Newark, New York
April, 1964
I decide that I want—no, I need Beatle Boots.
“Now what in the hell are Beatle Boots?” my Father asks. I just don’t get my old man sometimes. He knows what Beatle Boots are. How can you not know—the whole family watched them on the Ed Sullivan Show just last week.
“It’s what the Beatles wear,” I answer lamely, at the same time holding up a target big enough to drive my old man’s Cadillac through.
My Father takes careful aim and fires, missing the bull by inches. “Beatles? Why would anyone want to look like them? All that long hair and noisy music. They’re just a fad, and mind you,” he takes a long drag off his unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette, “in a couple of months, you won’t even remember who the Beatles were!”
Whenever he says stuff like that, I’m not sure if he’s serious, or just trying to piss me off. He takes another drag, a sip of coffee and returns to his morning paper. I’m not sure what to do next, so I look anxiously at my Mom.
“Why do you want Beatle Boots?” she asks.
“All the kids have them,” I say before my mind is fully engaged, and I realize that I have simply provided my Dad with a scope for the verbal shotgun he has loaded, cocked, and is about to pepper us with.
“And I suppose if all the kids wanted to jump off the Barge Canal bridge, you would want to do that too?”
Not that again! He shakes his head sadly at the great disappointment I am because I want Beatle Boots. “Now, I’m not going to forbid you to get these Beatle Boots, son. I would hope that you have the good sense to be an individual and not follow every fad that comes along because everyone else does.”
He closes his paper and takes the final sips of coffee before kissing my Mom and I good-bye as he heads off to work. He’s impeccably dressed and coifed—dark gray suit, white Oxford-cloth shirt, navy blue tie with white stripes, and black shoes so shiny they wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near a Catholic girls’ school. In this outfit I find it odd that he’d accuse me of mindless conformity, but keep that thought to myself and wear it as a Purple Heart all the way to Marvin’s Bootery where my new boots await.
Marvin’s Bootery is next to the Plaza Diner on Union Street which runs along the Barge Canal. The Diner is a well known hood hangout and sure enough, Kevin and Tim, two notorious junior high punks are leaving with their girlfriends just as I arrive. Now I don’t go much for poetry, except when forced to do so in English class. But listening to the Beatles has given me a new outlook on that particular subject. If it’s cool enough for John and Paul, then why not me? I quick write a short verse in my head about Tim and Kevin, and even imagine The Beatles singing the lyrics in a new song they introduce on the next Ed Sullivan Show
An intense summer sun,
reflects glossy pompadours
they have combed into matching tonsorial swells.
With their leather jackets and chains,
they stare at me and snarl
at my dirty Keds sneakers
and my torn blue-jeans.
Tim’s sneering comment shocks me out of my poetic haze. “Where you going, Bacon?” He plays the role of Kevin’s toadie and has the responsibility of throwing the initial taunt. I don’t think they’d appreciate having “glossy pompadours.”
Kevin curls his lip as he talks. “Probably running an errand for mommy.”
They snicker as I walk nervously by them. Tim sticks out a foot. I dance to the side to avoid the fall and then duck into the safety of the shoe store. Through the store’s picture window I can see hoods and girlfriends light up cigarettes and relax as they wait for their victim to reappear. I decide to be very careful in my selection and take as much time as needed—Beatle Boots are a serious matter after all.
Unfortunately, Marvin has only one pair in my size and he’s in no mood for small talk. So here I am, back on the street in my new boots, and prey to the North End delinquents. I exit the store, turn right and head down Main Street towards home. Behind me I hear the soft, syncopated echoes of steel-toed, high-heeled boots as they mimic my steps. I promise myself that I won’t look back, and clutch tighter the package containing my discarded Ked’s. The footfalls sound closer and faster, and I speed up slightly, just enough to keep ahead of Kevin and Tim. Still they stay with me, and by the time we reach the Post Office, they’re only a few feet behind.
