Dangerboy

by Adam Pepper 

 

 

 

 

      He was tiny.  Johnny had that Napoleon complex—always had to prove he was a tough guy, and he always did.  He was seemingly indestructible.  Little Johnny got his nickname at age ten by demonstrating a lust for adrenaline and a natural ability to cheat death.  My memory of that day is so vivid.

     Little Johnny, Zack and I were excited about climbing the big oak tree outside of Zack’s house.  We couldn’t wait for school to end so we could head over to Zack’s.  The large white colonial home had several oaks surrounding it, but this was the big oak.  All the kids knew the one; it easily towered one hundred feet over the thick green lawn. 

     There was quite an argument during class over who could climb the highest.  I was the oldest and the strongest, so I bragged, “I can climb the highest.”

     Zack laughed at me, saying, “You’re too damned chicken to climb that high.”  Zack was right. 

     The funny thing was, Little Johnny didn’t even enter the argument.  Cocksure, even as a ten-year-old.

     “Pipe down boys!”  Mrs. Jenkins admonished Zack and me for talking, while Johnny sat quiet and still—adjusting his halo with charm.

     After school the three of us ran to Zack’s to tackle that gigantic tree.  Zack led the way up, but should have paced himself better.  He was the first to quit, not out of fear but from sheer exhaustion.  He was less than a third of the way up when he stopped to rest.  I caught up to him in a moment or two and Johnny followed closely behind.  It was easy for us to catapult over Zack for the tree was still quite thick.  Zack headed back down, panting the entire way.

     Father Jim was next door at the church, and he must have seen us through the window because we heard him yell, “Boys, that’s awful high, come back down.”

     We ignored him, continuing our ascent up the great oak.  Once to the halfway point, I stopped for a breather.  It was a hot June day, and I can remember craving lemonade.

     “Wanna quit Johnny?” I asked in a taunting tone, secretly hoping he’d say yes.

     “Nah,” he responded, without showing emotion.  Little Johnny was businesslike.  It was as if it was his life’s calling to conquer that oak.

     “I’m headed up, Tommy,” he told me as he climbed over me surehandedly.

     The tree began to break off into different branches at this height.  Although still strong enough to support Little Johnny, my heavy frame was causing it to sway.

     Zack stared up at us, shielding his eyes from the sun as he shouted, “You guys better come down.  You’re too high.”

     Father Jim came out of the church with his dog, Ginger.  Ginger was a sweet little brown hound, her personality was much like her master’s.  “Boys,” he cried as his voice cracked, “Come on down.”

     We didn’t want to alarm Father Jim, or get in trouble, so we each called down.

     “It’s okay,”  I reassured him.

     “I’m fine Father,” Johnny replied from above.  He was a good ten feet above me and keeping up a good pace. 

     “Boys, your mothers would be worried sick if they saw this.  Please, come down.”

     Johnny continued, as if on a mission.  He didn’t even glance downward.

     I did, and that’s when the butterflies set in.  My palms began to sweat and my grip was loosening.  Worse still, my pride was hurting.  How could I let that little shrimp beat me?  With that in mind, I continued up the big old tree. 

     At about the three-quarter mark, even Johnny needed to catch his breath (it was hot!), and I caught up with him.

     “Sure is a long way down,” I observed aloud.

     “No biggy,” he responded.

     “Boys that is far enough,” Father Jim hollered.  “Please boys, my ulcer!” he pleaded as he clutched his belly.

     “We’d better go down,” I said sternly to Johnny.  After all, I was the older one (by a few months, which seemed like a lot at the time).

     “Not until I get to the tippy top Tommy.”  With that said, and his wind returned to his lungs, he continued up.

     I followed a few more feet, before I heard a loud SNAP!  My weight was too much, and the branch I was grabbing with my left hand cracked.  Then, it tumbled down through the leafy branches and landed below.  Luckily, I was able to hug the thick center with all my might using my stronger right arm and two legs.  My left arm wavered a little as I regained my balance.

     “COME DOWN!” Father Jim shouted.  I couldn’t see him from where I was—my full attention was spent hanging on—but I knew him well enough to know what his expression must have been.  His pale face always turned red when he was angry or nervous.  In this case, I think he was both, so I’ll bet his nose was bordering on that goofy shade of purple that the kids often joked about.

