Cemetery Street by John Zunski (free ebook reader for ipad .txt) 📕

bus ride away from the army.”
“Private Puny Pecker,” I roared.
“Private Puny Pecker,” Shannie repeated, giggling.
“It’s a wonder he didn’t kill them,” I laughed. “He must have been pissed!”
“Yeah he was. He was livid,” Shannie said.
“When Diane and I got to the cop shop, Count was seething. He was pacing back and forth in the holding cell clad in a borrowed pair of way-too-small boxers, scratching himself like an ape. He had a run in with a little poison ivy.”
“’I’m going to piss on them, the whole fucking family!’ Count roared when he saw us.”
“‘Keep it down,’ the cop yelled. To me he said, ‘Ma’am, be careful, don’t feed the animals.’”
On television, the upper deck of the Cypress Street section of I-880 in Oakland, collapsed. Reports of survivors filtered through Shannie’s story.
“'You’re a barrel of laughs!' Count told the cop as he scratched himself. Be quiet lover-boy,' the cop laughed at Count."
“’They’re all a bunch comedians Shannie,” Count told me. I had a date with those two cunts. They wanted to give me something to remember home by. Something that would get me through basic training.’”
“’Looks like they did!’ I told Count.” Shannie said.
“‘What did I ever do to them?’ he pleaded.”
"You pissed them off, You know, hell hath no furry…’ I told Count," Shannie continued.
“’Mr. Light-dick, excuse me, Mr. Lightman,’ the cop said opening the cell door. ‘You’re free to go.’ As we left the station the cop yelled after us, ‘Hey Light-dick! Don’t forget the boxers. I expect them back.’”
“'Yes sir,' Count faced the cop and saluted."
“Did he?” I asked.
“In spades, Just James. In Spades! Think bacon strip!” Shannie laughed.

In August of ’88, two weeks before he left for the army, Count led us to a place twenty miles upriver from Laurel Hill, past places named Manayunk and Conshohocken, past ports named Kennedy and Providence; atop a bluff known as Indian Point, which overlooked a river named Schuylkill stood another monument - its only inscription: Angel Wind. Count parked the powder fairy blue pickup along a railroad siding and we hoofed over the tracks and across the trestle spanning the river.
Shannie climbed atop the trestle’s hand rail and crossed on the narrow, warped balance beam forty feet above the river. Her forehead etched with concentration - her eyes unblinking, Shannie took one deliberate step after another, on occasion her arms flailed. Count and I gained the far side, sat under a tree and waited.
“If I lose my balance,” Shannie yelled from the center of the trestle. “Even for a second - a second,” Shannie teased. “I could die.”
“You will die Ortolan,” Count yelled. “Cause I’m not getting off my ass to help you!”
“For what?” Shannie ignored Count. “Like there has to be a what!” Not only does she make things difficult, she has to give a speech, I thought. “Would they say I died in vain, died for a thrill?”
“Stupidity,” Count bellowed.
“Yes, died of stupidity,” Shannie answered. Her pace quickened. “Died for nothing, what a way to die - for nothing! I like that. There isn’t any pressure in nothing.”
“The lunatic has a death wish. Well, Morrison,” Count slapped my back. “You’re going to have your hands full.”
I sat silently, watching Shannie. She was in the zone; her pace quickened, walking along the handrail as if it were a sidewalk. I admired her grace. When she reached the end of the trestle, she vaulted off the rail. Shannie flew through the air, her long hair raced behind her. As she neared the ground, her shoulders straightened as she extended her arms and cupped her hands downwards, as if two handfuls of air would slow her fall. She landed on the stone bed next to the railroad tracks, her knees flexed forward arresting any remaining forward momentum - a perfect standup landing.
A low rumble came from Black Rock Tunnel. “Hey Shannie, It’s your lucky day,” Count quipped. A westbound freight thrashed through the tunnel. Shannie ran towards us, a smile plastered across her face. The blue Cyclops emerged from its cave groaning loudly, shattering the midday calm. “Come on,” she pleaded. “Lets run it.”
“Do what you want, I gonna meet my fate meaningfully,” Count said.
“Come on James, get up!” She cried.
I leapt to my feet and chased my blonde siren.
“Run!” She smiled over her shoulder. The earth shook beneath our feet. “Run! Fast! Come on, Faster! Faster! Faster! Faster!” she screamed, her voice swirling in the wind. “Feel it?” she shrieked. Feels great! Just great!” she laughed, her hair dancing behind her. Her laughter pierced the freight’s roar. She reminded me of a salmon swimming upstream. I ran faster, wanting her hair to wash over my face. I needed to smell its freshness - its blossom. Then it was over; the wind replaced by midday stillness. The clank of metallic wheels faded into the distance. Shannie’s hair rested upon her back. Dust and grime that blew out of the tunnel with a cyclonic whirl settled around us. I watched as Shannie kissed me with her excited eyes; I returned the favor. I wished for the courage to feel her lips with mine.
“If you two want privacy, say the word,” Count said lumbering towards us. Shannie’s spell broke. She winked. “Thanks Just James,” she whispered.
“For what,” I questioned.
“For trusting me,” she said evoking the magic of our first day. “Let’s run the tunnel. We don’t have to worry about banshees.”
I watched Count and Shannie precede me into the belly of the whale. Fooled by the illusion of light at the far end, my friends, mere yards ahead slipped into oblivion. I took a deep breath and stepped in. Cool, dank air smacked my face. Water dripped all about. To the sides of the track, puddles lay here and there. In front of me a shadow moved. Elsewhere rats squealed. I took one step at a time; left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. The sounds reverberated off the uneven stone walls, blending together in damp, black horrors - a symphony of the grave.
