Free Wait Until Twilight by Sang Pak

moment of silly inspiration lasts about one second at the thought of that pointing finger and the voice singing, “Blood for blood!”
    “You guys ready?” I whisper. We all nod, then sprint toward the road with our youthful legs pumping away. Some hands reach out for us along the way, but when we reach the road the only thing following us is their raucous laughter. We keep running all the way to the car and get out of there as fast as we can turn the Cavalier around.
    Down the road a ways we pass a black man walking with a big wooden crate on his shoulders. “Let’s give that guy a lift,” I say.
    “What?” says David.
    “Those guys back there are nuts. If some of those guys are around, who knows?” adds Will.
    “He’s obviously not one of those guys.”
    “Never pick up hitchhikers,” says Brad.
    “He’s not hitchhiking. Look at the size of that crate. You could fit a black bear in that thing. C’mon.”
    “If something happens, it’s your fault,” he says. We stop and go back.
    “Where you goin’?” David asks as we drive alongside the old-timer.
    The black man watches us suspiciously with his tired-looking red eyes. His shirt is open, revealing a bony black chest. “To ma house,” he says.
    “You know about those crazy bastards having a party back there?”
    “I heard somethin’ goin’ on. None o’ ma bidness.”
    “You shouldn’t be walking around out here right now. Get in, we’ll give you a ride to wherever you’re going.”
    “It’s okay, they don’t bother me none.”
    “That thing looks heavy. Come on,” I say. “We just wanna help.”
    He looks at us like we were crazy. I’m surprised he finally accepts. That box must have been pretty damn heavy. He puts the crate in the trunk and gets in the back with Brad and me. He smells like sweat and fish.
    “You gotta helluva system in here, boy,” he says.
    “Yeah, I got friends that work at a car stereo shop.”
    “Good to have friends,” he says.
    He navigates us to a little house, half of which is covered in wisteria vines. When we pull up, a black lady comes out with four barefoot children behind her. It turns out that the crate he’s carrying is filled with fresh fish. He’s having a fish fry to commemorate the recent passing of his father.
    “How’s about some fresh fried fish?” he asks us, taking the box out of the trunk. We look at one another and know none of us want to stay, so we respectfully decline. He asks us to wait and goes inside. He and his woman go in, but the four children stand there watching us shyly, curiously. They look nice, healthy, normal as can be. And I think this is the way it should be. Not like Mrs. Greenan’s ungodly babies. The old guy comes out with a little mason jar half full of what looks like water. He holds it up. “You boys ever tasted mountain dew?” he asks.
    “All the time,” says David.
    “I ain’t talkin’ ’bout on sodie pop.” He opens the jar and the smell of alcohol attacks our noses like hornets.
    “Holy shit. What is that?” asks David.
    “Mountain dew. The real mountain dew. Now, remember Barry when you’re drinkin’. Have fun, boys.”
    We take the jar and head back into town. Helping that old-timer makes me feel a little less crappy about coming all the way out to the country to get harassed by a bunch of scary old perverts.
    Brad’s first to spot the host of colorful moving lights coming from the Kmart parking lot. It’s one of those traveling fairs that pass through town once a year. Even from a distance we can see the Ferris wheel and tea cups twisting and turning. I haven’t been to one of those since I was kid, but we all want to go tonight. We pull into the parking lot, and Will immediately takes out the mason jar and has a drink. His face turns into a disgusted grimace like he sucked on a lemon.
    “How is it?” I ask.
    “Here, see for yourself,” he says.
    I take a drink and it burns a trail all the way down to my stomach, bringing tears to