     Slowly, I began to go downward, firmly straddling the fat and healthy trunk.

     Undaunted, Johnny continued upwards, he had to be seventy-five feet off of the ground.

     “At a boy, Tommy, come on down,” Father Jim called.  For a moment, he sounded relieved.  That was until he must have noticed Johnny going in the other direction.  Knowing the father like I did, I’m sure he said a quick prayer before we heard him yell, “Mary Mother of God!  Come down from there!!”  There was a brief pause before he hollered, “JOHNNY COME DOWN!”  That poor sweet man.

      I continued down as Johnny continued up, his little body resembling a squirrel as he hopped up the tiny branches.  Then the inevitable happened.  A crackle and a snap, then a yell and a cry.  The snap came from above, the cry from the father below.  The yell came from Johnny, one of frustration for not completing the task.

     I was almost to the ground when I looked straight up to see him falling upon me.  Sticks and brush were slowing Johnny’s fall, and they poured down, covering my eyes.  I was unable to see what happened next, but I sure felt it.  Johnny plunged through the branches and directly into me, taking me with him for the final ten feet.  We crashed to the ground with a fierce thud.  My back smashed the roots as I heard them crackle along with my backbones, and my belly absorbed much of the blow from Johnny’s body.  “Ooof!” I think I groaned before I blacked out from shock.

     I know now that the father carried both of us inside, one by one.  He was a deceptively strong man.  Then, Father Jim called 911 and had us rushed to the hospital.  It was there that I woke.  As the haze cleared, I saw my mom, Father Jim, Little Johnny’s mom and much to my surprise, Little Johnny himself standing over me with concern in their eyes.  I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.

     “Are you okay son?” the father asked.

     “I think so,” I moaned.

     “Oh thank heaven,” my mother said as she cried and hugged me.  The worry-lines that formed on her lips and cheeks during her four hour vigil over me made her look far older than her true age of forty-two.

     My right shoulder was broken, my head ached, and I had quite a few bruises and scrapes, but I was okay.  As for Johnny, he simply had some scratches.  The doctors looked him over, cleaned him up with antiseptic and sent him home.  As everybody got up to leave me alone with my shell-shocked mother, Father Jim first tagged the nickname.

     “That’s a little dangerboy you have there Mrs. Hendricks,” he said.  “You better watch him real close, ya here.  I tell you he fell ninety feet.  Lucky to be alive.”

     “You are lucky Johnny,” Mrs. Hendricks scolded while swinging her finger back and forth.  “You are very lucky.”  Then, she grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him away.

     “Ninety feet,” the father repeated quietly as he scratched his balding scalp.  Now that all was well, he seemed a bit amused by the whole incident. 

     The nickname stuck, and a legend was born.  In reality, maybe Johnny only fell seventy feet that day, maybe it was sixty—nobody actually measured.  But by the time word of it reached school, he had fallen two hundred feet.  Soon, much to his mother’s horror, Johnny began to embrace the persona, even profit from it.  Whether it was doing wheelies on his bicycle or diving from Huggins Bridge, Dangerboy would not turn down a challenge.  His first “professional jump” came a couple of years later. 

     One of the boys dared Johnny to jump a car with his bike, and he accepted.  After busting up my shoulder, I learned that I couldn’t compete with Dangerboy.  So instead, I became the business manager and handled the promotion—and the payday.  I told all the kids in the neighborhood where and when, and to make sure they knew to save their milk money—it was going to cost twenty-five cents a head.  No one argued; I was the biggest kid in town.  Plus everybody thought it was well worth the quarter for the entertainment value.  The last hurdle was finding a car to jump.  Luckily, Father Jim was busy hearing confession.  So we set the homemade wood ramp up against his ’64 Lincoln.

     “Step right up kids,” I called as Zack and Johnny carefully placed the ramp.  “Just one quarter. For less than the price of a pack of baseball cards, you can see Dangerboy risk death by jumping Father Jim’s car.”

     They filed in like sheep.  Herds of children.  Most from our local school, along with several others I had never seen before.  They all paid with a smile and found a seat on the grass or along the gravel road.

     Johnny and Zack seemed satisfied.  Zack’s mechanical aptitude came in handy in spots like these.  He had done a few calculations and figured Johnny should start at the top of the big hill, and pedal his hardest.  If he could do that, he should have enough speed to clear the Lincoln.

