appearance. He stored his
cigarettes in the back pocket of his blue jeans, causing them to go
flat. At sixteen, he was already sporting a small mustache. He crouched
slightly when he walked, his hands were clenched and elbows bent, as if
daring anybody to get in his way. He was disputatious and mean, and
made a habit of terrorizing the local neighborhood kids. "I told you I
didn't want you hanging around the creek. This is our territory. Now
your gonna get it for sure!" he said menacingly.
Rocky Brighten at fifteen years old, was not a gifted fighter. In
fact, there wasn't a mean bone in his body. He was mostly shy and
quiet, with dark brooding eyes, which most people mistook for
moodiness. He would spend hours reading the classics. He was
intelligent, but a daydreamer who spent most of his time pretending to
be one of the hero's in whatever novel he was reading at the time. One
day it would be Sir Lancelot, Knight of the round table, slicing off
the head of the Black Knight. Or Huck Finn, tramping along the
Mississippi River and getting into all kinds of mischief, or the
relentless Captain Ahab, in pursuit of the giant whale, Moby Dick.
Whatever character he would embody, he immersed himself completely in
their roles.
The field next to his home was the perfect stage to play out his
fantasies. It was a marshy wetland of two hundred acres, with thick
clusters of bamboo reeds sprouting everywhere, which Rocky would cut
and fashion into small forts or carve into swords during his
swashbuckling role-playing. He would role-play for hours with complete
bliss.
The creek was close to one hundred yards long and about ten feet wide.
It was the area Rocky liked the most. He would sit on its banks for
hours, reading from one of his novels, or just sit and watch curiously
as the bullfrogs with bulging eyes croaked while they sat partially
submerged in water. It was an escape from the constant bulling and
harassment he received from Rad and Bobby. The field was his second
home, and a world where he could be anything he wanted to be. That is
until Rad and his cohort discovered his haven and claimed it as their
own.

The voice was gentle and came from an older man. At first it was
distant, and then more lucid as Rocky came nearer to
consciousness.
"Are you all right lad?" Rocky slowly opened his eyes and blinked a
few times as light sheets of rain descended around him. The old man was
standing bent over with his hands resting on his knees. His face was
shadowed beneath the crumpled brim of his hat as the rain pelted away
at it. Rocky noticed a nap sack tied to a long stick lying at the man's
feet and judged him to be a tramp. His hands were large and his
knuckles were gnarled almost to the point of deformity. He wore a
thick, greasy spotted gray coat with the collar raised high on his
narrow shoulders. Everything he wore from his hat to his shoes were in
miserable condition.
"Looks like you took quite a licking, said the tramp as he offered his
hand to Rocky.
Rocky didn't understand the gesture and lamely shook the tramp's hand.
"It's not meant to be an introduction lad; however, you can call me
Tracks. Least that's what most drifters call me. I've been making
tracks for about twenty years now. Since around 1945 or so. Just after
the war. There's not a lot of job security, but it has its perks. Come
on, grab my hand and I'll help you up."
Rocky was amazed at the strength of the tramp as he pulled him to his
feet. Rocky wanted to thank him, but his jaw was to sore. He felt as if
his mouth was stuffed full with marbles. The best he could do was
mumble a feeble, "tank u."
"Don't mention it," said Tracks. "Let's get out of this rain and see
what we can do about those knots on your head."
Rocky wasn't sure why, but he followed the man obediently along the
banks of the creek. He thought about turning around and going home, but
the old man seemed harmless enough. Besides, he was feeling too dazed
to make any rational decisions at this point.
Tracks moved towards the east end of the creek where it butted against
a large mound of weeds and shrubs. He began removing a wall of brush
and casting it to his side. Rocky was surprised to see a round,
corrugated steel grate, about the size of a hula-hoop covering the
entrance to what appeared to be the terminus of a sewer pipe. It hung
on rusted hinges and squeaked as Tracks opened it outward. "Come on in
lad," urged Tracks. "It may not be Buckingham Palace, but at least it's
dry inside."
Rocky was glad to be out of the rain, but a cool steady breeze whipped
through the air and chilled his bones as he leaned back on the concrete
wall. The only light came from outside, but dissipated into total
blackness just a few feet in the opposite direction. Rocky started to
regret following the man and wished he was home and in warm
clothes.
"Might as well stay here and wait out the worst," Tracks said, as he
pulled a rag from his bag. "Take this and wipe off some of the blood
from your face. You look terrible."
"Thanks," winced Rocky as he rubbed the rag over a lump on his
forehead. The
feeling in his jaw started to return and he moved his jaw back and
forth to test it.
"Feeling any better?" asked Tracks.
"Yeah, I think so."
"You know them boys?"
