The Pond
Summer in Virginia is what my mother would call “stinkin’ hot.” High praise coming from a Texan that loves nothing more than sweltering heat. Virginia brings additional layers to the oppression: suffocating humidity, gnats, and mosquitoes the size of pterodactyls. Vacations were spent escaping bugs and heat. No one who owned a pool associated with folks from our side of town. We didn’t have a way to get there if they did.
My best friend Chris and I shared a love for all things Iron Maiden and annoying the hell out of his sister. He had air conditioning, heat, and cable television in his house making his place the preferred place for hanging out. On rare occasions, we would do stuff at my house. We took off to the woods whenever the heat became insufferable. Our goal was to reach the pond far back into the woods in front of my house. The danger was passing through the initial opening of the trail that started just as we crossed the street.
We lived in the woods and at the pond for the better part of ages ten to thirteen years old. While the neighborhood had a lot of kids our age, there were also a lot of angry teens in the 16-18 age range. This was a recipe for an ass-beating. We were always certain that the older boys were going to kill us or that we would be kidnapped just for being on their turf. The leader of this group was a 16-year-old named Kevin. He lived in the house next door to mine.
We feared Kevin and were convinced that he was the shittiest person on the planet. He wore Army fatigues. His haircut was the unfortunate style known as the Mullet; we called it the Kentucky waterfall. I’m not trying to shame the guy for having acne, but it looked like someone set his face on fire and stomped it out with golf cleats. He kept a loose stash of beer, cigarettes, and an odd variety of his father’s magazines at the entrance to the trail camouflaged by a row of bushes. All within eyeshot of the dead-end street right where Jesus could see them. Chris and I had never been within 10 feet of Kevin without a beating. Kevin was the “he who shall not be named” level of evil.
One step off the road into the trail initiated paralyzing anxiety. We knew the perils that lie ahead. Stinkweed, honeysuckle, and rotting earth assaulted our smell. Balance was thrown off by decaying leaves and soggy Virginia red clay earth. We stood at the top of a tiny hill that marked the beginning of the trail, shaking at the thought of passing the next 50 feet. A quick visual scan assured us that there was no one there to hurt us. Chris takes the first step, the ground giving way busting his ass backward into the slop. The tension subsides as we laugh to tears. I gather enough nerve to proceed and perform a videotape replay of Chris’s performance. Our laughter ceases as we turn to notice Kevin’s stash. He wasn’t there but had been there recently.
We walked in a single file along the path to the left. Low hunter-green bushes framed our track. The canopy overhead shielded us from the blazing radiance of the sun reducing the agony of the mid-day July heat. Our footing improved to the level of a wet sponge as we trekked our course. We progressed further to the final section of the path, overgrown with kudzu and bushes armed with surgical needle thorns. We pushed through the gauntlet of nature hell bleeding from every limb, arriving at the pond. The treetops opened allowing rays of sunshine, focusing attention on our Shangri-La, the pond.
The pond wasn’t always a pond. In its normal occupation, the pond was a slow-flowing creek with a beginning somewhere near Chris’s house filled with crawdads and tadpoles. It flowed through a grate and on to the James River. Every year or so, teenagers from God knows where would tie a rope to a piece of plywood, damming the creek. Evidence that we were not the only people who have sought respite from the oppressive heat. Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, burned-out campfires, and cigarette butts littered the shallow banks of the pond. It didn’t matter. We were thankful they supported our love of the pond.
It never failed. At some point, some evil jackass would pull the plywood, draining the pond to its natural state as a creek. The death of both plants and animals hung in the air. Shoes were lost in the grotesque pudding that was once the bottom of the pond. We were livid at the thought of anyone who would fail to recognize its wondrous beauty.
We enjoyed the Pond when there was one to be enjoyed.
We spent less time at the pond as we grew older. We went two years where we did not go into the woods and longer since we had gone to the pond. My time was spent seeking out opportunities to make poor life decisions. We were 15 when we made our last trip to the pond. We were bored from watching too many movies that we weren’t supposed to watch and growing stir-crazy from being inside Chris’s house for too long. Rarely did we start our walk to the pond from Chris’s house. I have no idea why. It was an easier path to walk. There was nothing scary from his direction.
We set off down his steep backyard towards the creek. From this direction, it was shallow enough to walk in the creek itself. There were branches, old appliances, and tires strewn across its width.
We crossed over a fallen birch with rotted plywood laying across it.
The gentle gurgle of flowing water changed pitch.
A black cast iron pipe terminated at the floor of the creek
An intentional hole was cut into the side of the pipe.
Soggy white and brown tinged paper hung loosely out of the hole
“What was that?” I said.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,” I mumbled.
I had a panic attack. The breath was knocked out of me. We jump the tree, walking on water all the way back to Chris’s house.
I lost a lot of innocence that day. Hope in nature and humanity was lost. We never spoke to anyone about the creek or pond again. Life was painful enough without alerting the world that we liked to swim in a pond full of sewage.
Joseph Towles is a writer based out of Chula Vista, California. He found writing while in recovery from multiple brain injuries, PTSD, strokes, and seizures. Writing saved his life. When not writing, he enjoys snowboarding, playing drums, and spending time with his family.