Category: Fiction Factor

The 40^th reunion of Hellman High School’s Class of ’84 was well into its third hour when the band took a break after performing Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian.” Many of the well-lubricated guests then headed to the cash bar for a refill, or outside for a cigarette.

“There’s where I did the deed,” said Daryl Bailey, lighting his Marlboro just outside the gymnasium’s red EXIT sign and glancing toward the baseball field as a handful of other smokers joined him.

The round, red brick gymnasium had held up relatively well over the years, although it was now a community center instead of home to the Hellman Purple Demons basketball and volleyball teams.

The school itself had moved to nice, modern digs a few blocks away, yet the old gym and main building remained – as well as the baseball field.

And it was the baseball field that made Hellman High a cause célèbre back in 1983. Oh, it had nothing to do with the team … they rarely put together winning seasons. But the gate that led to the field – and specifically the latch to the gate – gave rise to the “Hanging Meat of Hellman High” legend.

On a late spring Monday morning, members of a freshman gym class were heading to the baseball field while some upperclassmen were walking off. It was routine for the frosh to run through the open gate of the chain-link fence, take a lap around the field, and then line up for jumping jacks and pushups.

But Lonnie Stone never made it to the field.

Hardly a fast runner, he was bringing up the rear while his classmates charged toward the diamond. Just as he was about to enter, the right side of the gate swung violently in his direction, and his upper right leg hit the fork latch at full force.

The latch ripped a trench in his flesh, peeling it back like an accordion as the youngster screamed in agony.

A combination of excruciating pain – and blood loss – caused Lonnie to faint, and even after paramedics arrived, there was some question as to whether or not he’d survive.

But as they put him on a stretcher and sped away to the hospital, a part of him was left behind.

Roughly six inches of flesh hung from the fork latch, creating a gruesome scene. It was so sickening, in fact, no one wanted to go near it – not even the Hellman High coaching staff.

For days the shredded piece of Lonnie’s leg dangled from the latch, alternately eliciting giggles and gasps from kids who dared move in for a closer look.

By Friday it was still there, although at that point it had baked in the sun so long it resembled beef jerky.

And then – the following Monday – it was gone.

The gate was closed and the latch clean, presumably the work of the school’s janitorial staff.

But some of the more creative members of the Hellman High student body decided the incident was too bizarre to just let go, so they didn’t. They claimed that the hanging meat of Hellman High hadn’t been cleaned up at all – it had actually wandered off into the woods behind the field. Lonnie’s pain had manifested itself into an evil, troll-like creature – “Meaty” they called it – and it kept a watchful eye on everyone who dared run past the gate and onto the field.

It was said that late at night, you could sometimes see Meaty’s glowing red eyes staring out from the woods – occasionally releasing a guttural scream mimicking that of Lonnie’s.

It made for a nice campfire-style story, especially since Lonnie never returned to Hellman High; he moved to another state after his father got a new job, and his accident occurred during the final week of his freshman year.

Thing is, it wasn’t an accident.

Large gates like the one at the baseball field don’t just swing by themselves – they need a push.

And if not for Daryl, Lonnie wouldn’t have the gash in his leg, and Hellman High wouldn’t have its legend.

Bailey was a bully, and during his high school days took great pleasure in causing pain to kids who were younger and smaller than him.

As he saw Lonnie trundle toward the field, the junior thought it’d be funny if the freshman met the gate face first. So, he grabbed it with both hands and pushed as hard as he could.

Unfortunately for Lonnie, the  timing was a bit off and instead of crashing into the gate – which would’ve been painful enough – his leg was caught by the gash.

Although several students saw Daryl do it, they didn’t dare report him. And while the legend grew during his senior year, anyone who told the tale made sure to leave his name out of it for fear of retaliation.

“I kinda felt bad about it,” he said to no one on particular. “I mean, I thought it’d be funny as hell to see his stupid face slam into that gate, but I didn’t mean to send him to the hospital. I wonder if the kids at the school still talk about the hanging meat at Hellman High? I hope so … it means I’m still famous.”

Feeling nostalgic – and a little bit buzzed – Daryl stomped his cigarette out and wandered toward the gate. All but one of the others headed back in as the band cranked up 38 Special’s “Back Where You Belong.”

