Road Block

By Ricky Fitzpatrick

When I was nine, I nearly died. 

There. I said it. And I know what you’re thinking…”that’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?” But let me assure you, I am not exaggerating. It’s only by the grace of God and the quick thinking of my mother that I’m even around to share this with you.

Here…judge for yourself.

It was Summertime, 1978. We lived on Jett Roberts Road, a semi-rural stretch of blacktop, just outside of Jefferson, proper. 

If you drive down Jett Roberts today, you can’t get a true vision of what it once was. These days, there are subdivisions, million dollar homes, industrial complexes…there’s even a convenience store being built on the corner where it comes out on 129.  My dad told me there was granite under that ground that was bigger than Stone Mountain, and judging from the look of the building site at the moment, I’d say they were finding that out the hard way.

Anyway, back then, the blacktop was a Tar & Chip (aka a “chip sealed”) road. Chip Sealing is a paving method commonly used for rural or less-traveled side roads where liquid asphalt is sprayed down and a layer of coarse stone chips is pressed into it. Basically, it’s a rough-ass road, but it beats gravel or dirt.

It was fine for us because for the first mile or so, there were only seven houses, and then after that, just occasional farms and home places. I can remember riding my Big Wheel down the road and just about jarring my teeth out. I also learned that the vibration of riding those hard plastic tires on the rough surface of that chip seal would build up gas in my system, and I’d enjoy the pleasure of what I called “the riding farts” whenever I went for a spin.

Our neighborhood was filled with kids, and none of us was ever without someone to play with, explore the woods, ride bikes, or climb rocks or trees. We enjoyed one another and we made the most of our domain, without reservation or adult interference. 

My usual partner in crime was Julie who lived two houses down and across the road. Her folks kept bees and showed me how to witch for water with a forked peach branch. Julie took piano lessons and I’d watch her practice “You Light Up My Life” over and over again, til I felt like throwing up.

But this day, for whatever reason, Julie was out of pocket. So the next best thing was Philip. That’s Philip, with one “L”. 

Philip was older than me by three years, which meant he could skateboard, he had a Playboy, and he should’ve known better than to join me in our lapse in judgement for the day. But he didn’t.

Philip’s mom had a thick British accent, which was very cool. She also seemed to have no qualms when it came to language, so she (and he) would routinely pop off a “damn” or “shit”, and not give it a second thought. This mesmerized me, as my parents would have thoroughly beaten me unconscious if I had even thought about cussing around either of them.

Well, Philip came over that afternoon. And I wouldn’t say we were bored, exactly, but we were bored enough. This was pre-Atari, mind you, and pre-Internet, so we usually wound up outside the house, playing ball or riding bikes somewhere. But today, we found ourselves in the ditch that ran beside the road, in front of my house.

The ditch was not much to see. Just a shallow drop-off that dipped about ten feet from the road, past the right-of-way weeds, and rose back up at the edge of the woods, which lay another 10-15 feet away. The in-between, which was the formal ditch itself, was a wasteland of reddish dirt that would wash down in rains, depositing sandy remains, along with whatever trash the local passers-by would donate to our quiet little roadway. There was a “Stop Ahead” sign near our driveway that was an attractive target for cans, bottles or other random items, so there was a lot of it.

It may be called vandalism today, but back then, it was quite an accomplishment to hone your trash grenade lobbing skills to a deadly focus. Large signs were best…big square or diamond shapes. You’d roll down your driver’s side window, maintain a normal speed, then lob your projectile up and over the roof of your vehicle, trying to nail said sign. It was incredibly challenging, delicately timing a graceful throw and release, with your speed and distance to the sign, so that everything is dead-on.

Few things are more thrilling than the clanging of a metal highway sign, hit by an empty beer bottle, moving 60 miles an hour. And to be able to do it, on command…it was like being The Fonz. 

So the somewhat seclusion of Jett Roberts Road and the availability of a large road banger, made us prime real estate for sign targeting.  And while this would seem like a bad thing, for what Philip and I had in mind on this day…it was freaking perfect.

—-

I can’t exactly say how we got engaged in this, but suffice it to say, somehow, we married the idea of digging foxholes in the ditch, and stringing a bunch of trash across the road. What could possibly seem strange about that?

We eventually landed on placing empty beer bottles and Coke (that means “any drink”, here in the South) cans in a line across Jett Roberts. That, in all its glory, would become a sort of red neck road block. 