"Yeah, unfortunately," said Rocky, his voice doleful. "They're just
your average neighborhood bullies."
"Seems the world's full of them," said Tracks, meditatively. "Got my
full of them during the Second World War. Hitler and his gang of
jackboots didn't see anything wrong with murdering and stomping on
defenseless people. He wanted to rule over the entire world. But we put
an end to that. Tyrants always lose in the long run lad, when good
people are stirred away from their complacency. Fact is, people only
get involved when their complacency is threatened."
"I guess I'm just a coward," said Rocky, surprised and ashamed at his
own admission. "I just stood there and let them beat me."
"But you didn't run," said Tracks.
"Oh I've run plenty. It seems everywhere I go I end up running from
somebody. It's just that lately I've gotten sick of running. I just let
them have their fun until they get tired."
"Sometimes it takes more than one person to make a stand," Tracks
expounded. "The world can be awfully cruel. Evil moves in like a
machine and gains power with momentum. It's well oiled by the
indifference of good folks. I've seen that power myself. But once you
remove that power, it becomes just a frightened shadow of itself. But
until the good and decent people rise up and refuse the evil beast, it
continues to grind on, crushing and smashing those who are to weak to
resist it."
Rocky turned and looked at the tramp curiously. For the first time he
was able to see his eyes underneath his worn hat. Outwardly, they were
hard, etched with deep lines revealing years under the baking sun. They
were like a road map with all the treaded mileage engraved on his face.
His eyes were gray, and resembled pools of murky water, yet there was
nothing inimical about them.
Rocky turned his attention towards the black end of the sewer. "Do you
live here?" he asked.
"From time to time. Mostly I sleep here and wander around during the
day, looking for things."
"What things?" Rocky asked.
Tracks pulled a dirty rag out of his pocket and blew his nose. He put
it back in his pocket and seemed to hesitate before answering. "Just
things for my bag."
"What things?" he probed again.
Tracks looked down at his bag and nudged at it gently with his shoe.
"Just some things I found along the way. Here's an apple, some loose
change and old bottle caps I took to collecting."
Rocky noticed the shape of a bottle pressed towards the outside of the
bag. "What's in the bottle?" he asked.
"You sure are the curious sort," said Tracks. "But you seem like a
fine young boy so I'll tell you what-you come visit me here tomorrow
and I'll tell you what's inside the bottle. I'm always looking for some
conversation. It gets real lonely on the road at times."
"Don't think I'd better," said Rocky. Rad will kill me next time he
catches me here. Besides, I don't much care what's in the bottle
anyway."
Rocky started to make for the exit and Tracks held up his hand. "Hold
on a minute lad. There's no need to run off so soon. This isn't any
ordinary bottle," Tracks yielded as he held it up to the light for
Rocky to see. "There's a story behind this bottle if you have a mind to
hear it."
Rocky hesitated for a moment then leaned back against the concrete
wall. He almost wished he didn't asked about the bottle. Tracks
carefully handed it over to Rocky. He grasped it almost blindly in the
semi-darkness and noticed it was no bigger than the palm of his hand.
He held it up to the light and inspected it. The glass was the color of
amber with a rectangular base and a corked lid. Strangely, it had no
brand or markings whatsoever.
"Where did you find this bottle?" inquired Rocky.
"I bought that bottle off an Egyptian apothecary in Cairo. Ever been
to Cairo lad? It's a filthy place, teeming with thieves and cutthroats,
notable only for the pyramids, which I found quite enchanting. It was
always my dream to visit the pyramids. I did a little traveling trying
to get my head straight after the war. A war can do a terrible amount
of damage to a man's spirit, not to mention his body. While I was
sightseeing at a bazaar, I was hailed by an ambitious shopkeeper. He
claimed to have in his possession a bottle whose contents contained a
magic elixir. Now I'm not one to believe in magic potions, so I
politely excused myself from the persistent merchant. It was at that
precise moment as I turned to walk away that I felt an excruciating
pain in my chest and I doubled over. It was a souvenir I received while
mopping up in Berlin after the Russians claimed victory over the city.
I had noticed a starved lad of fourteen or so huddled in some rubble
and gave him some chocolate. He thanked me by putting a bullet in my
lung. While Hitler was hiding in his bunker, lads no older than you
were faithfully defending the Fatherland. It was a pitiful defense. Yet
for all its futility, a bullet still managed to find me. The surgeons
decided it might be perilous to try and extricate the bullet and risk a
premature death, so it found a new home. Funny thing about foreign
objects in a human body though, they refuse to stay in one place. And
it was there in Cairo at that moment when that vengeful bullet decided
my fate."