Kevin growls, “Hey Bacon, what’s the rush? We wanna get a look at those new boots.”
“Yeah, new boots,” chimes in Tim.
“Say no more! Sure would be a shame if anything happened to them, wouldn’t it, Tim?”
“Yeah, a real shame.” Four voices, tittering with laughter, pulls me around as if hooks were imbedded in my flesh and I were being reeled onto shore.
At that instant, four pairs of legs stop dead and eight eyes stare as if viewing a miracle. Kevin drops his cigarette. It fizzles in a small puddle under his feet. The girls alternately clasp hands over their faces and mouth, making small sounds somewhere between moans and screams.
Kevin points in my direction, “Holy shit! Tim will you look at that!”
“No, it can’t be. It’s… it’s…”
“Say no more. It’s Ringo!”
The girls scream. “Ringo!!”
Tim falls to his knees. “I don’t freaking believe it, Bacon! Look at yourself, man.”
Best I can do, “Real funny guys.”
Kevin and Tim howl with laughter. The girls taunt, “Ringo, it’s Ringo!” They nearly convulse in hysterics. I smile weakly, trying to share in the joke. The mirth dies quickly and a demonic look flashes across the faces of Kevin and Tim as they poise for the kill.
I turn and bolt down Main Street, Kevin and Tim close behind and gaining. I pass Saint Michael’s School and dart across the street towards the church, heedless of the traffic, just ahead of an oncoming semi. As Tim and Kevin wait for the traffic to pass, I throw myself onto the church basement side door and give it a hopeful tug. It gives way with only the slightest groan in defiance. I slam it shut behind me and quickly throw the bolts, for the time being locking out those two punks. Through the door I can hear muffled curses and threats. The sounds seem muted and distant, as if listening through padded cylinder. Gradually it subsides to an annoying hum, then fades out entirely leaving me alone in the dark stairway leading down into Saint Michael’s Church basement.
I take the few remaining steps down to another set of doors, hoping to circle around to the vestry upstairs, and leave by the back exit. From there I can cut through yards all the way down Main Street, avoiding Tim and Kevin, until I reach the sanctuary of home. Peering cautiously through the small windows in the second set of doors, I find the basement empty except for the spiders, waiting in silence overhead on sheets of intricate silk. I look up and stare into the face of a large black spider, her massive body etched with silver streaks. She taps her web sending a rhythmic, feral invitation. I force my mind elsewhere and venture through the doors into the basement.
I fight through a suffocating darkness into the bowels of the church. Through the translucent void I can barely discern the outline of an elevated stage surrounded by rows of chairs. This is where altar boys recite their Latin responses under the military tutelage of training acolytes. Standing there, squinting in the darkness, I can see images from my own past, reciting the Pater Noster for a smirking Father Russell. I can almost hear him casually criticizing as if I had all the significance of a lone soldier ant in a colony of billions.
As my eyes gradually adjust to the darkness, I see faint shapes on the stage and in the rows of folding chairs. The basement is enveloped in a soft yet alien sound—a combination of high-pitched hissing, scraping and turgid gurgling, like waste oozing out of sewage pipe. There is an aura of motion behind me as well, the motion of creatures I sense are utterly foreign and completely evil. I feel as if I’m interrupting some deadly ritual performed by the very lowest forms of life. The shapes ahead of me become clearer as I become accustomed to the dingy basement. There’s a creature of some sort on the stage, parading about, hissing and waving its thin appendages in the air. The things in the chairs sit perfectly still, except for the occasional, erratic sweep of something that looks like insect antenna. In an instant, like the snap of a rubber band, my vision clears completely and the room is bright as daylight. That’s when I realize that the room is populated by man-sized insects.
