The Black Ramp
By Flint Keller
These people were there: the Dorsett Twins, Timmy Hopper, Greg Wyland, two ladies out gardening, a kid in a stroller sitting by one of the ladies, Margie Thompson, Lucy Barnes, and Cecile White, three little neighborhood girls across the street jumping rope and myself. Everyone saw a piece of what happened. I saw it all, Cecile did too, but no one believed any of us.
Doug and Diane Dorsett’s dad had built them a skateboarding / biking ramp. It was high enough that on a board you could ride to the top, flip around and head back down, or ride the edge all the way up and if you were good enough back down again.
On a bike you could get some serious air if you had guts enough to hit that ramp at full speed. Dickie, Doug and Diane’s older brother who left for college last year, flew four-and-a-half sidewalk squares about five feet in the air. It looked like a rush, but there was no way I’d go that fast. The ramp was more of a large bump for me, but I was going a little faster each time building up my nerve.
On this day the gang is all there. Everyone had brought their board, or their bike and we all took turns going up and off the ramp, or teetering just on the edge. Those not on the ramp rode the driveway or practiced with their board on the Dorsett’s front stairs.
Ours was a typical street. Houses close enough together that if the lady next door screamed at her kid you heard it, and if the guy next door sneezed you wanted to say God Bless You.
Each house had a little front yard and a tree lawn with a huge Elm tree on it. The trees arched like giant sentries creating a beautiful green tunnel over the street, protecting our neighborhood. Summer gardens bloomed in at least every other yard: purple flowers, and yellow, pink. Most houses didn’t have driveways, they’d get to their garage through an alley out back, but the Dorsett’s house in the middle of the block had a long driveway.
Kids had gathered here even before the black ramp.
So this was a really hot mid summer day. Just after lunch. It was about 95°. Though a light breeze twitched at the leaves in the Elms high above, it didn’t get down to us so low.
You see how typical everything was?
Greg was lying on the lawn looking up at the trees talking to no one in particular. “My mom’s setting up the pool in our backyard. You guys wanna come cool off in a while?”
“Yeah.” “Sure.” “Cool.” “I’m going in in my clothes!”
Everyone needed a good cool off on a day like this.
It was Peter Pahapill’s turn on the ramp. Two kids, I’m not sure who, were boarding on the driveway. Greg was still kicking it on the grass. The three girls across the street skipped and chanted:
“Two little dickie birds sittin' on the wall
One named Peter, one named Paul
Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul
Don't you come back 'till your birthday's called
January, February…”
I was next on the ramp so I leaned on my bike next to the spot where we usually start. Peter looked at me and said, “I’m going to get so much air.” He waggled his eyebrows at me then took off.
He rocked his silver Mongoose back and forth standing and pumping, going faster and faster. As fast as when Dickie Dorsett hit the ramp, at least.
And that’s when it happened. He stayed standing, flew off the end of the ramp and disappeared.
I swear that’s exactly what I saw. He was there, he was gone. The air shimmered for a moment, like those heat waves off the blacktop.
At the moment that Peter disappeared, Cecile White let out a scream that rent the air and seemed to bring the light breeze from above down to us for a moment.
Peter and his Mongoose were gone.
The police came and interviewed all of us who were there, including the two ladies gardening who hadn’t seen a thing. Everybody said they saw pieces of what happened: Peter heading for the ramp, his bike swaying, Greg said he heard a whoosh, but only Cecile and I saw it all.
The cops didn’t believe any of it. They called the Pahapill’s house but Peter hadn’t gone home. And Peter never would.
He was gone. Just gone.
By Flint Keller
These people were there: the Dorsett Twins, Timmy Hopper, Greg Wyland, two ladies out gardening, a kid in a stroller sitting by one of the ladies, Margie Thompson, Lucy Barnes, and Cecile White, three little neighborhood girls across the street jumping rope and myself. Everyone saw a piece of what happened. I saw it all, Cecile did too, but no one believed any of us.
Doug and Diane Dorsett’s dad had built them a skateboarding / biking ramp. It was high enough that on a board you could ride to the top, flip around and head back down, or ride the edge all the way up and if you were good enough back down again.
On a bike you could get some serious air if you had guts enough to hit that ramp at full speed. Dickie, Doug and Diane’s older brother who left for college last year, flew four-and-a-half sidewalk squares about five feet in the air. It looked like a rush, but there was no way I’d go that fast. The ramp was more of a large bump for me, but I was going a little faster each time building up my nerve.
On this day the gang is all there. Everyone had brought their board, or their bike and we all took turns going up and off the ramp, or teetering just on the edge. Those not on the ramp rode the driveway or practiced with their board on the Dorsett’s front stairs.
Ours was a typical street. Houses close enough together that if the lady next door screamed at her kid you heard it, and if the guy next door sneezed you wanted to say God Bless You.
Each house had a little front yard and a tree lawn with a huge Elm tree on it. The trees arched like giant sentries creating a beautiful green tunnel over the street, protecting our neighborhood. Summer gardens bloomed in at least every other yard: purple flowers, and yellow, pink. Most houses didn’t have driveways, they’d get to their garage through an alley out back, but the Dorsett’s house in the middle of the block had a long driveway.
Kids had gathered here even before the black ramp.
So this was a really hot mid summer day. Just after lunch. It was about 95°. Though a light breeze twitched at the leaves in the Elms high above, it didn’t get down to us so low.
You see how typical everything was?
Greg was lying on the lawn looking up at the trees talking to no one in particular. “My mom’s setting up the pool in our backyard. You guys wanna come cool off in a while?”
“Yeah.” “Sure.” “Cool.” “I’m going in in my clothes!”
Everyone needed a good cool off on a day like this.
It was Peter Pahapill’s turn on the ramp. Two kids, I’m not sure who, were boarding on the driveway. Greg was still kicking it on the grass. The three girls across the street skipped and chanted:
“Two little dickie birds sittin' on the wall
One named Peter, one named Paul
Fly away, Peter, fly away, Paul
Don't you come back 'till your birthday's called
January, February…”
I was next on the ramp so I leaned on my bike next to the spot where we usually start. Peter looked at me and said, “I’m going to get so much air.” He waggled his eyebrows at me then took off.
He rocked his silver Mongoose back and forth standing and pumping, going faster and faster. As fast as when Dickie Dorsett hit the ramp, at least.
And that’s when it happened. He stayed standing, flew off the end of the ramp and disappeared.
I swear that’s exactly what I saw. He was there, he was gone. The air shimmered for a moment, like those heat waves off the blacktop.
At the moment that Peter disappeared, Cecile White let out a scream that rent the air and seemed to bring the light breeze from above down to us for a moment.
Peter and his Mongoose were gone.
The police came and interviewed all of us who were there, including the two ladies gardening who hadn’t seen a thing. Everybody said they saw pieces of what happened: Peter heading for the ramp, his bike swaying, Greg said he heard a whoosh, but only Cecile and I saw it all.
The cops didn’t believe any of it. They called the Pahapill’s house but Peter hadn’t gone home. And Peter never would.
He was gone. Just gone.
Copyright © 2011 Flint Keller All Rights Reserved