     Johnny chugged fearlessly up the hill.  In the meantime, knowing I had a minute or two to kill while he got into position, I continued my job of shameless promotion.

     “In just moments kids, you will witness a fantastic spectacle.  Dangerboy will jump the car.  Not just any old car mind you.  That is a boat, no a yacht.  That is not some tiny foreign model but a nineteen-sixty-four Lincoln!”

     Johnny reached the top of the hill. “Ready above!” he called down. 

     Zack took a last look at the ramp and checked the trajectory.  He tweaked it just a bit, moving it slightly to the right.  “Ready below!” he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

     “Here it is folks,” I called like a circus ringleader.  “The big moment.” 

     Zack threw his hands up high in the air, then brought them down, the signal to start.

     Little Johnny pushed off, and headed down the hill, pedaling at full bore.

     My hamming it up was too loud, Father Jim must have heard.  He and a member of his congregation popped their heads out of a church window, too late to stop the stunt, but just in time to catch the show.

     “Oh, heavens,” the father called.

     Johnny shot down the big hill on his black Huffy racer.  He hit the ramp cleanly and right on the painted red arrow, serving as his mark.  Then he was airborne.

     Father Jim and his companion crossed their chests and kissed their crucifixes in unison.

     Johnny was two thirds of the way over the Lincoln when he showed his flare for the dramatics: he took his left hand off of the handlebars, and pointed it up in the air in a fist.  Then, he landed perfectly.

     A loud roar came from the crowd of children, and an even louder roar came from the father as he stormed out of the church.  Faithful Ginger followed closely behind her beloved master.

     “This time you boys have gone too far!  It’s bad enough that you want to kill Little Johnny, but you brought an audience to watch.  That is sickening!  And using my car for heaven’s sake.”

     “Sorry Father Jim,” Johnny called as he coasted over towards him.  A little sweat dripped from his forehead, but he didn’t seem out of breath.  “We shouldn’t have risked your car.”  It was as if he sincerely believed the biggest threat was hurting the car.

     The father melted from the heartfelt apology, and the puppy-dog eyes that accompanied it.  That same smile of amusement I remembered from the hospital appeared on his face.  “Boys will be boys,” he laughed to his companion who just shrugged in agreement.

     The legend grew, and so did the profits.  I relished my job as promoter.  I came up with the cape, the spandex uniform, along with the red white and blue colors.  Zack was the mechanic.  As we grew into teens, Zack learned a lot about engines.  He put together Johnny’s first motor scooter from a junker we found on the side of the road waiting for the garbageman to haul away.  And of course Johnny, he was the nerve of the operation, with the focus and precision of a surgeon.  Soon, we were doing a stunt a month and charging fifteen bucks a ticket. 

     As we grew older, we realized that we had outdone ourselves.  I was nineteen to be exact when things began to get frustrating.  The motorcycle through flaming hoops was played out.  Jumping five cars with a bicycle was as much as was realistically possible, even for Johnny, and no matter how big a ramp Zack built.  We had done ‘em all already.  We needed to come up with a new stunt to really draw a crowd.

     I came up with the idea of course, that was always my job.  ‘The Big Jump.’  We would rent bleachers to put the fans.  We would print up flyers and post them all over town.  After all, we were of age now so no one would try to stop us.  In fact, Dangerboy had become a local hero.  Even Mayor Nelson and Police Chief O’Donnell were at the last jump.  Everybody loved Dangerboy.  ‘The Big Jump,’ that was how it would be billed.  All we needed was the where and with what.  Of course, that part wasn’t my job so the two technical guys would work that one out.

     At Sam’s Luncheonette we hammered out the particulars over burgers.

     “How about Lake Taconic?”  Zack suggested, while squeezing his cheeseburger like a soggy dishrag.

     “Too big,” Johnny replied between loud sips of Coke.

     “Well Lake Hiawatha then,” I said.

     “Too wimpy!”  Johnny snippily shot that one down so fast he almost choked on a fry.

     “I know,” Zack said, “why don’t you jump Miller creek by the canyon.”

     “That’s it,” Johnny beamed, no longer interested in his food.

