Marshall was 17, tall and lean with baggy pants and a mane of greasy hair, lazy and graceful as a stoned cheetah. He pushed through a cornfield with a skateboard under his arm, his Vans ripped from scraping griptape. The town was blue collar. Little ranch houses and old pickups dotted the landscape.
He crossed a freshly paved road and rolled up to a high-end, gated luxury community. All turrets and ivy-covered stonework. Every time he arrived, it felt like breaching a force field of impenetrable wealth. Surveillance cameras tracked him as he skated into the car lane of a security booth.
The armed guard slid open his window. Marshall performed ease, acting like he belonged. “Hey buddy, how’s a dentist like a security guard?”
“How?”
“Both love a good cavity search.”
The guard laughed. Marshall grinned. “So… who in here most deserves to be burgled?”
“It’s my job to protect them all. Even the jerks.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll split the haul 50/50.”
“You here to see someone?”
“Okay, 60/40, but that’s my final offer.”
“Can’t do it.”
“Fine, it’s hard to split a Corvette anyway. Guess I’ll just visit Sachi Patel then.”
The guard called the number on file. No answer.
“Sorry, Mr. Patel isn’t picking up.”
“Ah come on man, you know me.”
A Mercedes pulled up behind him. The guard motioned Marshall to the side. “Sorry, you’ll have to move out of line.”
“Was it all the burglary jokes?”
Marshall walked along the eight-foot stone perimeter wall, texting his friend.
Sachi played Fortnite on a 96 inch TV in the recessed lounge of his massive bedroom. All his furniture was color-coordinated in shades of leafy green. Academic trophies sparkled from shelves. A new macbook sat on his desk next to stacks of A.P. textbooks.
He was 16, big and broad-shouldered with a kind face, and sleepy, perceptive eyes. His movements were unhurried, his calm hypnotic.
Onscreen, his character danced while a battle raged around him. An annoyed voice over Sachi’s headset screeched, “My guy-- knock it off! We’re about to lose!”
“We’ll win eventually. After all, we’ll be playing for a… fortnite.”
“No! NO! I said stop!”
“Con-sole yourself.”
“STOP! NO MORE DAD JOKES YOU ABSOLUTE DILDO!”
“Enough screen time for you, son.”
A text lit up his phone.
MOM: Are you playing that game again?
He dictated his response--
SACHI: No Mamma, studying.
Another text came through.
Marshall: I’m here. Security called but you didn’t answer 💩
SACHI: Sorry, playing with Billy B
Marshall: I think he’s ovulating so be sure to pull out
Sachi smirked.
SACHI: Meet me at the usual spot. Just use your hole 🍑
Marshall waited for a car to pass, then squeezed beneath a familiar dirt hole he’d tunneled under the brick wall.
Soil covered his shirt when he emerged. An enormous, forested property stretched before him. A mansion loomed in the distance. Marshall crouched, stepping softly. Every yard had those ‘Private Security-- Armed Response' signs, though the homes themselves were full of guns and people eager to use them. He crept through the woods along a creek. Out front he hopped an iron fence and jumped on his board, wheels clacking over sidewalk cracks as he sped away.
Sachi threw a sack of premium sativa, rolling papers, and a lighter into his Nike backpack. His pantry was organized like a Kroger, the shelves full of name brands all backstocked and front-facing. Sachi grabbed powdered donuts, graham crackers, Miss Vickie's Vinegar Chips and cheddar popcorn. Outside, his sleek modernist home locked itself as he skated away.
He took a path splitting two holes of a private golf course and disappeared down a park trail.
Deep in the woods, weed smoke rose from an abandoned train car. The boys passed a joint and tore into Sachi’s snack horde.
“They worked their asses off to get here, and their reward: more work. What’s the point?” Sachi asked.
“Right. They should be smoking weed instead.”
“Maybe. It wouldn’t hurt them to relax a little.”
