27. Arbalest

No one knew where such a little youngster had gotten it, but all knew that he had it.

Travis could barely cock the weighty crossbow, let alone hold it up. All the same, he walked up and down the neighborhood, slowly dragging it behind him, grunting from the effort, and threatening all of his friends.

“Toby! Gimme your marbles or I’ll shoot your wiener off!”

“Levi! Gimme those puffy stickers or I’ll shoot your butt off!”

Travis began carrying an empty pillowcase as he made his rounds, slowly filling it up with the toys of others, like a reverse-Santa, or if you will, a “Santi-thesis”.

He had become a dirty sheriff, taxing his peers, who desperately wanted to keep their wieners and butts.

Then one day, little Susie Wentworth changed everything without ever meaning to. Her stomach and chest deemed Travis’ confidence and anti-heroism to be worthy of producing and housing one hundred and one butterflies, whose figurative wings tickled her to swooning at each thought or glance that was occupied by Travis. On the day that brought justice back to the neighborhood, Susie was flat on the lawn, belly-down, legs bent at the knee with carefree feet dangling upward in the air as she scribbled the words “Mr. & Mrs. Travis” over and over, dotting his i’s with chubby, little hearts.

All was quiet, save for the simple sound of the breeze brushing the blades of grass. Most other children weren’t playing outside anymore, and when they did, they left behind what precious few toys they still had to their names safely hid in chests, stashed under beds, an tucked away in attics. When Susie heard that distinct sound of that medieval metal grinding away its value on the sidewalk, her eyes darted and her heart doubled its pace.

There he stood, come to a full stop at the edge of his parents’ property. Hand held up to shield the sun, he seemed to be sizing up the day’s potential. Pickens were slim, and he had anticipated as much, which is why he put all of the confiscated toys back in the pillowcase before heading out to make his rounds, hoping that he could trick himself into believing he had made a decent haul when he carried it back home for the day. His eyes landed on Susie, whose gaze shot down to her diary again.

“What do we have here? A book?” He grumble-muttered the words to himself in a voice forced to sound so low that it would have had a cute and comical effect to any grown-up, had one heard it. “It’ll have to do,” he said and coughed, having tickled his throat with the gravel in his voice.

The minutes it took for Travis to lug the arbalest over to her side of the street was pure, anxious bliss for Susie.

“Susie, gimme that book or I’ll shoot your butt off!”

“Anything you say, Mr. Travis. But it’s a diary…FYI.”

“Just hand it over! Or I’ll shoot that pretty little face of yours right off too!”

Travis had heard a bank robber character in a movie refer to a teller’s face as pretty and little – in the movie it was a dark and sinister moment, ripe with the kind of intimidation Travis strove for, but when she heard it, Susie’s pretty and little face lit up from an inner glow whose light was reflected off two hundred and two shimmering butterfly wings.

“You… you really think I’m a pretty lady?”

Travis’ eyebrows leapt from their stern, low perch to reach a new height of horror, and he dropped both the pillowcase and the crossbow as Susie jumped to her feet in slow motion to envelope the object of her affection within her thin arms.

An odd, vulnerable, and high-pitched noise emerged from Travis’ throat before he found the time to panic properly: breaking free of her lock and running home in tears, occasionally shouting about the harmful effects of cootie exposure. Susie, too, cried. She went inside to be hushed and hugged by her parents, but she took with her the heavy, antiquated weaponry, which slowed the process down considerably.

When a calm finally put a period on the raucous scene that took place that day, children slowly emerged from their homes and rummaged through the pillow case, taking only what was rightfully theirs. The street was at peace again, and all of its younger residents offered nods, smiles, and – ultimately – respect to Susie. There was a new sheriff in town, and she cheered up when she figured out what her first order of business must be.

A doorbell rang out through the house, and Travis remained in the safety of his bedroom, playing with a frown and a toy crossbow that shot little sticks equipped with tiny orange suction cups as arrowheads.

“Travis, sweetie.” His mothers voice came with a softness through the closed door. “One of your friends is here to see you!”

Thrilled to still have a single friend after the mess he had created, he almost knocked his mother down as he raced out of his room toward the open front door, where stood little Susie Wentworth, a familiar crossbow at her side. Susie matched what Travis wagered in fear with her confidence, but instead of calling, she raised.

“Travis, gimme a smooch on the lips, or I’ll shoot your wiener and your butt off!”

17 years later, they were wed at an archery range.

 

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