Beasley Daniel Kinkade

As kids we had a wooden wagon and the wagon followed us through childhood. First as a means by which dad could pull us up and down the street after work, stopping to chat with neighbors and talking sports, then as a kid’s tool used to move supplies and earth as we built our backyard forts and finally as a source of speed as we took turns careening down the street at breakneck speed.

Innocent at first, the wagon was cared for and nurtured. Well crafted with metal wheels, a black pivoting handle, solid timber floor and removable side rails to contain a load. We painted the wooden side slots with the names of our favorite hockey teams (Flyers one side, Rangers the other) and painted the wheel rims a variety of colors. Each week as our dad washed the car in the driveway we washed the wagon. Spraying it with a hose, soaping it and picking at places where our paint had chipped.

As our interest in forts grew the wagon became a valuable tool, growing from show horse to work horse. We dug huge holes in our yard, covering them with plywood to create a bunker. The wagon was piled high with rocks and soil, moved from our holes to a sloppy pile my parents could not easily see behind the Fletcher’s garage. Though the paint chipped and the hockey emblems wore away the wagon did not tire. She was strong and performed as asked.

As our forts moved from simple covered pits to primitive huts and tree forts we required greater amounts of lumber. Our wagon’s role evolved to meet the new need. With houses pushing up from vacant lots or former farm land, construction sites were a frequent sight. They were also a frequent source of supplies serving our own construction efforts. At night we rode our bikes to nearby sites; wagon tied to the rear of my bike with a rope, to procure necessary supplies. We were never too greedy and selected a few important pieces required for our fort. We never stole tools. Tools were personal property of the tradesman. Unsecured lumber was community property.

Riding my bike with the wagon in tow was wonderful. Whipping around corners I reached back and pulled the rope to keep the wagon from tipping or arcing into a parked car. When I slammed on my bicycle brakes the wagon would continue forward slamming into my bike. The wagon was a true companion as I took it out alone prowling for lumber.

The stability and speed of the wagon as demonstrated on my supply runs got me and my friend, James, to thinking about just how fast this thing could go. We tied the wagon to our bikes and took turns pulling each other around the neighborhood. The goal was to crash the passenger in the wagon and I was often successful as I drove up a driveway, then off a curb, tipping James over hard. The wagon introduced us to speed; and speed is addicting.

We decided to see how fast she would go. Our street was one block and intersected with a road leading up a long steep hill. Taking a left at the end of our street led to the bottom of the hill, a gently slope ending at a T intersection with a relatively busy street with nice houses on one side and a brook on the other. If you decided to take a right at the end of our street you were faced with quarter mile of smoothly paved road marching up a steep hill towards a busy thoroughfare. Perfect for a wagon ride.

Engaging the wagon in her next station in life we painted flames along the side panels and, like Evel Knievel, added blue stripes with white stars along the floor of the wagon.

To start we took the wagon to the end of my street and turned left for a quick trial run. I set in the wagon and pushed off, slowly rolling three of four house lengths, crossing the street and gently bumping the curb by the brook. The wagon was easily steered by sitting cross legged and holding the black handle up, pulling it towards your chest and turning it right to go left or left to go right. The experiment was a success. With the hill we did not need a bike. We just needed to stay straight and let gravity do its thing.

With the test run under my belt and equipped with hockey helmet, my father’s work gloves, catcher’s shin protectors and a leather Ranger jacket, I walked to the end of our street and turned right looking up the hill we would conquer with my wagon. I made my way up the hill with James. He wore a goalie mask and a catcher’s chest protector and winter gloves. We tramped up the hill as the periodic car passed by, slowing down to demonstrate caution. At the top of the hill we turned the wagon and faced the long slope below. This is how Evel Knievel felt at the top of the ramp. “Ready?” I asked. James was having second thoughts, “Maybe we should walk back down and try it half way or something?” suggested James.

“Evel Knievel doesn’t jump half way. Don’t be a pussy, James. You can sit in back. I’ll steer.”

I sat in front and scooted forward, giving James enough space. He whimpering, “I don’t want to, Beasley. You go first.” “Get the hell in the wagon!” I screamed mimicking my father without realizing it. “Jump off if you get scared.” I turned my back to him.

James hopped in behind me and I pushed forward. Slowly at first we began to roll down the hill. I tested the steering and it worked fine. I looked back at James and, like me, he was beaming. We picked up speed very quickly. As trees peeled past the handle vibrated wildly in my hands and I struggled to hold it straight.

We began to go very fast. Too fast. “STOP. STOP, BEASLEY!” James screamed as he clawed at my arms trying to pull at the handle. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stop. I lurched to one side trying to avoid a parked car. The wagon shuttered as we continued to fly down the hill. Then, without warning, the wagon jolted as James rolled off the back in a desperate bail-out. I turned my head to watch him rolling like a log, limbs flying and coming to rest under a parked car. “Jesus, Christ!”

A horn blared as I turned in time to see a car coming up the hill towards me. I hadn’t thought about traffic being an issue. Fuck. I could see the driver’s face, her hands gripping the wheel, eyes and mouth wide as she silently screamed behind the windshield. I jerked the handle to the left, launching the wagon to the right and careening up a driveway apron onto the sidewalk and over a lawn. The side of the wagon clipped a tree as I tiled on two wheels towards a parked car. I held the handle and plowed directly into the side of the car. The front of the wagon smashing down under the carriage of the car, handle and front wheels snapping off claiming the end of our relationship. Me, flying forward to put my hockey helmet to the test and knocking me unconscious.

I woke feeling wet, splayed in the driveway as the owner of the car, Mr. Berkley, came into focus. He was above me, out of reach. I tried to reach up and tipped over.

“What the fuck?” I groped. He cocked his head sideways like a bird as he stopped spraying me with his garden hose. He had a sleeveless white tee-shirt exposing the big hairy arms of a contractor and his work pants were pulled up high on his thick waist. His eyebrows were huge, used to shade the two dull pieces of coal looking down at me from his oval face. “You stupid little idiot, you’re lucky you’re not dead. I know who you are. You’re the kid with the fort.” “What … ?” was all I could say.

He sounded slow. His car was a piece of shit with ladders tied to the roof. I had just added to the existing state of disrepair. I looked from him to his car. He didn’t seem to care. His dull pieces of coal leveled at me. I wondered if he knew my dad. I was going to apologize but he was just too stupid. I said nothing. My head throbbed.

James appeared and stood next to Berkley. Everything was foggy as I tried to focus on James. I leaned over and threw-up in the driveway.

“I told him not to do it,” James said smugly as he looked up at the unmoving Mr. Berkley. Berkley didn’t seem to hear him.

“Fuck you, pussy. My wagon’s broken because of you, you jerk-off.” Mr. Berkley just stared, wondering what to make of me. He squeezed tight and sprayed me in the face.

Tags: childhood, contractor, crash, Evel Knievel, hockey helmet, lumber, speed, spray, Wagon

This entry was posted on Friday, October 16th, 2009 at 7:34 am and is filed under childhood. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.