An immense scarab beetle is on stage chirping to the apparent amusement of its fellow beetles in the audience. Under the chair of each beetle is a dung ball about the size of a bowling ball. The creatures are about my height, maybe two foot across, have shocking mandibles and towering antennas that flit about like lice on a frying pan. Their colors vary from deep crimson, to metallic purple. The only thing they have in common is a white collar that chokes their stout thorax. It seems insane that a beetle would wear an altar boy collar, but this is no stranger than the lone praying mantis decked out in clerical alb, cincture and stole. It watches silently over the insect performing on stage, occasionally twisting its pale-green head in quirky, quantum gestures.
I slink to the back of the room, looking for an exit, all the while keeping a guarded eye on the praying mantis priest and his colony of beetle altar boys. The insect on stage seems agitated, as it shakes its head and spastically wiggles its segmented antenna. The mantis moves out from the corner of the stage and this excites the poor creature even more. The beetles in the audience begin chirping anxiously in anticipation and in a lightning flash motion, the mantis snatches the unfortunate insect in its powerful front claws, decapitates it, and begins sucking the green and red juices that spout from its thorax. I stagger back in shock and revulsion and choke back my own rising vomit. The other beetles soon join the mantis on stage and begin cannibalizing the pieces of insect left behind.
There’s a door behind me somewhere that leads up into the church vestibule, so I inch back without looking behind. After two steps, my hand falls on something soft, hairy, and alive. I spin around to see a pair of black scorpions the size of large dogs, their poisonous tails poised high above me. I’m dead for sure, but the creatures only nudge me forward with their claws, dragging rosary beads round their fat midsection. They push me closer to the mantis who waits on stage as the beetles finish off his victim, leaving only a nauseating black smear on the stage floor. Soon I’m on stage, only feet away from certain death. I look wildly for a means of escape when I notice the icon at the end of the scorpion-nun’s rosary. It’s an oversized crucifix of a large cockroach crucified upside-down on the cross.
The startling image shocks me into a panic. I stagger back and trip over a processional crucifix among some accumulated junk on stage. It’s the one we use at high mass. I say a fervent “forgive me Lord,” as I snatch the cross up in both hands and in one clean motion cleave off the head of the mantis priest. It instantly falls dead, quivering in a mass of spouting viscera that is quickly lapped up by the gluttonous beetles. I spin around, and wielding the cross like a two-handed sword, plunge it into one of the great compound eyes of the nearest scorpion. She writhes in agony and randomly stings anything within reach including its sister. Deadly poison shoots in the air; it lands on the walls and sears the paint like acid.
In the turmoil I flee out the front exit, down a hall, and into the altar boy’s changing room. I catch my breath at a kneeler. It comes in short erratic spurts, and my vision has suddenly shifted as if looking through a kaleidoscope. I look in the mirror above the kneeler and reel back in terror at a reflection with fleecy antenna and deep-green compound eyes the size of dinner plates. Screaming in fear, I rip the mirror from the wall and toss it across the room. Through my eyes, the room is a patchwork of thousands of tiny, hexagonal images. Somehow I’m able to feel my way out of the room to a stairwell. I trip up the stairs, a journey made all the more hazardous by six legs and no arms. Eventually I bump into a door. I ram into it repeatedly until it bursts open and I fall into the bright afternoon sunlight.
I lay motionless trying to catch my breath. When I finally make it to my feet and brush myself off, I remember Kevin and Tim. They’re nowhere to be found, but Father McDonnell rounds the corner from the rectory, and noticing me standing there with no apparent purpose, heads in my direction.
The old Pastor waves cheerfully, “How are you today, Donnie.” He takes off his black biretta and mops his forehead. “You’ll be late for the practice. Father Russell and the boys will be waiting for you.”
“Practice?” I ask.
“The altar boy practice in the church basement,” he says crossly. “All the boys are being tested on their Latin. It’s required if you want to serve, you know. I’d get a move on, but before you do...” He points at my new Beatle boots and grimaces with apparent disapproval, “get rid of those things and put on some real shoes.”
He shakes his head as he enters the church through the side entrance, leaving me alone in the parking lot, dripping in sweat, and staring down at my feet.
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