Shoot Out at Tennis Camp
All I Want Is To Not Be Alone: Stories From The Start #3
Now, you see, he's way bigger than me. Like, super-big. Like a gorilla, I'm telling you. Massive arms that stretch out until next week. He's fast, too. Like, super-fast. Fast like, what are they called again? Fast like... oh man, what is that animal? Well, you get the idea. He's really fast, is the point. Big and fast. A big, fast gorilla-gazelle mix. That's it! A gazelle. Fast like one of those.
So, anyway, here I am, dust flying up in the noon sun, little drops of sweat rolling down my cheek. Just me and him, mano-a-mano. But I'm not a boy, so what would you call that? Mano-a-girl-o? No idea, but that doesn't matter. It’s just the two of us left. The others? All gone. All eliminated, one by one, taken out by old gorilla arms or me. Yup, little me. The underdog. I cut that bunch down, no hesitation. They never saw it coming. I can be ruthless like that. Sometimes, you gotta be.
I wonder if he knows that. Had he paid attention like I had? I saw his every move, every good choice and every bad choice, every hard hit and every weak one, left side, right side, strength and weakness. I have his number, I tell you.
Then it starts. It's always like a dance, slow and unsteady at first. We hesitate in short movements. Then we explode. He shoots first. This is my plan. Let him think he has the advantage. Let him think he's in charge.
I let the shot rocket by, not without some dramatics. And he eats it up, I tell you. I could see it on his face as he gets ready to shoot again. He thinks I'm toast, an easy target. Boy, is he wrong.
He shoots again, but this time, I come back. He might be like a gazelle, but I'm like lightning. Lightning fast.
He doesn't expect me to unleash, and I shoot back twice as fast. It whizzes by him, a miss. Also part of my plan.
I want to surprise him but leave him still feeling confident, like my shot was a lucky accident. I smile and shrug in the one calm moment before we start up again, that old swaying tango. Wind-up, release, and go! Next shot, next volley, next round. I tell you, now he starts to sweat. I'm slowly showing him my hand, my cards, and he doesn't like what he sees. He shoots, I shoot, back and forth. This is not one-sided.
The sun beats down. Around our feet rumbles up a cloudy haze of dust, each of us soaking through our clothes. Now the dance is fast, exciting, and desperate all at once.
Finally, it's time for me to shoot first. My patience and expertise boiled into one chance, the beginning of his last. A quick succession. Rapid fire. Bang. Bang. Bang!
As quick as a flash, there he is, rolled out on the floor, covered in that mucky red, coated and drained. I let out a big smile. It wasn't love, I tell you, but it was something.
“That-a girl!” wails Coach from a hidden corner. Sucker’s so scared I can see the wet stain on his tiny shorts. The others come out too. Scared like small mice, ready to scamper off.
No, I'm the alpha here. Me and maybe those bangers latched to the fence. They make me wet my pants a little, but they're out there, and we're in here. That's important, and that big gorilla on the ground there isn't anything. Not anymore.
“Come on, ya mucks, move those useless bodies,” I yell out, and they hop to it.
The little mice scamper to and fro. They gather the losers and toss ‘em over. Let those bangers munch on that for a while, give us some peace and quiet for a change. After all, I got a headache. All that shooting takes a toll, even on me, but I don't show them that. Can't do that.
We cool off in the clubhouse. It's dark in here. We had to board up the back windows. Those bangers would knock right through. Don't want that, now do we? I asked and they said no. So, I told ‘em to get to work, and they did. Now we're cool and safe in here. Thanks to me. They'd better not forget that, unless they want a match, too.
The sun passes, and the moon comes. I try to sleep, but it's hard. They never stop prattling around the fence. That's why this place is good. High fences. No doors. Clubhouse. Showers. Sprinklers. Food is an issue, but I keep that to myself. I know the rations and give them out. They don't like it? They don't get any. Period.
But it’s OK now. Old gorilla and friends had a good stash on them. Oh, that's the beauty of our setup. It looks all nice. They want in. We let them, like, hey, no problem, man! I'm telling you. It works every time. They're always blindsided. Blind bats, flailing into an electrified wall. Splat. Like that gorilla out there. Maybe just a bunch of open ribs by now. There's a lot of ‘em out there, and they work fast. I can tell because they're rattling the cages again. They're banging away at the backboards.
A nuisance, really. I'm telling you. This noise keeps me up all night. It's like my eyelids have been pumping iron. I almost need toothpicks stuck in there to keep ‘em up, like those old cartoons. The ones with the cat that gets the shit beat out of it. Dudes who made those were sadists.
The sun hits. My eyes want to close, but I force ‘em open. Gotta, if I want to stay on top. Be the best. Can't let the others catch on. The chirpy one calls out from the roof. They say they see another group coming up. Time to start the show. Curtains up. Coach banters on like he knows something. He should've made a better choice than white for shorts.