     I was shocked by Johnny’s sudden excitement.  Miller creek was nothing.  Johnny jumped that one already when he was sixteen.  “Miller creek?  Come on.”

     “No, the canyon out by the creek,” Johnny said with a grin.  Determination lit up his eyes.  I thought that jumping a canyon was nuts, even for Johnny, but just like that day when we climbed Zack’s tree, Johnny called his own shots.

     “The canyon?”  Zack asked.

     “Yeah, the canyon.”

     “It’s awful big.”

     “Zack, does your father still have that ’66 Camaro for sale?”

     “Yep, he’d take just about anything we’d give him for it too.  The body is shot.  So damned rusted that you could practically put your fist through the floorboards.”

     “Yeah, but the engine’s still sound, right Zack?”

     “Sure, it’s got a 454 engine in there.  But even if it was a brand new 454, it ain’t gonna generate enough power to clear that canyon.”

     “That’s why I have you,” Johnny smiled.  “Let’s build some boosters and weld them on.”

     “Well, maybe, but welding isn’t my strong point.”  Zack was cynical, but looked like he could be convinced.

     “Zack, let’s get to work on this and we’ll be ready in a few weeks.”

     Just like that, ‘The Big Jump’ was on.  We were carried away in the moment, too young and foolish to use common sense.  No one realized in our naiveté and exuberance how dangerous this really was.

     The guys went to work building rockets (or jets, or something).  They got a hold of two old engines from an original DC-3.  I put my energy into printing up flyers.  We had such a good turnout at the last stunt that we had a good budget.  Enough to buy Zack’s father’s Camaro, the parts they needed to customize it, flyers and a new suit for Dangerboy; it even had a DB emblem sewn in the middle.  We rented chairs, bleacher seats—just like I had envisioned, even a truck to lug them up to the canyon. 

     Late one evening, about a week before ‘The Big Jump’ was scheduled to go off, we were up at the canyon setting up the bleachers, when a middle-aged man in a checkered polyester suit approached us.

     “Hi fellas,” he said with a smile.  His hair had more grease in it than Zack’s hands.  I just knew he was sleazy.  “Name’s Herb Hardy.  This is some jump you guys are planing.”

     “Yep,” Johnny acknowledged.  “Big jump alright.”

     “Isn’t that why we’re callin’ it ‘The Big Jump?’” Zack asked.  He wasn’t the brightest kid, but he could sure point out the obvious.

     “Boys, I’m here for a reason.”

     “Get to it then,” I stated with a firmness that told him his fancy suit didn’t impress me.

     “Sure,” he said with a condescending chuckle.  “I’ll get right to the point ‘cause I can see you fellas are busy.”

     “Got a jump to prepare for,” Johnny said.

     “Boys, I know you all go way back, and you might not want to hear this, but what you need is someone to handle your business affairs.”

     “We do just fine on our own,” I snapped.

     “Now I’m not saying you’re not,” he said as he motioned for me to calm down, “but I know people.  I can make you kids rich.”

     “We aren’t interested,” I insisted.  At least I wasn’t.

     “Well, I don’t want to distract you boys, so take my business card.  This jump you’re planning.  This BIIIIIIG JUMMMMMPPPPP,” he enunciated in a tone that really aggravated me.  “This jump can be exploited just so.  And everybody can profit.”

     “I don’t think so,” I said.  “We do fine on our own.”

     “You thought of some good things, I admit: advertising, seating.  But how about T-shirts, buttons, Dangerboy caps?  You have to think of everything.  How about programs and concessions?”

     “We plan to sell beer,” I declared.

     “Beer, good.  Very good.  From what I hear, they are expecting several thousand people.  You gonna sell ‘em all beer yourself kid?  ‘Cause if I know one thing, ain’t no union people coming up here to work without my say so.  Got it?”

     We just looked at each other and kept quiet.

     “How about mechanics, huh?  Do you kids think you can handle that canyon?”

     Zack’s eyes caught fire, but he didn’t say a word.

     “A lot can go wrong, especially if you don’t cooperate.  You know what I’m getting at boys?”  To accentuate his point, Herb Hardy picked up a pebble, then tossed it over the edge.

     Again, we exchanged glances.  But no one wanted to speak up.