Tracks saw that he gained Rocky's attention, so he continued. "The
pain was unbearable, and no amount of resoluteness could have made me
to rise valiantly and make a dignified exit, so I laid there in the hot
desert street spitting up blood and pieces of my insides. Horrified,
the Egyptian merchant saw what befell me and ran to my side. He was a
hulking figure of a man, and managed to pick me up with little effort,
and carried me as easily as a man would carry his bride over the
threshold. He laid me down gently on a thin mat in his shop, which
incidentally, was about as commodious as most American closets. The
pain was agonizing, with no solitary moment of abatement, and I felt
close to death's door. The fat merchant's importuning pleas to his gods
to have mercy on me was barely audible through my own gasping and
retching. It was then that I, in my suffering remembered the dubious
magical elixir. Though I believed it to be just a harmless tincture
comprised of alcohol and other spirits; in my sufferings I begged the
Egyptian for the bottle. I knew it was in vain, but in my travail I was
desperate. I was like a drowning man reaching for his only hope of
survival, even if it should be a ship's anchor. The merchant
frantically removed the cork from the elixir and admonished me to drink
slowly, perhaps even he didn't know what the outcome might be. But in
my derangement his warning went unheeded and I gulped the bottle almost
dry. I felt the elixir make it's journey to that part of me that was so
miserably damaged, as if it contained a power and a knowledge of it's
own. I felt it move within me, grinding the bullet to powder and
instantly mending the walls of my insides. It was as if a hundred
little surgeons were at work inside me. I could feel the probing, the
movement of my organs, the suturing of torn flesh-but no pain. The pain
had miraculously vanished! I felt absolutely renewed! My body felt a
restored vitality. My physique seemed to harden and change shape before
my eyes. I felt like I could move a mountain. My strength had increased
tenfold. I knew then that the elixir contained the formula for life. I
was now totally devoted to this concoction-weather it be comprised of
fetid water from the gutters of Cairo, or weather it was the legendary
potion believed hidden among Queen Cleopatra's tomb, it made no
difference. I thanked the merchant profusely and paid him well for the
elixir and what remained of its contents. I believe he was to shocked
to be in any sort of bartering mood. Though the bottle was almost empty
when I had left the shop, a remarkable thing had happened; within a few
hours the bottle had replenished itself! Its power was such, that it
duplicated its own ingredients. I felt more vibrant and alive than I
ever had in my entire life. There were no more mournful reveries, only
happiness and a passion for life. Neither did I see through a glass
darkly, because even my powers of comprehension had increased. No
subject was lost to abstraction, for the things that were once veiled
to me were now clearly understood. Arcane subjects that once had me
perplexed such as chemistry, physics, and philosophy, became child's
play. I became master over my mind and body. I was no longer bound by
the limits of human intellect, for the elixir gave me an infinite
ability to grasp the mysteries of our universe.
Later I experienced a new revelation. At first it was a little
disconcerting because it revealed something of the darker side of my
nature, something I've always desired, but kept hidden inside. Both to
my shame and pleasure, I found that nearly all mankind was seduced by
my very presence. Now I know that appears egotistical, but it's the
truth. There was hardly a soul whom I couldn't mesmerize by charm and
magnetism. I discoursed easily with the rich, and bantered good
naturedly with the poor. Dignitaries listened eagerly to my
supplications, whereas previous to the elixir, I was ignored for my
provincialism. I dined with Kings and Queens, merchants and paupers,
and I was attended to with complete and almost perverse servility. I
was the cynosure of every group; I enchanted, seduced and coaxed with
playful abandonment. I could not walk through a town or city without
being surrounded by frenzied devotion. Wherever I went I was celebrated
and honored, even if it meant being honored for deigning to breathe the
same air they breathed; and I owe it all to the elixir. This power,
more than all the others, I found irresistible. I went completely mad
with the possibilities the potion offered, and reckless with it's
potential."
Rocky was fascinated by the tramp's narrative. Yet for all the good
fortune that the elixir apparently provided, he wondered why Tracks
lived in such a miserable state.
Taking the risk of embarrassing him, Rocky asked, "Mr. Tracks, how did
you become uh&;#8230;well you know, uh&;#8230;?"
"A tramp you mean?" with no trace of rancor in his voice.
"Yes sir, a tramp," answered Rocky, a little sheepishly.
"I suppose my present condition does beg the question. How could a
person who is touched by immortality drink voluntarily from the cup of
human frailty? How can a person who has cheated an appointment with
Heaven or Hell, (Heaven I would hope) choose to become a vessel of all
the vexations of human flesh? I embodied all that is desirable in human
nature; weather it be love, lust, power, or impunity from utter
lawlessness. I acted out all the primitive base instincts of man and
instead of repudiation, I was lauded with the praises of virtue.
