Part 4: The Crooked Man

Thrall Court had an interesting mix of people. If you wanted multi-cultural, that was the place to be. Next door to us on one side we had the Ricardo’s. They were a second generation Mexican family who came to Fort Worth via Del Rio, Texas. They were legal, coming to the United States through Customs and not by swimming the Rio Grande. They were very good neighbors and always helped out in any way they could. They had a son, Ricky, who was in diapers when we moved there, so he was probably about 2 at the most. They obviously were either “I Love Lucy” fans or had a stout sense of humor.

On the other side of us there was a lady named Lucy, who was a full-blooded American Indian. She was nice but had some quirks about her. For one she always seemed like she was pregnant. The weirdest thing I remember about her was that she ate clumps of dirt. Just picked it right up off the ground and put it in her mouth. I’ve heard that some women crave the minerals that can be found in dirt when they are pregnant , and with her being and Indian, I guess she was really close with Mother Earth.

Lucy had a husband, or at least a boyfriend, who I don’t recall seeing except maybe once or twice the whole time we lived there. I have a sneaking suspicion they weren’t married, which back then still had a taboo attached to it. Most people still didn’t shack-up, although it was likely becoming more common.

Lucy and her Sugar Daddy had a Minah Bird, who would sit in the cage they had in the dining room and whistle, in the fashion that men whistle at women. When we first moved in we had no idea they had a Minah. My mom would go out in the back yard to hang laundry on the line and she thought that the gentleman who lived there was hitting on her. I’m sure it made my mom uncomfortable at first, but after awhile she must have got more comfortable with it. I remember after we found out it was a bird and not a horny fifty year old man, my mom was a little disappointed. She would have never had an affair on my dad, (I think), but she was flattered and liked the attention.

We of course had the Dunlaps a few doors down, but the most interesting people on the street were the hippies who lived in the cul-de-sac. This was the early seventies and these were full-fledged, VW Microbus, peace out, toga wearing long hairs. They kept to themselves pretty much but their presence was well known. They ran around with cut-off jean shorts and no shirts and always played acid rock loud enough to get everyone in earshot stoned. Next to them at the very end of the cul-de-sac was an eccentric old man, who reminded me of Thurston Howell III. He kept to himself most of the time but every once in a while we would see him leave in his Cadillac, wearing a straw hat and cataract glasses.

Besides the aforementioned cast of characters, the biggest source of mystery for all the kids on the street was the old truck that was parked between the hippies’ house and Mr. Howell’s. The truck was a mid to late ’40’s panel van and was black in color with some surface rust. There was an abandoned alley that ran between the two houses, from the street back into an open field. The legend was that the guy who was driving the truck had died while driving back the alley and the authorities just left him and the truck there. Everyone called him “The crooked man in the crooked van”

We avoided that abandoned alley like syphilis. When we would play kick ball and the ball would go over near the crooked van we would just cut our loss and find another ball. That thing gave you the willies just looking at it. It was parked to where only the back of the truck was visible from the street and we had no way of knowing if there was, in fact, a skeleton in it or not. I for one was not going to find out.

My line of thought was, “Well, he’s been there for thirty years, why bother him?”.

After we had lived there for awhile, Albert Dunlap, instigator of shit and mayhem, decided it was time to solve the mystery of the crooked man. He was ten years old, practically an adult, and we figured he was the one to step up and be the man. Of course, he wanted help doing it but the rest of us weren’t that stupid. There was no way in hell I was going to be the one who crapped in their pants when we found the skeleton and be the laughing stock of the neighborhood for the rest of my life. Nope, wasn’t going to happen. I was the daredevil of the group but this was beyond my expertise.

After much haggling and debate, we weren’t getting anywhere in forming an expedition platoon and Albert, getting very agitated at this point, just looked at us and said, “Fuck it. I’ll do it myself”. I thought that he was just as scared as the rest of us, but he didn’t show it and he sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it. So off he went, walking off into history and legend, the one who would conquer the crooked man and show us once and for all who had balls the size of grapefruits.