     “And how about these seats you got here, enough for two or three thousand at best.  Boys, do yourselves a favor.  I brought with me a contract.  If ya sign it now Dangerboy, I’ll give both your friends here jobs.  If not, you’re on your own.”

     “Well,” Johnny said.  “I don’t know much about contracts.  Can I think about it?”

     “Sure, kid.  You think.  But that jump is in a week, right?  Now I’m gonna get a full staff up here to make the maximum amount of cash for us all.  But I got to give them a day or two notice, so they leave Sunday free.”

     “Okay, I’ll call you in a couple of days,” Johnny said and shook his hand, then pocketed the business card.  I remember feeling like a jealous girlfriend.  Herb Hardy stepped into a canary yellow Cadillac and screeched off, leaving us to talk amongst ourselves.

     “You gonna deal with that scumbag Johnny?” I asked.

     “You know I don’t know about these things Tommy.  But he says he can make us all a lot of money.  Maybe we should hear him out?”

     “He’s a dirtball!  All he wants to do is take advantage of you and take you from your friends,” I insisted.  “Anyway, you two need to concentrate on having the Camaro ready for the jump.  And last I checked, it wasn’t even close.”

     “True,” Zack said.  “The car isn’t ready.  Let’s go back to Pop’s garage and work on the boosters Johnny.”

     “Sure.”

 

     The day of The Big Jump quickly came upon us.  We were scrambling with last minute preparations.  For me that meant making sure everything was in place.  Johnny signed that contract (I think his mother talked him into working with a ‘professional’ because I know Johnny wasn’t swayed by Herb’s intimidation—that boy’s scared of nothing!), so I begrudgingly worked with Herb to make sure the additional seating was added.  Herb sold another fifteen thousand tickets.  Twenty thousand people in total had paid and were expected to show.  The beer was ordered, souvenirs made.  We had commemorative pins and jackets.

     As for the guys, they tweaked and tuned the Camaro to be sure all was ready.  And it was. They had, with the help of Herb’s mechanics, created a vehicle powerful enough to jump two canyons. 

     Everything was ready.

 

     The crowd assembled in an orderly fashion.  Everyone showed, from the local politicians to our old school teachers.  All the pretty and available girls were there too.  We were celebrities.  Father Jim and Mrs. Hendricks found seats together.  Mrs. Hendricks looked very worried, her lipstick smeared and eyes baggy.  Who could blame her?  After all, her son was about to attempt an unfathomable jump.

     Johnny had his “Jump Face” on.  He was a ball of concentration.

     “You ready, pal?”  I asked.

     “Uh-huh,” he grunted coolly, not even looking at me.  He was obsessed with the engine, although he wasn’t helping.  No one wanted to see him as much as break a nail on this day.

     Zack and the crew were under the hood—their legs in the air as they leaned in.  The crew checked each hose to make sure the engine would stay cool.  Next, they tightened the belts and greased the chassis.  Finally, they emerged, satisfied the machine was in top shape.

     Camera flashes lit up the evening sky as Johnny climbed in and started the engine.  The customized 454 General Motors engine purred, then roared as Johnny gave it gas.

     Father Jim and Mrs. Hendricks prayed quietly.  The rest of the crowd smiled and talked with delight, impatiently waiting for the event to start.

     As I glanced at all twenty thousand heads, giddy and laughing, then back to Mrs. Hendricks and Father Jim, an ill feeling overtook me.  For the first time, I began to feel something other than eager anticipation.  I thought it was nerves at the time, but I know now it was my conscience.  What we were doing was sick and twisted—Father Jim pointed that out years ago.  Sure we were making a lot of money.  But was it worth the risks?  Mrs. Hendricks certainly didn’t think so.  And the crowd—twenty thousand sadistic souls—all drooling.  None of them seemed to care if Johnny made it or not.  If the Camaro died halfway over the canyon, most of these people wouldn’t be in the slightest bit affected.  Sure, they would ‘ooh’ and ‘ah,’ and the ladies might scream.  But there was a callous attitude about this crowd that suddenly, I was finding disturbing.

     Luckily, Johnny was oblivious to them.  He had that fantastic focus that I envy to this day.  For some crazy reason, I considered running over to him and pleading for him to back out.  But I thought better of it, after all, he wouldn’t have listened.  Instead, I walked up to Father Jim and Mrs. Hendricks, shook each of their hands, then continued down to a front row seat I had a friend save for me.