Because of the elixir I finally reached the hedonistic life my flesh
had always craved, and was given total acquiescence by the gullible
citizens I encountered. I had hoodwinked the rich and poor, man and
woman, child and nature. I was the epitome of perfection. But there was
one thing the elixir could not provide." Tracks stopped his narrative
abruptly as if caught in some deep introspection. Rocky mustered all
the patience he could before interrupting the strange lapse.
"Why won't you go on?" asked Rocky, a little confused.
"Some things are just to painful to talk about," said Tracks,
pensively.
Rocky held up the elixir and examined it more thoroughly than before.
It didn't look like anything special-just an old bottle with what
appeared to be plain old water.
"How do I know this really is some magic potion, and that you're not
just telling me some phony story?" Rocky asked testily.
"Because the subject of my story is in my possession; namely the
elixir itself. The proof of its veracity is in the bottle. I won't
demonstrate its power on me just to convince you that its powers are
real. The elixir was my addiction in my quest for ultimate power, and
my soul was almost destroyed beyond redemption because of it. The
elixir can be very unforgiving, once you get a taste of invincibility.
You see my friend&;#8230;it becomes your god. Or I should say-you
become your own god. Though you obtain all that your greedy little
heart desires, you are never satisfied. When you find your storehouses
are filled with all the treasures that a man can obtain in ten
lifetimes, you are still dissatisfied. I found through the spared
recess of my mind; that vestige of sanity the elixir failed to rob me
of, was the fact that I was missing something that I craved all along.
It was something that every man needs desperately, which the elixir
only militated against-the need to love, and to be loved. Sure I had
women, scores of them. They couldn't resist my enchanting devices. They
loved my flattery and charm, even if it was contrived. But they were
only under the spell of the elixir. One could not blame them for their
adoration. I longed to be loved, but love was only an illusion without
any genuine substance, which naturally appealed to my companions. Here
I was-the possessor of all that appeals to the human race, with
god-like stature, and superhuman strength, but my soul was empty. I was
desolate of true love. I wanted to be accepted for who I was, not for
the many counterfeit caricatures I had become. So you see lad, that was
my dilemma-I was torn between the elixir, which guaranteed all means of
human worship, or regression to my humble state of the ordinary. At
least the latter would give me control of my own destiny, and allow me
to succeed or fail like mere mortals.
Though Rocky knew it was getting late and he should be on his way
home, he was totally engrossed by the man's story.
"Did you ever find the love you were looking for?" he asked.
"Yes, but only because I was able to free myself from the potion. I
don't know where I got the strength-perhaps from the elixir itself. Now
that's a bit of irony. The very thing that enslaved me gave me the
strength to overcome its subjugation over me. But it was only in
gradual stages until I finally entered the old world from where I
began. Eventually, I no longer had the admiration and attention I was
used to getting. I had become a non-entity and could come and go
without the sickening fawning and patronizing.
Yet for all the pain the elixir caused me, I couldn't vanquish it
altogether. I felt a responsibility towards mankind, to protect them
from the fate of loneliness and despair I once knew. But truthfully,
that was only an excuse. In my heart, I didn't want to destroy the
elixir; so ostensibly to keep it from falling into some poor creature's
hands, I kept it in my possession all this time. It was my contribution
to mankind. To protect them from the hegemony the elixir could wreak
over your very soul.
Please forgive my digression. I did find a lover and I married her. Our
lives were knit together with the purest of love toward one another,
but only for a moment in time. I held her in my arms while she was
dying in my arms from a mysterious disease. I agonized whether to use
the elixir as her body became tormented with pain. She begged me to let
her sip from the bottle, for I kept no secrets from her. She knew of my
past and my ordeal with the magic elixir. But I couldn't do it. I knew
that if I did, the elixir would take her away from me forever as it had
almost succeeded with me. For her to be taken away by disease was more
preferable than to loose her soul to the ineluctable will of the
elixir. So I watched her die in my arms, her mind tortured by the slow
decay towards death. So lad, that's my story-from rags to riches, and
back to rags. But at least now I am free; a tramp that collects bottle
caps and talks to squirrels. But at least I'm free."

**********************************

Rocky thanked Tracks for his help and waved goodbye before painfully
slumbering home. It was a black night, aided by heavy clouds
threatening more rain.
He knew his mother would be upset. He was under strict orders to be in
before it got dark. He tried to sneak into the back door quietly,
hoping to elude his mother and make his way upstairs to his bedroom.
His dog Samson barked excitedly at the sound of the doorknob turning,
alerting his mother.
"Rocky, is that you?" she called. Grace was small and wiry with
graying hair tucked into a tight bun. There was only a faint vestige of
attractiveness from days long gone, the tautness around her mouth and
cheeks hiding most of the evidence. Aging was very unkind to her, and
she gave up trying to save what little there was left. She resented the
loss of her youth, and channeled it with an abusive and caustic
tongue-usually aimed at her husband. She could be overly protective of
Rocky, but only to keep him under her reigns. She was constantly
haranguing him about his forays into the field, and his arriving home
in the dark only made matters worst.