“Alright, suckers, you know your places. Hop to ‘em!”
That's what I shout. They listen and scurry off to take their positions. It's like an ambush, or it would be if they ever actually bushed. They usually chicken out and stay hidden. Three blind mice. One of these days I'll cut their tails off.
“Move it!”
They do, and I take up my post at the top. I sit on the umpire's chair like a queen, surveying all that's mine. I make it look like I’m the one looking for some help. That's the key. Suckers.
The group rolls up. Looks to be a sweet setup. Four of ‘em. Pulling along a nicely loaded wagon. Guns pressed up to their shoulders. Little good those will do. You can pump those bangers full of lead, but they keep coming, even with half a missing head. Try to figure that one out.
“Hey! Look! There's a girl in there. Hey! You alright?”
Oh, I’m alright, alright.
“Come in! Hurry! It’s safe in here!”
I coo like an innocent bird. They take the bait.
“Go to the building, there's a place you can climb up the rain gutter. It's easy!”
They hurry. Run, rabbit, run. I hear them shouting, coordinating. A few shots go off. Idiots. All that does is call more. Better to be quiet. Now, there's no way I'll get any sleep tonight. Thanks for that, muck-o's.
The first of ‘em lands down in the safety of our little court system. The rest follow, and in between, they struggle with that payload. That wagon full of goods. I can hardly take my eyes off it. I still need those toothpicks. I tell you, the daylight hurts.
They make it in. They look around. They let down their guard. Idiots. I let one loud whistle rip between my fingers. They taste salty.
My group springs out and manages to take the guns off two of them. Some stay hidden, like Coach. Little roach.
One from the new group runs off, trying to get out. Don't know where he thinks that's gonna happen. Let ‘em go for now. I’m more concerned with the other one that's pointing a pistol at my temple. Oh, game on!
I take out mine and hop down to my side of the net. That old dance starts again. Back and forth. Miss and hit.
I get it right through his eye in the end. Game, point, and match. I'm getting pretty good at this. I should consider going pro.
“Alright! Get to it! Get this one outta here... and where'd that other one go?”
“Back in the corner court.”
That's the chirpy one again.
“OK. You waiting for an invitation? Get to it!”
Little Chirpy does, rushing around the corner. I’m about to address the two from the group, standing there with their arms up, to unload their wagon, when Chirpy comes screaming back.
Screaming.
“Will you shut up? You're gonna draw tons more in.”
“He cut it!”
Chirpy dashes by, repeating the phrase over and over.
“Who cut what?” asks Coach.
Heads spin at the noise. Even mine. Almost cranked it right off. But for good reason. Around the corner of our little clubhouse stumble a ton of ‘em. Just like I warned. Bangers big and small. Inside! What are they doing inside?
“He cut the fence!” yells Chirpy.
Oh, that's what he cut. That idiot cut the fence. Now I need to haul ass. We all do, but those choppers are already sinking in. Two of my group and two from the other group. Their wagon gets tangled in so many feet. It gets lost.
Coach runs and yells this high-pitched thing that hurts my ears. But I stay quiet, and it pulls the crowd toward him. Chirpy tries to climb to the roof but is pulled down. No more mice. Snapped in the traps with the cheese still lying there.
I make it to the umpire’s chair and pull up the steps. I tell you, the sounds coming from Coach could fill a slasher film. The end-girl screaming a hundred times over until he stops. I think I hear a gurgle, but that might be the bangers.
I curl up in the chair. Bangers don't see so well, and with so many spilling into the courts, they’ll keep themselves occupied. They’ll forget all about me in time. Maybe catch something or someone else moving along and follow that. I'll get outta here, mark my words.
The day lasts forever. I tell you, now I'm the one with the stained pants. Not like making it to the bathroom makes any sense. At least the sun dried it up quickly. But it makes my tongue dry too. I always keep a water bottle on my post up here, so it's not like I don't have anything to drink. It's not enough, but okay, okay. I'll live. Maybe have a mean sunburn.
I sit, I curl up, I try not to move. I wait, is what I do. The courts are overrun. What kind of idiot thinks it's a good idea to cut a hole in the fence holding all the bangers out? A massive one, that's what kind. They settle down after a while and start to stand around like a flock of lost sheep. Where's little Bo Peep? I ain’t her, that's for sure.
The sun goes overhead, then curves down the other side of the sky. Finally, some shade. I'm staying as still as I can. I think I sweated all the liquid out of my body. I almost thought about collecting it in my water bottle, but it's too salty. I have a few sips left, but I'm saving those.
I wonder if I can make the fence. I could just climb up and along it to the roof, then over and out of here. To where? No idea. But at least out of this chair. I'm debating it. Back and forth. Hit for hit, pros and cons.
It'd make too much noise. The bangers would collect wherever I rattle along. I'd be the banger then.