“Weed is turning us into geniuses.” “Speak for yourself bro, I gamified studying. I’ve got scholarships and a Staford acceptance. I’m ranked two in a class of 440, beee-otch.”
Marshall nodded. “Weed’s turning us into humble geniuses. We’re the most humble people alive.”
“I’m just saying, my parents are so wrapped up in hustle culture, they don’t feel successful without a hemorrhoid. Their dream is our whole family, side by side, taking a big stress crap together.”
“And your dream is being as useless as possible?”
Sachi laughed. “Kind of, yeah. That’s the American teenage experience right?”
“If not then movies are liars.” Marshall hopped down and began trying to hit a rusted railroad sign with rocks. “The grass is always greener, my friend.”
“Seriously? Your Mom lets you do whatever.”
“Only because she’s always exhausted or working. Plus, we all know my brother’s gonna end up in jail, so that sucks.”
Sachi joined in on the rock game. “When’s the last time you saw your Dad?”
“A couple years. The bum probably drank himself to death by now… Hey, 5 bucks says I hit the sign on the next throw.”
“Let’s see it, brother.”
“Kobe!” Marshall finally bulls-eyed the railroad sign.
“Damn man, you hustling me?”
“Me? Never…” Marshall collected the five. “You good to skate?”
* * *
The boys soared downhill in the middle of the street, going way too fast. Wind blew their hair back. Their wheels roared across the pavement as they whipped past stately manor homes at 30 miles per hour. Marshall glided with confidence and Sachi wobbled unsteadily, both exhilarated, smelling chimney smoke in the fall air and feeling alive.
Down the road, headlights cut through the dusk. A Cybertruck sped towards them going 50 in a 20. The oval of light overtook the boys as they carved to the shoulder. The truck split the center of the two lanes, skinning past them, horn blaring. Marshall flipped the driver the bird and the truck lurched towards them.
Sachi startled, his board tangled in his legs and he smashed into the concrete. Marshall ground to a halt to check on his friend and mooned the truck. It slammed on the breaks.
“I’m good bro, it’s cool.” Sachi got to his feet, his hand skin shredded and bleeding. A broken arm poked beneath his skin. That’s the risk of playing chicken with physics, he thought.
“Shit dude!” Animal panic surged up in Marshall. He roared and hurled his board toward the truck, his voice going high with outrage. “Hey screw you, psycho!”
The cybertruck’s door flew open and a thick-necked cannonball of a man emerged with his chest puffed out of his bowling shirt. Karl Howards was a veteran-turned-suburbanite, now bedazzled with a fancy watch and a gold pinky ring. He watched what he saw as two baby gangbangers flexing in his direction. For decades he’d worked and sacrificed to get away from lowlifes like this. Karl advanced on the boys with threat in his eyes.
Patting his butt, Marshall came forward, “What you didn’t get a close enough look, pedo?”
Karl projected across the distance, “You just assaulted my car!”
“Assaulted it?”
“That’s right.”
“You have issues, homeboy-- you just deliberately ran over a kid!”
A dangerous electricity filled the air. Sachi cradled his arm, tugging on Marshall’s shirt. “Let’s just go.”
Karl got closer. “B.S. I didn’t hit anyone. You two intentionally rode toward my truck.”
Marshall laughed, humorless. “Miss us with that noise--”
“People die that way. I could’ve crashed.”
“You drive like there’s bees in your car, pedo.”
“Stop calling me pedo, pothead.”
Marshall stepped forward, worked up. “This is nuts, I’m calling the cops! Look at my friend, you broke his arm, you shit!”
Karl got into Marshall’s face. “Go ahead and call them. Who’re the police gonna believe? You both reek of pot and you’re trespassing in a private neighborhood.”
“First of all, back up. Second, I’m his guest.” Marshall motioned to Sachi, who tried to will himself invisible.
Karl laughed, “Yeah right.”
“Dude, he lives right there.” Sachi’s house was 200 feet away.
“I seriously doubt that.”
“Oh yeah, and why’s that?”