"Yes mom, it's me!" he answered, shooting Samson a look that made him
cower with guilt.
"Oh dear lord!" she exclaimed, once the kitchen lights illuminated his
face. "What happened to you?"
"It's nothing mom. I just slipped down the bank trying to catch some
pollywogs."
"That didn't happen from slipping off some bank. Rad beat you up again
didn't he?" Rocky knew he had better be honest with her or face an
inquisition.
"What does it matter, it's over with," he said with a shrug.
"Until he runs into you again. I'm going to have your dad go over to
his house and speak to his father."
"No way!" he pleaded. "It will only make things worst. I don't want
everybody to think I'm a mama's boy."
"Just the same, you can't go on like this. I've asked you repeatedly
to stay away from that field. It's a dangerous place to play. I've been
hearing things about bums sleeping there. What do you think would
happen if one of those shiftless tramps should get a hold of you? I
shudder to even think about it. Now go upstairs and wait for your
father. Maybe he can talk some sense into you. It's about time he
showed a little backbone anyway," she said with contempt.
Rocky turned and headed to his room while his mother continued to
rant. With his door shut behind him, he dressed down to his underwear
and collapsed on his bed exhausted, but unable to sleep. His mind was a
whirlpool of all that was unfolded to him by Tracks. Although he had
listened to him intently, all he was able to piece together were
fragments of his story. He wondered if the blow to his head muddled his
thoughts. Maybe he was just tired. He did surrender his conviction to
one salient point-the elixir had incredible power, the one thing he
would never have on his own.

*************************************

Harold Brighton slowly made his way upstairs to Rocky's room. He was
tired and his shoulders sagged from a long, onerous day at work. He sat
at his desk day after day as a complaint handler for a local gas
utility. His cubicle was small and paper laden with the usual complaint
forms, billing errors, refund readjustments and letters from
disgruntled customers. His head ached from the constant barrage of
one-sided telephone complaints as well. The only escape from the tedium
was his frequent trips to the men's room, which usually caught him the
ire of his boss.
While combing his hair recently he noticed how thin his hair was
becoming. His father was bald and he was puzzled why it didn't skip a
generation like he'd been led to believe. He stood there looking in the
mirror feeling disgusted with himself. He was unhappy with the
reflection. All he could see was an aging, bespectacled, portly man. He
believed he'd never amount to anything significant in the world. He
even blamed himself for his son's timidity. It didn't help Harold when
his wife belittled him for everything under the sun. It was just
another stab at his already wounded spirit.
"Why can't you find a better job?" she would harp. Or, "Why can't you
be more assertive?" and, "Why do you always slouch?" It was a familiar
critique, which played over and over in his mind every day. It seemed
he would never measure up to the man she wanted him to be. Nor could he
be even if he tried. It just wasn't in him.
As he ascended to the top of the stairs, he looked like he carried the
weight of his failures on his shoulders, and moved with the slow
resignation of a beaten man.
Standing at Rocky's door, he loosened the knot in his tie, and knocked
softly.
"Come in," came a feeble reply.
Harold opened the door and winced at the site of the large bump on his
son's head. "How are you son?"
"Fine I guess," he shrugged. "How was work?"
"Same."
Rocky knew his dad hated his work, and never expected any other kind
of answer.
"You need to put some ice on that welt. Let me run down to the
refrigerator and-."
"Don't worry about it dad," Rocky interrupted. It's no big deal. I
guess mom told you what happened?"
"Yes she did, and she insisted&;#8230;or suggested rather, that I
speak to you," he stammered. Rocky could see that his dad was uneasy
because he kept fidgeting with his tie. She&;#8230;I mean I, thought
it best that I speak with Rad's father and try to reason with him.
Surely he must understand that this kind of behavior cannot be
tolerated."
"But dad, if you do that, Rad will kill me for sure."
"Aren't you exaggerating somewhat son?"
"You don't know him like I do," Rocky said, hardly believing what his
dad was proposing. "He's not afraid of anybody or anything. Even his
teachers are afraid of him. Mrs. Green tried talking to Rad's father
about his fighting in class, and his father threatened to shoot her if
she made anymore trouble. His dad is some kind of crazy Vietnam vet or
something. They say he's got a steel plate in his head."
After hearing that, Harold felt some apprehension. "Well, maybe under
the circumstances&;#8230;I mean, maybe your right after all. Going
over to his house might just make matters worse. Why precipitate what
might end up as a volatile situation? I'll call him instead."
