Free Three Sides of the Tracks by Mike Addington

the
time. He clenched the end of the nylon rope in his teeth and started climbing,
and, when he was a couple feet below the top, he tied a strong knot between two
branches to keep it from slipping off.
    “Now, do your Davy Crockett thing,” Jason said with a sneer then walked a
few yards and began hacking on another tree.
    Some of the graves had sunk, and Tim and Chuck scraped out more dirt from
one of the few graves that still had an upright gravestone; there was even an
angel with outstretched wings on top.
    The teenage boys scraped until Jason came over. “That’s deep enough, I
think. Lay down in it, Tim. Let’s see.”
    “I ain’t laying in no grave.”
     “Chicken shit,” Jason said, looking at Tim with disgust. “You gonna do
it, Chuck, or will I have to do everything? Thought y’all wanted to have some
fun.”
    Chuck didn’t much want to. He’d been a regular church member until
thoughts of girls, cars, and Saturday nights filled his head. But he didn’t
want to look small in Jason’s eyes, so he stretched out in the depression, his
five-ten frame barely fitting.
    Jason stepped back a few yards and looked. “Needs to be a little deeper.
Just to be sure you can’t be seen from the road.”
    “You mean you want me to be the one in the grave?”
    “No, I want Tim to, but he might freak out and wet his pants. Can’t have
him smelling up the car later,” Jason said with a smirk.
     Tim looked at the ground.
    “Think you can push that tree over?” Jason asked the smaller Tim. “You’ll
ruin the whole thing if you can’t.”
    Jason was six-feet tall, heavy, and muscular—physically more mature than
the other 16 year olds in the group. Tim weighed 150 pounds, 50 pounds less
than Jason, and it was either go along with Jason or challenge him, which would
only end in more humiliation.
    Tim mustered as much bravado as he could and looked up. “ Yeah , I
can push the tree over.”
    Jason’s lips curled. “You’d better.”
    The four boys worked for another hour, chopping at the saplings and
scooping out dirt.
    “That’s good enough. Let’s go get something to drink,” Jason said.
     Jason opened the trunk and threw in the hatchet and shovels then they
all piled into the ’87 Chevrolet clunker. Jason cursed when the key turned and
the car didn’t start. He jumped out, opened the hood, and beat on the battery
connections with the hatchet. “Try it now.”
    The motor turned a few times then sputtered to life. Jason cursed again and
sat back behind the wheel.
    The boys drove down the dirt road to the blacktop and headed farther from
town, toward Nate’s Grocery.
     Nate groaned when he saw who entered.
     Jason glared at the old man when he passed the register and headed for
the cooler. He grabbed two twelve packs of Old Milwaukee bottles and set them
on the counter.
    “I.D.,” Nate said though he knew it was useless.
      “Why you go through this every time, old man,” Jason said.
    “ ‘Cause the law says I got to,” Nate replied, anger and frustration
fighting for room in his eyes.
    “Which one you think you’re likely to have the most trouble from, me or
the law?”
    Nate sighed and rang up the beer. “Nineteen twenty-one.”
    Jason flung a twenty on the counter. “Keep the change . . . since you
were so nice about it. Put it in a bag. Don’t want it gettin’ hot before I
drink it all.”
    The boys went back to the cemetery to drink the beer and finish up.
    They hid the Chevy, and, now, darkness covered any signs of what the boys
had done Saturday afternoon. They sat in the middle of the cemetery among the
pines trees and brush, drinking more beer from a return trip to Nate’s. Empty
cans and cigarette butts littered the ground. They talked and teased each other
until headlights swept across the graveyard.
     They waited 10 minutes then Jason said, “Okay, Chuck, go to that grave
with the angel. You’re gonna have to cross the road here and sneak down so they
can’t see you.