The Hollow Bush

The Hollow Bush

On top of Dead Man’s Hill, there stands a hollow bush. Boxwood by nature, shielding by trade, the hollow bush protected me when I was younger and lacked sound judgment.

The neighborhood that I grew up in was beautiful and lively. Nestled in a two block suburban-like layout, our neighborhood, a product of the war boom, had matured into a forest of houses, trees, shrubs, and kids. With the oldest of us being fifteen and the youngest being ten, we terrorized the neighbors secretly for several years. I admit these crimes now that the statute of limitations has run out, and I have a son and daughter to raise properly.

Holidays were important to my group of neighborhood terrorists as well as idle time. Seldom did a Halloween or July 4^th pass without some attack on the neighborhood mailboxes. Now that I’m older, I know the frustration the neighbors must have felt when they would be forced to replace a mailbox after an M-80 whamming campaign. It was the cowards’ crime really. Simply light the fuse and run like hell. Dive behind some bushes and listen for the boom. The next day we’d slyly saunter past the carnage and cop a quick peek at the devastation. Life in the neighborhood terrorist brigade was a trip. All of that would change in time.

Dead Man’s Hill, located at Countryside Golf Course’s main entrance on Cove Road, actually came by its name legitimately. Late one night, one of the teenaged girls who lived in the neighborhood was coming home from work in her baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. As her car crested that blind hill, she was met head-on by a speeding Lincoln town car driven by a drunk man in the wrong lane. She didn’t stand a chance and died instantly. I went over to the wreck site a few days later and all I saw were the awful skid marks and stray pieces of blue metal and plastic.

One of our favorite crimes involved produce. Depending on the season, we would gather surplus vegetables from neighbors’ gardens and chuck the fruit around. Everybody, it seemed, had their special private source of tomatoes and other vegetables. The Grosso garden was the best, because Mr. G. grew so many tomatoes and other stuff that a small sack full would never be missed. I preferred to get my stash from my father’s garden. I was selective and sneaky, or so I thought. I particularly received pleasure watching zucchini smack against a tree and splinter into bits. The hollow sound it made when it struck before exploding in a shower of dark green, lime guts, and seeds was extraordinary. Apples were fun, too, although my brother rather enjoyed the sport of “pegging the youngsters.” Whenever I was around my brother and apples, I was always prepared to run for my life. It was only natural, I suppose, that our vegetable annihilation game would evolve into a frightening crime sport.

Loaded with a sack full of bombs, we would troop over to the top of Dead Man’s Hill under the protective cloak of darkness. Less than ten yards from where our neighbor died, we set up our prankster shop behind a row of boxwoods that lined the drive to the old stone house on the hilltop. This position afforded us all that was needed for a successful road attack; clear visibility of the road in both directions, cover, and a field full of fleeing space behind us for our inevitable escape. We always posted a lookout. As a car would approach the crest of the hill, the lookout would signal us by whispering, “Hey, it’s coming!” The boxwood raiders would then cock fruit in the hand and fling those grenades at the onrushing automobile. A good toss was anything that could be verified as a hit on the car. A great toss was a confirmed windshield strike. The thrill of this criminal sport came in that fraction of a second after a confirmed strike when we would hold our breath watching for a brake light and listening for a honk. We were always prepared to flee because deep down, all of us were good kids, and there would be hell to pay if we were caught. We couldn’t bear to accept that possibility.

One evening during tomato season, we went up to Dead Man’s Hill with a sack full of the juicy red fruit. We were quite experienced by then. We rarely missed our targets. I particularly enjoyed the sound of the splashing tomato across a windshield, and I was an especially fine marksman. This particular night, our spotter called up, “Hey, it’s coming!” When the car entered our bulls-eye zone, we let loose an excellent volley of half rotted tomatoes. They struck the Volkswagen all over with a fury. Predictably, the brake lights went on and the bug slammed to a stop.

We had seen people stop before and back up, but they had never found anything but the chilly night air because we had always fled the scene. But this guy had stopped very quickly. He was out of his car before any of us could move. I saw him walk around his car checking it over. Everyone held their breath. Something told me, however, to seek better shelter. After all, we were in plain view of the guy in the half moonlight. I slithered over to a nearby bush. To my surprise, I discovered that I could crawl right inside this hollow bush. So I curled up inside snugly and felt like I now had a shield of protection.