Rocky protested, "Dad, that would be just as bad as you going over to
his house. I doubt he would listen to anything you say. The guy's a nut
case."
Secretly, Harold was relieved that he wouldn't have to deal with a war
veteran with a steel plate in his head. He always felt Vietnam veterans
had a few screws loose. Besides, he was adverse to confrontation of any
kind. "Well," he said, trying to save face with his son, "You've got a
point there. Any attempt at reasoning with a man with limited mental
capacity would only be ineffective. I'll try and figure out some other
way."
Harold could already hear his wife's angry reproach. It was her idea
for him to speak to Rad's father and end the matter completely. But
Harold weaseled out, as he weaseled out of most things, and knowing
that he would have to justify to his wife why he couldn't stick up for
his son only made him nauseous with anticipation.
"There is one point your mother and I do agree on however," he said
with feigned firmness. "You are no longer allowed to play in the field,
especially near the creek. Your mother and I aren't very comfortable
knowing your out there alone and possibly subject to more beatings. You
must understand son, we're only concerned for your safety."
"But dad!" cried Rocky. "I can't hide in the house everyday. No matter
where I go Rad could be lurking around the next corner. I can't hide
from him forever."
"I'm sorry son. But that's all I have to say on the matter. Your
mother and I forbid it." Rocky rolled over on his stomach and buried
his head into his pillow. Harold, feeling remorseful, reached out to
pat his son on his head, but then withdrew it slowly. He loved Rocky,
but felt awkward with any display of emotion. Dispirited, he rose and
walked out of the room, closing the door without a sound.

*************************************

Rocky sat up at the sound of his mother berating his father. Her
strident voice filled the house. Obviously, his dad had erred
somewhere. He could just imagine his father standing, with his head
slung low, docilely suffering his mother's tirade. He often wondered
why his dad didn't fight back. Like father, like son, he supposed. He
sighed at the dysfunctional arrangement between his parents, then
flushed when he admitted he was cast from the same mold. He started to
despair at his admission, and then concluded there was no hope for
him.
Yet, he remembered, there was also no hope for Tracks, when the bullet
began to rip open his insides. That is, until he drank from the elixir.
Then he acquired superhuman strength, and respect and admiration from
everyone. Never mind now that he was a bum. Maybe he just couldn't
handle it. Maybe he just enjoys tramping around.
"Just because he failed doesn't mean that I would," he thought. Rocky
laid back, looking up at the ceiling with his elbows bent behind his
head. He felt much better now knowing what had to be done. With a
devious smile on his face and excited anticipation moving through his
body, he made plans to steal the elixir.
The next morning Rocky rose early and headed for the field before
making his way to school. He knew he couldn't convince Tracks to let
him sample some of the elixir. He knew what the response would be-an
emphatic no, especially after his lengthy admonishment of its
destructive power. But Rocky had already made up his mind
He sloshed through the mud, created by yesterday's downpour. He used
the well-beaten trail blazed by repeated hikes to the creek. The grass
to his side was tall and thick, rising just above his waist. The grass
seemed to grow taller overnight but Rocky didn't notice. He was
imagining the scenario that would follow soon, and he was devising some
strategy for acquiring the potion.
Rocky opened the grate leading into the sewer. After his eyes adjusted
to the darkness, he could see that Tracks was gone. He hoped he had
moved deeper into the tunnel. "Mr. Tracks," he yelled softly, chilled
by his own echo. There was no answer from the tramp and Rocky worried
that he had left with the elixir. If he had left, there would be no
chance for Rocky to put Rad in his place. Rocky turned to close the
grate but noticed something crumpled lying only a few yards away.
Curious, he crouched low and walked towards the figure. Rocky couldn't
stifle his excitement. "It's the bag!" he cried to himself. "Tracks
must have left it behind while he went out scrounging." He rifled
through his bag and found the bottle. He laid it gently in his coat
pocket and hurried outside. He made his way to school while
congratulating himself on his good fortune. In his excitement he had
failed to close the grate and cover the entrance.

***************************************

Rocky sat nervously as he watched the seconds tick away on the clock.
In a couple of minutes school would be over and he would head for the
creek. Throughout the whole day he went through his studies
mechanically, thinking only of the elixir in his pocket. He could just
see Rad and Bobby's face while his body transforms before their very
eyes. Never again would they beat him, not when he possessed the
strength of ten men. He would make them crawl and beg for mercy. After
all, they never showed him any mercy. The bell rang suddenly,
punctuating his vengeful reverie. His classmates bolted for the door
while his teacher scrambled to get a few more words in about their
homework or something. Rocky didn't hear a thing, he had other things
on his mind.

