Peter walked through the park. Past the concrete lake with its green scum, discarded tires and half-sunk shopping carts. Tennis courts with slashed nets and rutted surfaces. Basketball hoops with frayed tassels blowing in the breeze. All demarcations of boundaries worn away. Everywhere Peter looked, his world had seen better days. It was a bad time to be young. So, get it over with, he thought. His anger, a symptom, he thought, of his rebellion against the oblivion of age, subsided. All that was left was to make peace with the idea of wasting away. He set his course for the rendez-vous spot.

From the street, the sagging and rusted chain-link fence seemed to girdle a jungle of overgrown hedges and weeds. Peter peeled back a length of fence from its twisted post and squeezed through the hedge into the inner clearing. The ghost lot, as they called it, was a sanctuary of sorts, where boys could be invisible from the streets and imagine a time when there were fields to run through and trees to climb. The Peter squatted on the exposed concrete foundation of a house that had burned decades ago. For Peter and his friends it had been a castle they’d defended against Vikings, a Spanish galleon boarded by pirates. Charred beams stuck out of the ash, silt and rubbish that had filled in the basement. Beer cans and bottles were everywhere. Peter spit into the crater.

The fence rattled and the hedge snapped. Peter sprung up, expecting to see Sully hoisting a pair of sixes. Instead he saw Rob Delaney, the first of four bodies to squeeze through. The Bartell brothers followed, then Mingo, slapping his palm with the aluminum club.

“Look,” Delaney grunted. “It’s Eisenhower.”

“Imagine that,” Mingo laughed. “What brings you out here, Professor?”

“Everybody’s got to be somewhere sometime,” Peter mumbled.

“Is that another theory?”

Peter considered his options. Make peace, escape, or fight.

“Dude likes to talk,” Delaney scoffed.

They were blocking the only escape route. So, make peace or fight. They started to separate, surrounding him. Obviously they came to fight, but why? Could he talk them out of it? Mingo took center. Delaney puffed his chest.

“I heard what you been sayin’,” Delaney wheezed.

“Me?”

“You think you can take me?”

“I never said that,” Peter said, trying not to show any nervousness.

Mingo grinned. Proud, it seemed, that he’d gotten into Delaney’s head, that he’d get his entertainment dollar for the evening.

“Yeah, now you say that,” Delaney grunted.

“I think your argument is with whoever told you that, whoever’s trying to play you,” Peter said. He eyed Mingo intently. Could he turn this around? Could he get Delaney to cool his jets and get this to go one on one with Mingo? He could whip that little rat. But would the others just stand by and let him? Other options? Peter looked into the crater. The discarded bottles could be formidable weapons, but if he cut one of the brutes, what would the other three do? If he took that tact he’d have to kill them all, or be killed. Did he want to risk that escalation, or just placidly take a beating?

“If someone’s gettin’ off on manipulating you,” Peter continued, “if he’s gettin’ his jollies watchin’ you get all pissed off…that’s the guy you got a problem with.”

Mingo squinted, he turned to the other goons.

“Why you lettin’ him talk?” Joey Bartell barked. “You come here to hit him, just hit him!” Joey swung a left hook into Peter’s gut, blowing his chest and dropping Peter to a knee. Peter covered his head expecting the fists to fly at him. Instead he heard two bottles pop and a wickedly high shriek, “ Get away from him! Get the fuck away, assholes!”

Between the torsos of his attackers, Peter saw Frank Slattery, a shattered bottle clutched in each fist, approaching in slow measured strides. He jabbed the shards forward at eye level. “Get the fuck outta here!”

“Crazy fuckin’ junkie!” Delaney snorted. He rounded the concrete foundation and backed towards the gap in the fence. The others followed him until all four backed out. Peter rolled from his knee onto his back, still trying to force air back into his lungs.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Slats.”

“I’s ready to go VC on their ass.”

“Thanks.”

It was another half hour before Tom arrived. Shane Murphy was with him. “Fuckin’ punks,” Murphy spat. “They need to get their asses kicked.”

“Where was Mick?” Sully wanted to know.

“Didn’t come,” Peter muttered. “We had a fight. He pissed me off.” Peter took a hard swallow. The beer cooled him down.

“He went runnin’ to them,” Tom said. “Soon’s you left, he went fuckin’ runnin’ to Jewett to tell ‘em where you’d be.”

“He needs to get his ass kicked,” Shane said.

Peter drank. “Leave him out.” Peter dug into the bag for another can. “I fucked up with him.”

“What about the others?” Shane asked. “You can take Joey Bartell. I’ll fuck his brother up good. And Delaney? Glass jaw. Anything towards the face the guy goes all little girl, turns away and POW!”

“Still three on four,” Tom sighed.

“There’s guys,” Shane persisted. “Think you can’t find guys wanna kick their ass? Just take a walk on Fairview, Marion, there’s guys.”

“Forget it,” Peter said. “I’m not walkin’ through town beggin’ for help. Stays here, man. Let’s just have the beer. Fuckin’ forget it.”

Slats patted Peter on the back. Peter finished his second can and crushed it under his foot.

“Can’t go back to Highland, then,” Tom said.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know,” Shane snapped. “You’re thinkin’ you ain’t got no choice, but you got the choice. We’re givin’ you the choice. You think ‘cause they jumped you that’s the way it is, you’re the one that gets jumped. An’ so you can’t be on the street ‘cause of them? Fuck them! I’m tellin’ you you got a choice. You hit one of them and you see him go down an’ you’ll know I’m right. You just gotta do it.”

“You rather just drink?” Tom asked, tipping his head towards Slats. The man child was slumped against the hedge, cradling a can of Michelob. His eyes were glazed. His clothes looked empty. What had made him that way? Was it the beer or the heroin, or was it simply the decision not to rise up? Peter stood up and pulled the remaining six pack from the brown bag. He pulled loose three cans and gave one each to Tom and Shane. He kept one for himself and walked over to Slats and dropped the other three gently into Slats’ lap.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” Slats curled his fingers beckoning Peter closer.“You don’t gotta do it, man. You’re outta it. You don’t hafta go back in.”

“Thanks,” Peter said again. He turned and left the ghost lot with Sully and Shane howling like coyotes.

***