But what other way do I have out of here? There are too many. No way they're leaving on their own. Wait till it's dark. Sneak like a ninja. Maybe throw my bottle the opposite way. Make a distraction. It could work, so I need to wait.
Hours move more slowly than you'd care to think. The sky burns in twilight for I don't know how long. I'm almost thinking it's stuck in a draw. Idiot sky, let one or the other win already.
The moon does and rises. The floodlights don't work, but the stars do. They almost tell me to close my eyes. Wish me sweet dreams. I think of those cartoons again, toothpicks holding the eyelids, thick, red-veined eyes under them. I use my fingers to keep mine pried open.
The bangers settle more. They don't see great. I'm telling you, that is the truth. I think at night they wind down because they can't make out anything. They bump into each other. I wonder why they don't tear each other to shreds. Maybe they do, I can't make out the details in such a big crowd.
I go for it. Now or never. I creep down. Quiet as a mouse. Nearly as blind as one, too. I scamper a little. I have my water bottle but hold out on using it. No need to rock the boat if I don't need it to tip over. I slouch, I crawl, I do an interpretive dance between bodies. I plug my nose. Don't ask me to describe that bit of things. I step. Then I misstep.
Right onto one of their toes.
I guess it feels that, because it swipes down into the darkness, trying to find me. The others are riled up now. They all move and scratch toward the ground. I throw my bottle. The empty plastic doesn't resonate like I hoped it would, but it's something.
I move with them. Herded along. Who's the little lamb now? I am. I get swept back to the small tower and climb back up to my throne. It was waiting for me and cooled without my butt in it. Beneath me, a sea of dark movement. The fence? Miles away. I rub my eyes.
After a while, the bangers start to settle down again. The sky starts to lighten slightly. I tell you, that small sliver of sun nearly burns my eyes right out of my head. Like a katana to my pupils. They get more active. The light must help them clock their surroundings. It looks like those mosh pits you'd see in online videos of concerts from thirty years ago.
They all move and shift in one direction. I hear it too. If my eyes weren't already watering, I could maybe cry. Maybe. Voices are shouting from one side or another. They're drawing this herd to press, to bang on the fence.
I stand but stay silent. The light slants into my eyes and makes it hard to see. It sounds like a larger group. Gunshots. Is that a motorcycle? One of those high-pitched dirt bike ones?
Whatever it is, it makes a ton of noise. Now all the bangers move toward it. And, good for me, away from the hole that idiot cut. Don't get me started on the fact that the cause of the problem is also the solution. I'm too tired to hear it.
I take off, dried tongue and wet eyes and all. Right out of that hole. There are a few bangers around, but slow ones, and I circle around them easily enough. It's strange to be on the outside, with them caged on the inside. Maybe I had it wrong, but I'll never tell them that. That'd show weakness. I put on my game face.
They spot me. There are shouts. Directions given, smaller parties split off. One group of three people, two running and one on a bike pulling a small cart, hurries over, full of worry. I tell them in short, panting breaths how thirsty I am. How hungry. How scared. How tired. They call me a poor thing. I'm telling you, if there is one thing I am not, it’s that. But it's good they think I am. That's the game plan.
They pack me right into that little cart, give me a sun hat, a bottle of water, and some bread. Freshly baked, they say. So, they have some place. A place stable enough that they can bake. Idiots, giving all their secrets away.
They make a galloping U-turn to avoid the filled courts. They follow the small motorcycle. It whines like a canary, and the rider waves the rest on. The rest follow. I follow too. I can take a hint, after all.
They head back to wherever it was they had come from. I keep an eye out through the followers. Looking for the weaker ones, a few new mice. We had something back there, but nothing is forever. No, there are greener pastures, and I think this bunch is taking me right to one.
My eyes tell me to close them. They shout. They scream, but I ignore them. Magical toothpicks: inserted. There's too much to do. No rest for the weary.
It takes a few hours to make it there. My body feels all cramped up. They give me fresh clothes and more food.
The motorcycle rider takes off their helmet. She tells me I've been through a lot. Tells me to get rest. Tells me I can start tomorrow. There's a lot to do. I need to contribute, but today I can rest. I agree. Oh, the banter. I'm telling you, a master class in imitation of submission.
I make a small round about their camp. It's in an old roadside motel, fenced in to keep the non-customers out of the swampy pool. Bangers do their thing and bang away around the exterior.
There are a little over twenty of them. Twenty-two to be exact. One leader, sixteen loyals, and the rest scampering little mice. They cook, they eat, they prepare. The sun goes down, and they go to the open rooms to sleep in shifts. They think I've been knocked out.
I'm not. I'm wired like a jackrabbit. Blood red eyes and adrenaline. I sneak out of bed. I've already worked out which play to make. I shimmy up to the roof. The motorcyclist is there, on her perch. Her head bobs. I wait it out. Her head falls. Weakling.
I get ready for the hit. This court's mine.