Rocky sat on the creek bank and reached into his pocket. As he
withdrew the bottle he caught a shiny glare out of the corner of his
eye. It was the glare from the open sewer grate he had forgotten to
close. He put the bottle back into his pocket and went to close the
steel door when he thought he had heard some noise from inside the
tunnel. "Mr. Tracks, is that you?" he yelled. There was no answer but
he was sure he heard the distant echoing of footsteps. Cupping his
hands over his mouth, he tried again, but still no answer. "This is
strange," he thought. "Why won't he answer me? Maybe he just doesn't
want to be bothered. Or maybe he's angry because I took the
elixir."
Rocky entered into the dark sewer and immediately felt the chill
emanating from the concrete walls. He walked further into the blackness
with only his arms stretch out along his sides for guidance. He had to
hunch down a few inches to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. The
further he progressed, the damper the air became. It was pitch black
now and he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He was becoming
frightened and thought about turning around, but his curiosity kept him
going.
Again he heard what sounded like footsteps and then faint laughter. He
thought his mind was playing tricks on him. But then again, the noise
could be the whine created by the slight draft careening through the
pipes.
Despite the cool temperature inside the sewer, Rocky started to sweat.
The darkness around him started to feel heavy and oppressive. With each
step he felt his throat constrict and his heart beat more rapidly. He
felt on the verge of panic and scolded himself for not preparing
himself with a flashlight. He imagined himself deep in the bowels of a
giant beast, but he felt compelled to keep moving deeper and deeper, as
if someone or something was calling out to him. Ahead, a faint glow
caught the boy's attention. A few more steps and then the hot, cherry
red tip of a cigarette illuminated Rad's sinister glare. His face
looked dark and ghoulish, his features narrow and pinched. Somebody lit
a match in the background. Bobby's face revealed a stupid grin. Rocky
froze.
"Looking for someone punk?" said Rad with the butt dangling from his
lips. The sight of the two awash in the flickering flame sent a
dreadful chill down his spine.
"I&;#8230;I'm looking for a friend of mine," he said weakly.
Bobby cursed when the match burned down to his fingers, but quickly
lit another one. Rad ignored the outburst and pointed past Bobby to the
prostrate figure at his feet. "You mean that tramp?" he said.
"Tracks!" Tracks was lying in a pool of blood near his head and his
right arm was broken and grotesquely contorted, and lying over his
forehead, as if to try and ward off a crushing blow. Rocky noticed he
was still breathing-but barely. "What did you do to him!" cried
Rocky.
Rad casually lit another cigarette off the old one, and said, "The
same thing I'm going to do to you, but a little slower."
Rocky ignored the threat for the moment. His concern was for Tracks.
"We need to get him to a doctor. He'll die if we don't hurry."
"Oh sure, and why don't we call the police while were at it?" was
Rad's sarcastic reply. "Why bother with him. Nobody is going to go
looking for some worthless bum. In fact, nobody knows this place
exists. Except you, that is. Bobby I ain't worried about, I know he'll
keep his mouth shut."
Bobby finally spoke. "That's right Rad. You and me are
partners."
"Shut up Bobby!" he shouted. "You just keep lighting those matches."
Rad reached behind him and withdrew from his belt a black club he had
used to beat Tracks.
"You see," said Rad, caressing his club. "It's like this. I always
wanted to know what it feels like to kill somebody. Stealing lunch
money gets a little old. A guy's got to get his kicks somehow. When I
saw the open grate, I thought I'd check it out; that's when I saw this
tramp hanging around. Just sitting there like some kind of king or
something. Trespassing on my territory of all things. Imagine that. He
tries to be friendly and says he's waiting for a friend. That must be
you I gather. That's when I wacked him with my club. He tried to block
it, and it broke his bone right in half. Then he got up and ran. It was
the funniest thing you ever saw, him running with his arm dangling all
over the place. Chased him all the way here. That's when he just
stopped dead on his heals and waited for us. He said he wasn't going to
run anymore from the likes of us. Whatever we had to do, he said to do
it and get it over with. How do you like that? So I made his head like
a baseball and went for the fence."
Rocky felt sick. He knew it was his fault for not covering the grate.
He knew Rad was evil, but hardly capable of murder. But he learned he
was wrong. Now he had to do something, but what? If he tried to run,
Rad would catch him and try to kill him. He knew Rad couldn't let him
out alive. Not after what he had seen.
Rad moved a step towards Rocky, slapping the end of the club on his
left palm repeatedly. Rocky took a step back.
"Ouch!" cried Bobby. The match had burned down to his fingers again
and it became pitch black. At that same instant Rad had rushed for
Rocky, swinging his club back and forth wildly. Their eyes had adjusted
to the glow of the match light, and it made matters only worse trying
to cope with the darkness. Rocky turned and frantically felt his way to
the exit of the sewer pipe while negotiating ninety degree turns every
few feet. He could hear the sound of Rad cursing and the sound of his
club banging off the walls.