“James,” Counts voice echoed through the tunnel. “Listen. If a train comes, bend over, grab your ankles and kiss your ass goodbye.”
“You’re funny,” I answered.
“Don’t listen to that asshole,” Shannie cried up ahead, surprisingly far ahead. I couldn’t see her, though the end of the tunnel was clearly illuminated. The paradox was maddening.
“I ever tell you ‘bout the curse of the tunnel?” Count asked. I jumped as his paw grabbed my shoulder. “Why so jumpy?” Count laughed.
Up Yours, I didn’t say. In the distance I heard a rumble. Another train? I squirmed from Count’s grasp and stepped deeper into the darkness.
“Not so fast,” Count said grabbing my shoulders.
“Let me go asshole!” I shrieked, elbowing his ribs.
“You pecker head!” Count shoved me, launching me forward. I threw my hands in front of me to break my fall. Jagged rocks seared into my palms. I swallowed a scream.
“Chill out!” Count said looming over me. “You all right?” he extended a hand to help me up. I ignored him. I rolled to my side. Up ahead, Shannie emerged from the darkness. She turned and stared back into the tunnel, hands on her hips.
“Be a douche bag,” Count said when I didn’t answer. Mumbling, he walked away. I found my feet and followed.
Count stepped into the light. Shannie spoke, Count waved a hand. She stood in the middle of the track, staring into the darkness. Though it was impossible for her to see me, I felt her glare.
“What’s the curse of the tunnel?” I asked Count as I emerged. He leaned against the tunnel’s bulkhead, legs and arms crossed. He ignored me.
“You had to bring it up,” Shannie bemoaned. Count shrugged. “Go ahead, tell him,” Shannie snapped.
“Just a crazy old coon’s tale,” Count replied.
“Geezus F-ing Pete,” Shannie rolled her eyes.
Count motioned us to follow. A hundred or so feet off the tracks at the base of a steep hill, nestled amongst overgrown vegetation, rested the shell of an old stone house. Both sidewalls were intact, though scarred by flame. A chimney clung desperately to a wall. Stones from collapsed walls were strewn about, small trees poked through the cracks. The remains of a campfire rested in the center of the ruined house. Broken beer bottles sparkled in the sunlight. Used condoms hung from a tree.
The ground trembled, an eastbound freight screeched out the tunnel. Ignoring the train, Shannie stood at the foot of the crumbled front wall.
Count nodded at the wrecked house. “They were murdered. All but one, and he blames himself.”
“Way cool,” I commented, foraging through the remains. “When? Why?” I asked.
“The 40’s, give or take.” Count answered. He squatted, investigating whatever it was that caught his attention. “Why?” Count looked up. “The old coon says he heard the banshee’s wail. Says he knew it was coming. Says he didn’t do nothing to stop it. He was walking through the tunnel one foggy morning. He always walked the tunnel; it’s how he got to work. He worked at Diamond glass, way before they shut her down. Walked all the way to town from here, careful to time his trip through the tunnel, didn’t want to get caught in the tunnel with the early eastbound freight. That morning wasn’t any different. In the middle of the tunnel, the cries of the banshee and the clanking of her chains surprised him. He didn’t see it coming - you know, the fog lurks in the tunnel too. He dove out of its way just in time. He laid in muck beneath the fog gazing up as thirteen palls passed. Thirteen sets of clanking chains overpowered his whimpers.
“Banshee Smamshee, what a dumb story,” I said.
“That’s what I said…” Count stood behind the dead campfire, his arms outstretched, like a condor riding thermals. “… until I found out how many people lived here.”
“Let me guess - thirteen,” I said.
“Fourteen,” Shannie said. I turned to her, she sat upon a fallen tree outside the crumbled front wall. “He was the sole survivor.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Russell,” Shannie replied disappearing behind the wall. A breeze rustled the treetops, in the distance, water tumbled over Blackrock dam.
“Bullshit!” I said.
“Think so?” she asked emerging from behind the wall. “Ask him, see what he says.”
A few weeks later I asked Russell what’s the curse of the tunnel. Leaning on his broom in front of Wally’s, he warned, “Don’t be caught in there when a train comes. Wicked things happen to people you love. Now excuse me, I has to get back to work.”
“It’s still a dumb story,” I avoided Shannie’s glare.
“How can people do this?” Shannie protested kicking strewn garbage. “This is hallowed ground.”
“Maybe for you,” Count said. “For everyone else, it’s just some dumb coon’s old house.”
“You’re an insensitive prick!” Shannie snapped.
“No one gives a fuck,” Count answered.
Choosing not to double back through the tunnel, we followed the footpath along the river. A bluff rose high above the water. Crooked trees pockmarked the point’s jagged face. Jutting from the woods, Indian point supervised the twists and turns of the meandering Schuylkill. Broken glass and trash branded the craggy surface like liver spots. In the distance, the double plume from the Limerick Nuclear plant lingered over the rolling hilltops. Jet’s contrails crisscrossed the clear sky.
“That’s a helluva fall,” I stood on the edge looking at the crawling river.
“Tell me about it,” Count nudged me forward. His quick execution of a full nelson kept me from falling. “Imagine being thrown over,” he continued as he drug me from the edge. “Than you might know what that little girl felt like.”
“What