“If what you say is true, you’re about to get your little friend and his parents kicked out of this neighborhood."
Sachi pulled Marshall away, waiving at Karl, “Hey let’s not… get my parents involved. They’re kind of up tight.”
“Don’t listen to him, man. Cyberdick’s just salty that he’s going to jail for assault with a deadly weapon.” Marshall took phone photos of Karl and the truck’s license plate.
A wave of fear swept over Karl and he circled into the boy’s path. “Hold up. What are your names? We’re not done here.”
“Yeah. I think we are,” Sachi said.
“And I think you’re trailer trash from across Main, coming into my community to entrap motorists. I have a right to protect myself and my property. This is a stand your ground state.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah go get a lawyer.” Marshall tried to pass but Karl put a hand on his chest. “Get your hands off me, pedo.”
Karl nudged Marshall a step back. “Listen you--”
Marshall shoved him, hard.
“Okay, you’re both super tough and cool, but--” Sachi tried to get between them but bumped his arm and winced in pain.
The combatants grabbed each other's shirts, tusseling, growling threats through gritted teeth, both afraid to take it further.
In RPGs Sachi always leveled up charisma to avoid corny machismo arguments like this. “Will you clowns knock it off?”
Marshall drove Karl into a mailbox and Karl got him in a headlock, whipping him around. Sachi’s bag of weed flew out of Marshall’s jacket pocket.
“You’re screwed, buddy. You’re the one who’s going to jail.” Karl snatched up the bag, smug.
Marshall panicked and punched Karl in the nose.
Sachi’s jaw dropped, “Marshall, no!”
Ducking a counter, Marshall grabbed for the weed as the punch thudded off his head. Fists flew. Two pairs of shoes made funny pick-up basketball squeaks. The pavement was hard, and both heads as brittle as eggs. Each swung wildly, wet smacks impacted on arms and guts and faces.
“Stop! Guys stop!” Sachi shrieked, hysteria rising.
They brawled in the direction of the truck, knuckles scraped, shirts torn, knots forming on foreheads. Marshall moved faster, with better technique. He landed cleaner and more often. But Karl stood his ground through size and sheer bulk. His blows landed with crushing force.
The smell of blood and pheromones spiked each fighter's adrenaline and norepinephrine. Survival instinct kicked in. Each threw with bad intentions. Marshall slipped and ripped the knee of his jeans, recovered, ducked a haymaker, then smashed Karl with a left hook. Karl stumbled and pushed off the ground, burying pebbles in the heel of his palm. Scrapes bled beneath two sets of clothes. Marshall nearly got the weed, but Karl wrapped him in a bear hug and slammed him to the ground. Two hundred and twenty pounds landed on the teen with a crack. Sachi felt it like a shockwave.
Neighbors ran into their yards, shouting, phoning police, filming on cell phones. They watched the violence unfold in front of their custom built homes and topiary bushes and strict HOA facade regulations and driveways full of luxury cars, too scared and stunned to intervene.
Karl sat on Marshall and hammered him from above. Neither could hear the screams of bystanders through their tunnel vision. Marshall shielded his head but the blows came through. His skull bounced off the cement. His ears purpled. Blood poured from his swelling face.
“It’s over! Stop! GET OFF HIM!” Sachi caught sight of his bloody mess of a friend and terror overtook him. With his good arm he swung his board and clubbed Karl in the temple. The side of Karl’s head sprayed blood. He toppled, his gash leaking.
Sachi reached for Marshall’s hand but Marshall sprang onto Karl’s back and hooked an arm around his neck. With his free hand he pummeled Karl’s front teeth loose as Karl dragged them both towards the truck.
Cries for reason went unheard. Karl scrambled into the passenger seat with Marshall still on top of him, punching and clawing for the weed. The two bodies disappeared inside the vehicle.
Inside the cab, two gunshots flashed. Sachi watched from the street, numb, floating above his own body like a balloon, lingering in the moment before he knew how his life had changed.
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