      Zack and the crew took their positions near the ramp; they checked its positioning while Johnny kept the engine warm by pressing firmly on the accelerator.  The smell of burning fuel filled the air.  The flames from the shiny duel chrome exhaust pipes shone brightly, then turned quickly to gray smoke.  I recall fixating on it as it dissipated.  The firemen and paramedics stood ready.  Two big red trucks and an ambulance.  Everyone was set.

      “Ready,” Johnny called from the car.

     “Ready,” Zack yelled back from his position a few feet to the side of the ramp.  I remember being a little afraid for Zack as well as Johnny; he was too close to the ramp.

     Johnny gassed the engine once more, then a loud crunching noise was heard as he forced the stiff clutch into gear.  The runway was one hundred yards in length and the seats started at about the fifty-yard marker.  The car roared, then purred for the first ten yards, then the next.  By the thirty-yard marker, the engine was screaming and smoke and fire bellowed from the pipes.  Quite frankly, it stank.  At first, we thought the stench was just the motor burning gas.  However, once Johnny passed the forty-yard marker, I noticed a trail of gasoline behind the vehicle, and I jumped up in a vain attempt to alert Johnny so he could abort the stunt.

     The vehicle kept accelerating towards the fifty-yard marker.  That was where the boosters were set to kick in.  The two round plane engines looked gaudy and menacing along the sides of the car; they bounced up and down with each bump.  Johnny had a manual control button to activate the boosters.  To his credit, he hit the button right on time, and the jets fired.  Unfortunately, the boys did too good a job in building them.  The intention was to propel the car forcefully into the ramp so takeoff would be as natural as the forces of gravity.  Something went gravely wrong.

     Instead of going straight, the strength of the jet engines, intended for a twenty thousand-pound airplane, propelled the five thousand-pound auto up into the air.  The car soared, at least twenty feet up, then directly into the crowd!

     The sudden pressure dislodged the jets from the body of the car, then they burst into flames, twisting and twirling in different directions like scorching ballerinas (Zack was a hell of a mechanic, but a lousy welder).  The huge and heavy 454 engine fell right out of its rotted casing.  Amid a loud crash, the car landed.  Those bodies I could see underneath were flailing in pain, pathetically bouncing up and down with convulsions.  The next thing I can remember is being knocked to the ground, and I lost consciousness for a moment.

      It was only a quick moment, but as I shook off the pain, I became aware of its source.  I found myself at the bottom of a pile of panicked fans.  Twenty thousand observers became participants in tragedy.  The pain of dozens of feet squashing my legs and banging my head was excruciating.  The sounds of screams and shouts made my ears ring.

     I lost consciousness again.  When I awoke for the second time, I surveyed the carnage.  I saw smoldering wooden bleachers being hosed down by firemen.  One man was being rushed to an ambulance with thousands of rusty bits of steel in his face and body.  A young woman was burned from head to toe.  Others were crying and screaming for medical attention.  One voice in particular still gives me chills, “I need a doctor!  Get me a doctor!” a pain-ridden old woman repeatedly called in a weak and hideous tone.  Several more ambulances came screeching onto the scene—lights flashing.

     For the first time, I thought of Johnny.  Had he made it?  Then I saw the car; it landed on top of a row of seats that then collapsed—Johnny must have been trapped beneath the weight.  The firemen were just getting to him.  I tried to muster up the strength to get to my feet and watch, but my legs were numb. 

     It took an hour for the firemen and their Jaws of Life to pry Johnny from the car.  During that hour, a paramedic finally came to my aid.  He set my legs in splints and told me to wait for the next available ambulance.  Since my injuries weren’t life threatening, I was put on a low priority.  That allowed me to watch first hand, as they cut Johnny free.

     I shouldn’t have been surprised, knowing Johnny like I do, but I was.  As the fireman ripped loose the last piece of mangled steel, Johnny emerged.  Unscathed, he pulled himself from the wreckage by his own power.  The kid was amazing!

     My luck wasn’t as good.  I still do promotions for Dangerboy Enterprises, as it’s known now.  And Zack wheels me out to each event, where I watch Dangerboy cheat death from the comfort of my wheelchair.

 

 

 

 

 

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