Daryl stared off into the woods and – even though he figured it was probably just his imagination – felt like he was being watched.

In fact, he was.

“Hey.”

Daryl was startled by the voice, and as he turned around, he saw a small, slight man standing just a few feet away. He’d seen him during the course of the evening, although Daryl had no real idea who he was.

“It’s me, Daryl … Lonnie … Lonnie Stone,” he said. “I heard about the Class of 84’s reunion and thought I might be able to find you here. Turns out anybody can buy a ticket to one of these things – I didn’t even have to use my real name. Anyway, I just want you know that I forgive you for what you did to me.”

Lonnie then pointed toward the gate.

Daryl turned slowly and froze; a hideous creature with glowing red eyes was glaring at him.

“Unfortunately,” Lonnie said. “Even though I forgive you, Meaty doesn’t. You took a pound of flesh from me, and now he’s here to take yours.”

The cat eyed the visitor standing outside the front door, let out a quick yawn, and then laid its head back down on the sofa, its fluffy, gray tail switching rhythmically.

“You must be Jeff from that dot com,” said Malcolm Scrimm, his gap-toothed smile stretching across his wrinkled face. “Come in, come in. Here … I made you a cup of my famous tea. Everybody that enters the House of Scrimm has to at least try it.”

Scrimm was the owner of Vlad, a Norwegian Forest cat who – according to its owner – was 39 years old.

Jeff Jaffee worked for CandidCritters, a website that specialized in writing offbeat articles concerning animals. Having received a call about Vlad a week earlier, Jaffee wanted to see if there was something to the story.

“I appreciate you letting me come out,” said Jaffee, who had no real interest in the tea but politely took a sip after Scrimm passed the cup. “Wow … that’s really good, thanks. Well, I can see Vlad has quite a tail. Now I want to hear the tale of a cat that’s nearly 40. Do you mind if I pet him?”

“Please do.”

Jaffee gave Vlad a couple of soft rubs on the head, then scratched his chin.

If Vlad was, in fact, 39, then the folks at Guinness would need to amend their list. Creme Puff was a Texas feline that lived 38 years and three days from 1967 to 2005, making it the world record holder.

“Just curious,” Jaffee said. “How exactly do you know that Vlad is 39?”

Scrimm walked over to a table beside the sofa and grabbed a scrap book.

“Because I found him 39 years ago,” he said with a chuckle. “Just showed up on my doorstep on July 3, 1985. Couldn’t have been more than three or four weeks old. Here, look.”

Scrimm pointed to a photo of himself holding Vlad while standing on his porch, which was decorated in Fourth of July bunting.

“There’s your proof,” he said. “As you can see I had some 1980s hair going for me. I think I was trying to channel Howard Jones.”

Jaffee looked at the photo and it appeared to be legitimate. Still, he needed more proof than a faded Polaroid.

“That certainly looks like you and Vlad as a kitten,” he said. “But don’t you have any veterinarian records or something like that? I just need to cross the Ts and dot the Is … you understand.”

Scrimm rubbed his chin and thought for a moment.

“Sure I do,” he said. “Lemme get it from the drawer in the kitchen.”

As Scrimm left the room, Vlad continued to eye Jaffee. There was hardly anything unusual about a cat stare, but the look he was getting from the creature was unnerving. Making things even weirder was that he was struggling to look away and felt himself overcome by a wave of dizziness.

Jaffee stumbled back against the wall after Scrimm returned with a yellow piece of paper and silver tag.

“I found what you need,” Scrimm said. “This is the paperwork for his first rabies shot in 1985, as well as the tag. Of course I’m guessing the last thing on your mind right now is your little write-up.”

Scrimm plopped down on the sofa next to Vlad, who moved onto his lap without ever breaking eye contact with Jaffee.

“I can’t tell you the number of people who are just amazed by ol’ Vlad here,” Scrimm said, gently stroking the cat. “They can’t believe he’s as old as he is and looks as healthy as he does. But I’ll let you in on a little secret before you nod off, Jeff. It all comes down to diet.”

Poisoned by the tea, Jaffee could no longer move. He slowly slid down the wall, his shirt riding up his back and his legs sprawled in front of him as his life drained away.