The man continued pacing around his plastered car. I could hear him shouting and swearing as I huddled in a fetal ball inside my bush. Through the branches, I could just make out his dim outline. I saw him reach down into his car for something. He held it above his head and an explosion sounded; a gunshot, live ammo! Sparkling loud, close, and all too clear! I knew at that moment that we were as good as dead. I mean, even if we weren’t gunned down in cold blood, the noise from the weapon fire was sure to draw a most suspicious crowd. I huddled on in my new found hollow bush. An eternity seemed to pass. “Come on out here you damned kids! Come on!” Finally the man, still muttering and shouting into the night, piled into his tiny car and raced off, blaring his horn. After all was clear, we went back to our back yard tent and shared our thrilling tales. Then we decided it would be best to lay low for a few weeks.

I really didn’t want to go back out there ever again, but soon I found myself back out. Simply put, I had to go or I’d be seen as a wimp. So when the word went out that we’d be sleeping out again, I gathered my tomatoes.

The night was dark. A misty drizzle filled the air. It was time to get back in to the game. Dead Man’s Hill looked to me as if it owned that name. Our spotter was deployed and the rest of us huddled behind the boxwood hedge. Even though we were timid at first, this being the first time out since the small arms fire, we adjusted and fell in to a groove. Warning… Bombs away… Wait… Warning… Bombs away… Wait…

When we received the final warning, it didn’t register with us that his message was subtly different. I remember hearing the spotter’s voice calling out as headlights approached us from below. Dark nights and misty rain offer the best throwing conditions in many ways. The headlight beams somehow appear thicker, thereby making the car that follows an easier moving target. As it approached the crest of the hill, I carefully cocked and then at the right moment let fly with my best windshield blaster.

Everything that followed happened all at once, and I can recall every detail of it. It registered in my brain as I released the splatter that the spotter hadn’t used the usual words. He’d said, “It’s a…” and then his voice trailed off. I was already into my wind-up and didn’t have time to stop. With my aim true and my target at the top of the hill, the results were predictable, but not completely. The car screeched to a stop and FLASHING RED LIGHTS filled the sky, COP!! I caught a quick glance at the panicked faces of my comrades as they turned and ran like the wind across the field. The rule of the flee was that we’d all scatter in different directions and use basic evasion techniques before eventually making a rendezvous at the tent in my back yard.

I was in trouble right from the start, however. I was close to the road, and, therefore, close to danger. As I turned to flee, I stumbled and fell on my face. The police car had just come to a stop and was now backing up fast, tires squealing. As I looked up, I saw the misty outline of my sanctuary, the hollow bush. I scrambled on all fours and slipped inside just as the policeman began scanning the area with his powerful car searchlight. Finding nothing, he got out of his car and began walking toward the boxwood drive. I waited with anxious apprehension as he flashed the bushes with his penetrating flashlight beam, gradually coming closer to my hiding spot. He actually brushed the leaves of my hollow bush as he slowly passed by. Then, just when I thought I would escape his search, he turned back and shined his light right through my hide-out. Petrified, I lay there, dressed in black and curled in a ball. I was invisible.

After an eternity, the policeman returned to his car and slowly drove off. I was too frozen with fear to move. I still hardly dared to breathe. A few minutes later, he buzzed back by with his searchlight on; I remained perfectly still with only my eyes tracking the car. He drove by several more times over the next half hour or so, but I was becoming confident that he would not spot me. I was in no hurry to be anywhere else though. The hollow bush had saved my life. If I had been caught, my life would have been ruined. Who knows what would have happened to me. That policeman and that man with the gun from the time before saved my life, too. Curled up in that bush, I reflected a lot about my life and the choices I was making. I vowed to change my ways and never do anything like that again.

Seemingly several years later at the rendezvous, all of us had finally straggled in to the back yard tent, each of us with our own tale of excitement. The spotter was the last one to make it back. He was the only casualty. When he had whispered, “It’s a COP!” he dived straight down in to what he thought was English Ivy. The next day he discovered that the ivy was the poison variety instead. We talked and swore all night in that tent in my back yard. We decided it would be best to lay low for a few weeks.