We would then dig a pair of foxholes in the ditch, and when cars would either stop or run over our garbage boundary, we would hide and laugh at their frustration.

The plan was brilliant in its simplicity, and it would seem at the time, something only born from superior intellect. It was of course fool proof, and regardless, Philip and I would have the last, long laugh. We would also be heroes as soon as word got back to our friends, especially once school started back up. 

Of course, being nine, I didn’t think far enough ahead to consider things like the cost of a tire (or tires), cut by a broken bottle. I lay that blame entirely on Philip though, because as mentioned earlier, he was old enough to know better. I was only old enough to know that he was old enough to know better.

Digging a foxhole, in case you weren’t aware, is considerably more difficult than it appears in the movies. Nevertheless, we attacked it with the determination of men constructing a defensive position against an advancing enemy.

I don’t recall what tools we used. Probably whatever we could find in my dad’s shed. We weren’t particularly well equipped, but we compensated with enthusiasm and an almost complete disregard for physical discomfort.

Philip, naturally, proved the superior engineer. His foxhole was narrow, deep, and remarkably tidy. It looked like something designed for a specific purpose, which, technically, it was.

Mine was another matter.

I had begun with the intention of constructing something similar, but somewhere along the way, my excavation had developed a personality of its own. It was wide where it should have been narrow, shallow where it should have been deep, and generally resembled the sort of hole a large, confused dog might dig while searching for a bone.

I was secretly jealous of Philip’s craftsmanship.

His looked military.

Mine looked…painful.

Nevertheless, I was satisfied that it would serve its intended purpose.

As the hours of the day quickly ticked away, Philip and I debated on waiting until tomorrow to start, but youth and patience rarely run together. So we gathered our ammunition right away. We arranged our reclaimed bottles and cans strategically across the road in a line that was neither particularly straight nor especially impressive, but which seemed to us, a formidable obstacle.

Once the trap was laid, Philip surveyed the scene with the satisfaction of a man who had just completed the Hoover Dam.

“That ought to do it,” he said.

I agreed, and we retreated to our positions and waited.

—-

Eventually, turning in off the main road, came the unmistakable sound of an approaching engine.

Our first customer.

“Here comes one!” I cried out, like a rallying cry to the troops…if we had had troops to rally, that is.

We had rehearsed this moment, at least in theory, and we knew exactly what to do. We would remain calm, move swiftly to our respective positions, then disappear like ninjas, without attracting the slightest attention.

Philip reached his foxhole first.

He jumped, arms extended above his head, and dropped feetfirst into the narrow opening like a man diving into a manhole.

There was a whoosh of dirty blue jeans and ASICS Tigers, and then…he vanished.

It was beautiful. I remember being impressed, even as I prepared to execute my own descent.

My foxhole was just beyond his, requiring me to jump over him before making my entry. I planted one foot deftly on the ground, gathered myself, and sprang toward the opening with all the agility of a jungle cat.

As my lean body cut through the humid air, my feet found their target and slid perfectly into the hole. My body followed, and as I descended, I reached out with both hands to steady myself against the upper edges.

It was a flawless execution. A textbook maneuver. Everything was going according to plan, except…

The glass.

There, protruding from the supple, upper edge of my otherwise magnificent bunker, was a rogue, random, single broken piece of green bottle glass.

It couldn’t have been sticking out more than a fraction of an inch. Hardly enough to notice. Certainly not enough to raise concern.

But it was enough.

My right hand came down against its edge, and the glass, without hesitation or effort, sliced right through the fatty portion of flesh beneath my little finger, curving around the side of my hand and into my palm and down across my lifeline.

For one brief instant, I didn’t understand what had happened.

Then I looked down and saw it.

Blood.

Not to mention, it hurt like a mutha!

I stared at my hand. The cut was deep, curved, and terrifying, and I was quite certain I had nearly severed my entire arm.

“Oh, my God!”

I grabbed my injured hand with the other.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” I kept saying it over and over. Jesus, how stupid I must’ve sounded.

I don’t know whether Philip heard me. He was somewhere beneath the surface of the earth, presumably awaiting the arrival of our unsuspecting motorist.

I didn’t stop to find out.

All thoughts of our magnificent strategery had vanished from my mind, and none of it mattered now. I was dying…or at least losing my hand. Possibly both.