“See, cats need a balanced diet to stay healthy,” Scrimm said. “A little chicken, a little fish, some grains … now you feed a cat that, and he’s probably gonna give you 15 or 20 good years. But Vlad here, he’s special. And as soon as he showed up, I knew we had something in common.

“I like killing people, and he likes eating the people I kill. Turns out you give a cat some long pig, and it adds years to their life.”

Scrimm grabbed Jaffee by his feet, pulled him toward the door leading to the basement, and shoved him down the steps.

Vlad’s tail raised straight in the air as he leapt from the sofa and headed for his dinner.

Scrimm reached for his phone and punched in seven digits.

“Yes, is this CandidCritters? This is Malcolm Scrimm. That fellow you were supposed to send – Jeff was it? He never showed up. But it’s probably just as well. Me and my cat don’t really like drawing attention to ourselves, anyway.

“Have a blessed day.”

Grady Grande had always dreamed of being in the big leagues.

Like a lot of kids, he was a Little Leaguer, so naturally he entertained the thought of staying a kid forever and playing ball for fun and profit.

And by the time he got to high school at Iron City Union Magnet, he thought he was a pretty good catcher.

His coaches, unfortunately, didn’t share that opinion.

By the end of his senior season, he had caught a grand total of six games in four years, playing on a team that never made the district playoffs and managed just one winning campaign during his entire time on the roster.

At the senior baseball banquet when the awards were handed out, all he earned was the equivalent of a participation trophy.

That wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

The plan in his head was to make All-State, be an All-American at a Division 1 school and then become a first-round selection in the Major League Baseball First-Year Player Draft where he would sign an incentive-laden contract with either the New York Yankees or Chicago Cubs – depending on who made the best offer.

A long, storied professional career would end with him as a multi-millionaire baseball legend, one who would open a string of sports-themed restaurants right after making the National Baseball Hall of Fame on the first ballot.

Instead, as close as he got was playing beer league softball after work.

So, years later here he was on a Saturday afternoon in late June, sitting in his den watching the Yankees-Braves game with his granddaughter, Stella, daydreaming briefly about what was and what would never be.

“Papa,” Stella said, pointing at the TV screen, “you were like Jose Trevino once, weren’t you? Did you play the position like he plays it?”

Trevino was the New York catcher, and on this day, he was on the receiving end of Gerrit Cole’s four-seam fastballs.

“Oh, goodness no,” he said with a chuckle. “Jose is great. He played college ball, summer league ball, worked his way up from the minors … I’m afraid your dear ol’ grandad was never great. Or even good. I was more of a doorstop than a catcher.”

Stella smiled.

“I wish I could’ve seen you play,” she said. “I bet you were a lot better than you let on. Just to be out there on the field had to be fun. I’ll tell you what … that would’ve been enough for me. Just to have had the chance.”

Grady thought back to the days when he could get up and down with little effort, although the strain on his knees was more evident as he got older.

Even the pain in his catching hand still flared up now and again.

Still, knowing he had an opportunity that Stella never would put things in perspective.

“I played,” he said, “but you know the one thing I could’ve never done? Coached. I wasn’t smart enough to fill out a lineup card … to figure out what players were best at their positions. I would’ve never known the right time to make a pitching change, whether to send or hold a runner … none of that stuff. I was too busy trying not to screw up that I didn’t observe what was going on around me.

“But you can do all those things. I’ve watched you scribble on your note pad and strategize like a boss. And you’ve been filling out scorebooks since you were a little girl. Shoot, I bet you know more about baseball than I ever did – or ever will.”

Stella paused before responding, watching Cole strike out Marcell Ozuna to retire the side and end the fifth inning.

“I do love the game,” Stella said. “There’s something about it that makes me happy, and I can’t even explain it. So many sports seem – I don’t know – complicated. But when I watch baseball, I see players work together on defense but then have to stand alone on offense. It’s like two games wrapped up in one game, and that’s really, really cool. And knowing you got to do that when you were my age makes me jealous.”

Stella put down her notebook and manipulated the joystick on her electric wheelchair, allowing her to navigate closer to her granddad. She then reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Do you really think I could be a good coach, Papa?” she asked.

Grady’s eyes welled up.

“Are you kidding me, sweetheart? You’ll be the best there ever was.”