As Albert approached the van, he stopped. He stood there, frozen, for a good minute. Later he would tell us that he thought he had heard something, but more than likely he was debating the actual size of his balls. After the minute or so, he resumed his approach, slower and more carefully. He was just about there when all the sudden he broke off and came running back. He told us that he heard what sounded like someone inside moving around.

After catching his breath, I asked him if he was going to go back. He just kinda looked at me like I was crazy, and said, “Why? You wanna go?”

While we were in the midst of our group discussion, declining the mission was easy as I had plenty of company of like-minded kids. But this was a direct challenge. Although every fiber in my body screamed NO!, the word “Sure” came falling from my lips. That was it, no backing down now…

Boy, what a dumbass!

We made our approach nice and slow, like we were Recon Marines. I was scared shitless, to the point of almost turning tail and running. I wasn’t particularly worried about my fearless reputation, but the thought of not making it past my seventh birthday bothered me somewhat. I was holding out hope that I would get an ‘Eagle-Eye G.I. Joe’ for my next birthday and if Albert Dunlap screwed that up I was gonna kick his ass from the afterlife.

As we made our stealth approach there were a hundred thoughts going through my mind, and about twenty-five of them involved tactical retreat. There is no shame in running if you use the ‘tactical retreat’ clause to ensure that you and your comrades lived to fight another day.

Everything was surreal: I could hear the most minute noises; I could smell everything, hear my heartbeat and the blood rushing through my head. It sounded like ocean waves crashing into rocks. After what seemed like eternity, we made it to the van. Albert decided to approach from the passenger side, the side that he probably thought would provide the most cover and the least amount of danger in case the skeleton decided to launch an attack. I took a tactical position at the rear, in effect becoming the rear guard. I had no problems with being the ass-end of this mission, for sure. Besides, it was his idea!

As I covered the rear of the vehicle, I glanced back over my shoulder at the onlookers. As I looked at them I felt their admiration at my bravery, seeing in their eyes the envy of having ice water running through my veins. Yep, I thought I was king shit of Poly!

As I was reveling in my rather large ego, I heard Albert scream something that sounded like it was in Chinese. I quickly turned around and saw Albert in a pile of hay and grass clippings thrashing around. I just stood there, thinking the skeleton of the crooked man must have reached through the passenger side window and punched him.

He started yelling, “Help, I’m sinking” at the very top of his lungs.

“Sinking in what?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“QUICKSAND!”

Holy shit, we were in trouble now!

I immediately took the most rational course of action and ran, er, made a tactical retreat back to the street. I wasn’t going to let the crooked man knock me into that shit because there was no way in hell the others would come help us. The only person who could help was Albert’s dad, Gene.

I got to the Dunlap’s house and found Gene, where else but in the garage. He turned around and asked me what was wrong. I told him, out of breath, that Albert was drowning in quicksand.

“What?!?”

I told him that Albert was down by the crooked van and was in quicksand. We both took off in a cloud of dust, with Gene quickly pulling ahead of me. By the time I got there Gene was about ready to beat the snot out of Albert. Apparently, when Albert saw his dad coming he miraculously made his way out of the quicksand and was standing up.

Shit, I had no idea there was no quicksand in Poly!

Come to find out, Albert Dunlap knew there was no “Crooked Man” in the crooked van. It was something that he made up to scare the younger kids. He didn’t plan on me, in my state of panic, to run to get his dad. He must have thought that naturally I would try to help him get out and when I did, pull me in there with him and then take off running.

So much for the best laid plans of mice and men.

After everyone found out there was no “Crooked man”, we made regular trips down there and played in and around the van. No one ever went there alone, though. To this day, when I see a late forties to early fifties panel van, I still get the eebie-jeebies.

And Albert?, well, payback was a bitch…