Somehow, I scrambled out of the hole and like the wind, I ran. Down our driveway, blood dripping, still hyperventilating the phrase “Oh my God” as I went, and hoping to reach my mother before I passed dramatically into the light.

Behind me, Philip remained in his foxhole, abandoned to face the consequences of our criminal enterprise alone. I regret to say that I gave him absolutely no consideration whatsoever. Friendship is a wonderful thing, but a man has to establish priorities when death is imminent.

I burst into the house, bleeding and hollering, and obviously delirious from the pain. The slightest movement or touch was enough to send me over the edge in agony, so of course my mother immediately wanted to do something soothing…like “wash it out”. This struck me as a serious failure of maternal compassion.

She soon put a plastic bag filled with ice on the wound, then wrapped it in an old towel. And after an endless series of more cleaning, crying, and plenty of running in place, I was finally told to get in the car. We were going to see Dr. Griffeth.

And I knew right away, what that meant.

A shot.

I have to say, I wasn’t the roughest of kids, but I had survived my share of cuts, scrapes, bicycle wrecks, dodge balls to the face, and general pain and suffering. I could take it as well as any other guy. But a shot was where I had to draw the line.

They just terrified the hell out of me. And even though I was in danger of losing either my actual limb (or at least the use of it), I was hysterical at the thought of my Aunt Susie (Dr Griffeth’s nurse) sticking that God-forsaken needle in my butt.

But despite my pleadings, my mother herded me into our Datsun B210, wounded stump wrapped in a fluffy yellow cotton towel, and held high to keep it above my heart…just in case it decided to bleed out on me. I cried and moaned and longingly watched out the passenger window as Philip stood, dumbfounded and covered in smudges of red dirt, by the edge of the driveway, surely thinking this might be the last time he would ever see me alive.

—-

By the time we got back home, the day was nearly over. Afternoon had passed and evening was settling in on the houses up and down Jett Roberts Road. We turned in the driveway, and I could see the disheveled remnants of our hastily vacated foxholes. I was suddenly aware that there were no cans or bottles, crushing and crackling beneath our tires. Philip must’ve disposed of the evidence while we were away.

Then, I saw them.

The neighborhood kids.

Every last one of them, or so it seemed, had gathered to await my return.

They stood in a loose collection near the house, bicycles scattered across the yard, their faces filled with the sort of eager anticipation usually reserved for Christmas morning or the arrival of a fire truck. Apparently news traveled quickly along Jett Roberts Road…especially news involving blood.

I climbed out of the car, cradling my poor, bandaged hand like a wounded soldier returning from the front. And immediately, it began.

“Whoa!”

“Did they cut your hand off?”

“Did it hurt?”

“Can you move your fingers?”

“Did they give you a shot?”

I had never experienced anything quite like it. For the first time in my life, I was the undisputed center of neighborhood attention. And I must confess, it felt pretty good.

I held up my hand.

“Six stitches.”

There was a collective murmur of admiration. 

Six stitches. It was an impressive number.

I explained that Dr. Griffeth had been forced to sew my hand back together, a description that was technically accurate, if somewhat more exaggerated than the circumstances required.

I may have embellished certain portions of the experience, but I considered this a reasonable privilege of the injured.

After all, I had earned it.

Then I spotted Philip. He was standing among the others, looking considerably less concerned than I thought appropriate.

“Did they catch you?” I asked.

He grinned. “Nope.”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “The car stopped.”

“And…?”

“And the man got out.”

This was precisely the moment we had spent the entire afternoon imagining. The driver standing in the road…the suspicious bottles and cans…the search for the perpetrators.

And I had missed it.

“What’d he do?”

“Looked around.”

“Did he see you?”

“Nope.”

“Then what?”

Philip smiled. “I stayed down there till he left.”

I looked at him with a mixture of admiration and resentment.

He had done it.

He had remained concealed while an unsuspecting motorist investigated our handiwork. 

Our master plan had worked. The road block had succeeded.

—-

For the next several days, I enjoyed a degree of celebrity previously unknown to me.

Everybody wanted to see the stitches.

Everybody wanted to hear the story.

And I was only too happy to oblige.

I discovered that the tale improved considerably with repetition.

The piece of glass became larger.

The cut became deeper.

The blood flowed more freely.

My mother, who occasionally overheard these accounts, was not impressed.

“That’s enough,” she’d say.

But I knew better.

A good story deserves an audience. And for the moment, I had one…along with the scar to prove it.

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