"The elixir!" he remembered. Rocky reached into his coat pocket as he
ran, while using his other hand along the wall to navigate. Just as he
grasped the bottle he felt the hard blow of the club on his back,
knocking him to his knees. He felt the next blow just skim the top of
his head and hit the wall. He turned over onto his back to protect
himself and kicked his foot out into the darkness. The kick landed hard
on Rad's kneecap, causing him to cry out and drop his club. From the
sound of it, Rocky was sure he broke his knee. The club rolled a foot
out of reach from where Rocky lay. Rad was in obvious pain but managed
to reach into his pocket and retrieve a switchblade he had gotten as a
birthday present from his old man. Rocky heard the blade lock into
place and reached desperately for the club. It was his only chance. He
pushed himself backwards a few inches on his heals and felt the leather
strap on the end of the club. He knew he had about two seconds before
Rad would plunge the knife into him. Rad coiled back with the knife
just as Rocky grasped the club firmly and struck Rad with all his might
on his other knee. He let out a loud shriek and collapsed onto the
concrete floor.
Rocky left Rad lying there unconscious while he groped his way back to
Tracks. He took the club in case Bobby gave him any trouble.
"Rad, is that you?" asked Bobby fearfully. "I ran out of matches. Did
you take care of the punk?"
"Bobby, it's me, Rocky".
"What the-How did you get away?" he asked incredulously.
"Your buddy is passed out with two broken knees. I suggest you leave
now, or you won't be as lucky," he said as he hit the wall with the
club for effect.
Bobby stumbled passed Rocky in a panic towards the exit.
Rocky groped the dark floor looking for Tracks. He ran his hands over
his boots and up to his head. His hands were sticky from the warm
blood. "Mr. Tracks, it's me, Rocky. Can you hear me?"
Tracks started to stir. "Is that you Rocky?" he said with labored
breath. "Guess I'm the one in a fix now."
"Mr. Tracks, I have the elixir. There's no time for a doctor. You're
bleeding real bad." Rocky went to pull the bottle out of his pocket.
Miraculously, it had survived the fight with Rad. "Just take a drink
and you'll be a good as new."
"No," Tracks moaned. "Destroy it. I don't want to live forever. Death
is preferable to slavery. I've lived my life. Now let me die in peace."
Tracks began to shiver and Rocky covered him with his coat. "Remember
all that I had told you? Don't be a fool. Destroy it now!"
"But Mr. Tracks, you don't need to die like this."
"What difference does it make how I die?" his voice now barely
audible. One dies in his sleep, another dies from his wounds, but both
are dead. Destroy the elixir lad."
Rocky held the bottle tightly in his hands and battled with the
decision he had to make. He knew he had to destroy it, but human nature
willed that he save it. Yet he believed the elixir was somehow
responsible for everything that had happened. In his haste to steal the
elixir, he had left the sewer-grate exposed, resulting in Tracks'
beating. There was only one thing to do. Rocky threw the bottle as hard
as he could, breaking it into pieces.
Tracks, hearing the bottle smash against the concrete, smiled-and
breathed his last.

*************************************

Rocky stood a short distance from the paramedics as they lifted Rad
onto a stretcher. A policeman followed him into the ambulance while
reading him his rights. They found Bobby a short time later, hiding and
shivering inside a tool shed in his back yard. He confessed to
everything-and as an accessory to murder was then carted off to jail.
Rocky was hailed as a hero by the press and had his picture in the
local paper. Tracks was ignominiously described as a derelict, whose
sinful and transient lifestyle may have precipitated the
incident.
Rocky's parents noticed the difference in him after his experience
with Rad. He seemed more mature, confident, and less timorous. His
baptism with the evil machinations of Rad and Bobby only fortified his
resolve never to hide from fear again. He gave the credit for his
change of character to his short friendship with the man who came out
of nowhere, and into his life.

*************************************

The only sound within the dank and dark underground maze of sewer pipes
was from hundreds of beady-eyed rodents as they darted back and forth
cautiously, approaching the scene of the previous violence. With their
whiskers acting as feelers, they deftly avoided the broken glass which
littered their path, and licked the liquid which separated into tiny
droplets.
Almost immediately, the activity furiously increased as supercharged
adrenaline soared through the veins of their hairy bodies. Those who
drank greedily without encroachment from the others sought out and
pounced upon the weaker, savagely biting and tearing off their heads
and limbs. A multitude of their own species lay bleeding and
dismembered. Once the stronger and most powerful of the breed were
satisfied with their remaining detachment, they divided themselves into
ranks and marched out in single file through the rectangular holes of
the sewer-grate, and out into the night.