The Underworld - Part 2

But it didn’t end there, of course. That’s the way with Eddie’s schemes. We think we’re smarter than to get sucked in, but something about it starts nibbling on the edge of your brain. Like a sewer rat with a hunk of rotten headcheese. And you can’t let it go. You know it’s a bad idea. Last time we got in trouble, my mom sat me down and stuck her finger right in my face and said, "Roy, for heaven’s sake, I just cannot understand why you always make such poor decisions." This was clearly another poor decision. I knew it would probably end badly. But I just couldn’t let it go.

I sat in Mr. Paulus’s English class, staring at the floor. Staring at that two foot square chunk of outlined tile, unobtrusively occupying the back corner of the room. Fuckin’ rat chewing on my grey matter. What was down there? Never really looked that hard at the floor, or thought about it. Sure, those trapdoors were all over the school, but they never looked like they were opened or used. What were they hiding down there? Could you really tunnel all the way under the river and end up under Grand Haven High like Eddie claimed? Why would they want to connect all the high schools unless for some nefarious purpose?

Fuckin’ Eddie. Crazy fuckin’ Eddie. Life as a high school junior did border on intolerably boring most days. Of course that’s why we were always getting in trouble, right? Mr. Paulus had taken me aside about a month ago and given me a lecture on not taking life at SLHS for granted. He said, "Roy, you and your buddies are bright young men. But you could all learn a little humility, and remember for a minute how fleeting the days of your youth are. I’m not telling you not to have a good time – in fact, just the opposite. But be smart about the adventures you choose. And you know I’m not just talking about some college admissions thing. We all have a legacy, and I truly don’t think you want your legacy to be vandalism and partying."

He was right about that. When the squad car pulled into our driveway that Sunday afternoon, I was anything but proud of myself. That six foot Amazon cop who emerged didn’t have to exert any effort after laying out the facts - a witness has called in Stan’s license plate as we were making the get-away, the smoldering remains of Bill Thompson’s mailbox matching the smoke subsequently coming from my parents’ ears. Bill was such a cock, though - he had bragged about pissing in the back of Stan’s ride when we left the window open at that party out at the Willows. Clearly he deserved what we gave back to him, and more - that druggie burnout. We shouldn’t have gone back to nuke it a third time, though. So much for being the smart kids. That final trip had landed us an all-expense-paid trip to the Ottawa County Court Building. Well, all of us except Rachel, that is. Her line when Eddie laid out his revenge plan was "that’s just stupid." Blowing things up was a boys’ game she said. Burnout boys, like Bill Thompson, and she’d have no part of it.

So at this point in the spring of our junior year, we were trying to keep a low profile. Finish off those AP classes that really mattered. Pad the resume with volunteer community service as opposed to that which was court mandated. We had cut our production of forged office passes after fortuitously noticing a memo to all teachers and coaches to alert the assistant principal if we tried to pass any more. We kept selling them of course - discretely - and only to a few reliable classmate distributors. After all, they were works of art, and Chad had mastered practically every counselor and administrator’s signature in the school. To withhold such workmanship from a needy and deserving student body would be a crime in itself.

It had even been a couple months since we picked the crappy lock on large SLHS billboard in front of the school with the movable block letters. There had been no recent advertisements displayed for Spring Lake’s "Student-Teacher Hash Bash" or the "Annual Laker Pornography Expo." Rach’s idea of the added line trumpeting guest performance of Principal Grabell with a pair of black silk panties left to adorn his name was a particularly nice touch. We had even kept our partying to the "low risk" variety, developing a reasonably reliable ability to smell the impending arrival of cop cars and beat a hasty exit when needed. Like those relying on the withdrawal method of birth control, you got the feeling that sooner or later this method of prophylaxis would probably fail us.

So why rock the boat? We were only a few weeks from senior year, which everyone knows is a year long screw-off of college visitations, parties and nostalgia manufacturing for later in one’s pathetic life to look back at and think about how great life was dozing through mindless college prep classes, sporking down cafeteria sludge, being turned down by a growing line of Laker girls at parties where various social lubricants still weren’t enough to achieve first base, following the never-ending quest to find the next elusive marijuana score, rolling your eyes on queue whenever anyone dropped the phrase ‘best years of your lives’ and pining ad naseum (like the clever introduction of Latin phraseology?) for the day to escape this backwater hick Podunk boring little shit of a town where nothing interesting ever happens ever.

I lean forward and kick the back of Eddie’s chair. "When are we going down?" I whisper.

* * *
The success of any mission depends on preparation and planning. Having the right equipment and being ready for any contingency. There’s some boy scout saying about something like that. I didn’t last very long in boy scouts.

Procuring the skateboards wasn’t a problem. Chad was the only one of us who actually owned one, but the rest had younger brothers or other alternatives for borrowing. Flashlights in working order were piled into a duffel bag. A trip to the hardware store was necessary to outfit us all with those respirator masks and goggles. Who knows what toxic nuclear waste would await us in the depths below, but we certainly had every confidence that a blue paper mask purchased for $3.99 at Tru-Value would protect us from any of it.

Then there was the question of rations. Water was a no-brainer. We had a handful of plastic canteens and washed out the liquor flask that more commonly held Southern Comfort for our adventures. There might be a water source down there - an underground river or something - but if so it was probably a tributary of the Grand with more E. coli than healthy minerals. What about food? Who knows how long we’d be gone for. Freeze-dried backpacking rations were briefly considered, then discarded. That would mean bringing in a stove of some sort - too much of a hassle. We had to be mobile. A box of Hershey’s with almonds made a compact more-practical substitute.

Finally, it was up to each man (and woman) to outfit his/her own armor. Gloves, long pants or overalls, sweatshirts, wool caps. Elbow and knee pads for ground level army crawling. The only stipulation of course was that it all had to be dark. Most of this (minus the pads) we had left over from prior nocturnal expeditions.

We debated the timing of the descent over games of pool at the Starlite that Friday night. The phase of the moon (which was going to be new next week) had to be coordinated with the proper day of the week, to reduce risk of being seen by police or other unwanted observers. Eventually we picked Wednesday night, with plans to meet late behind the practice football field behind the school. Cars would be left blocks away. The school had numerous entry points, and we all felt odds were good that at least one would be unsecured. The tougher part would be gaining access to a classroom with a trapdoor - there were no access points - at least that we’d seen - in the halls or common spaces. We could do the basics of popping open a low end lock with a credit card or even jimmying the tumblers with a bobby pin, and we were counting on these minimal skills to see us through.

Stan still wasn’t convinced, but not wanting to be completely left out either, he agreed to ride along and be a lookout. There was too much momentum and excitement now not to push forward. We all had the feeling that we were on the brink of something big, maybe life changing. It just wasn’t clear if it would be a change for the good, or one that would see us changing residence to the Jackson State Home for Wayward Youth.