L: The Slime Pit

Chapter: Kid, The Slime Pit

Unlike the bayou by our house, the bayou by our new apartment building
is lined with concrete. The sides dip at a sharp angle to the ditch
below, which overflows and leaves bits of trash and soggy vines and
transparent leaves on the flat bottom. I know for a fact, from a
picture one of the neighbors showed me, that a shark was caught
swimming around down there. The picture was of a white and gray lump,
but the teeth and fins were unmistakable. A man in orange overalls
stood grinning over the shark, a long hook in his hand that reminded me
of a drawing I'd seen of Little Bo Peep. "What did they do with it?"
I'd asked, and the neighbor held up a sharp, triangular tooth, grinning
like the hook man in the picture.

One advantage of the concrete bayou is the Slime Pit, located right
behind the building next to ours. Most of the other kids in the
neighborhood know about it. I found it by following them with my little
sister in tow. The Slime Pit is just a run-off into the ditch, but it's
at a lesser angle than the sides of the bayou. It's covered in green,
slick sludge with water running over the surface. It is so slippery
that to cross it requires going down on all fours, like a dog, or
taking the long way around. Not many kids cross it, though, since
that's not the point. The only thing on the other side is an old folks
home. Sometimes the residents of the home stand on the edge of the
bayou, staring down at us. They wear robes, and never speak, their
white hair blowing around in the wind while they stare and stare.

My little sister and I just watched the first time we found the Slime
Pit, but the next day we joined in and took the running leap onto the
green surface, sliding on our bare feet to the very bottom. This part
of the bayou smells like sewage, with a faint undertone of toilet
paper. The object of the Slime Pit is to get to the bottom without
falling. Someone who does fall immediately gets up, swatting at his
behind and the wet spot that's been left there while the rest of the
kids laugh and point. The green sludge doesn't actually get onto
clothes, but the smell does. Once I saw a girl, taller than me and
wearing short shorts, fall onto her side, her head making a loud wet
smack. She slid for aways, one part of her face pressed into the sludge
while her legs kicked wildly. When she got up she slipped again, this
time onto her rear end, and when she finally made it to the dry
concrete she limped off, her hair dripping. We haven't seen her
since.

My little sister has never fallen but I have. For days my soggy shorts
lay on the bathroom floor, making the bathroom smell like the toilet
had backed up. Finally I threw the shorts under the sink, where the
smell couldn't get out. We don't use that part of the sink anyway. Now
I am careful to keep my balance, my arms stuck out as I shoot down the
Slime Pit. Sometimes I can even make myself go in a different
direction, a necessity on particularly slick days, when you can slide
right into the ditch and water at the bottom. I've seen the movie
"Jaws." I know what sharks can do to people.

Today I have made my way over the Slime Pit by myself. No one else is
around. No old people stand on the other side, either. Even the thin
sheet of water that flows over the sludge is gone. The sun hits the
back of my neck, and I'm hot. I turn around to go back home, when out
of the corner of my eye I spot a round hole cut into the concrete on
the other side of the Slime Pit, across the ditch. I haven't noticed it
before, or maybe I have and didn't think anything of it. Either way, I
decide to investigate.

Crossing the Slime Pit is easy. The sludge is still slick, but spongy.
I can feel it oozing up between my toes, keeping me from slipping. It
hasn't rained for weeks, which must be why it's so dry. Also, I think,
people need to flush their toilets more in order for the Slime Pit to
work. This is the unspoken truth about the Slime Pit that we all
ignore.

The ditch is also low; just my feet get wet as I hop over to other
side. Soon I am standing in front of the hole, a perfect circle cut
into the concrete. It's the entrance to a long tunnel that heads
straight back for a bit and then curves up. I can see some light coming
down the tunnel, but it's still dark. I weight my options, which are to
head back home or go into the tunnel. Going in seems forbidden, though
I haven't been told specifically not to go into one. Who would tell me?
Right now, at home, my big sister would be in her bedroom, cutting up
magazines and taping pictures on her walls. The apartment will be hot
and stuffy; nothing will be on the television at this time of day. I
might have to watch my little sister if I go back, or clean the kitchen
or do laundry. I succeed in convincing myself to enter the hole.

It's a tight fit, but not so tight that I feel like the walls are
closing in on me. I can move along at a pretty good pace, but I can't
turn around and look behind me. I picture a loose, snarling dog
following me into the tunnel, or the concrete walls cracking and
collapsing. I move faster, just in case. The angle of the tunnel
shifts, heading up, and before long I'm at the end.

The end opens up into a tiny room, with a dirt floor and stained
concrete walls that are almost as tall as I am. The ceiling is an iron
grate, the spaces between the bars too small for me to crawl through. I
look around, but there isn't much to look at. Still, it is quiet, and
cool, and as far as I can tell there are no bugs or, worse, rats, which
my mother has warned me against when it's my turn to watch my little
sister and I plan to take her to the bayou. The room doesn't have the
sewage smell of the Slime Pit, either. I sit down on some grass, hoping
it's dry enough.

For a while I sit like that, and then the silence creeps up on me. It's
almost like laying in a bathtub full of water, with your ears below the
surface. I decide to practice the song my teacher has been playing over
and over on her tiny record player, the one that crackles and hums and
sometimes sends sparks flying out of the socket when she unplugs it.
The song is called "Alouette," and I don't know what the words mean. My
class is learning it just by sounds. "It's French," my teacher said,
"It's about plucking a bird and getting it ready for cooking." At this
explanation some of the kids made vomiting sounds, but my teacher is
determined we learn the song, though for what purpose she hasn't let
on.

While I'm singing - sometimes quietly and sometimes loud enough that my
voice echoes down the tunnel - I see something shiny on the wall across
from me. I stop singing and look closer. The sunlight has come through
the grate above and hit a piece of yellow quartz, held to the wall by a
thin covering of spider web. There are no other spider webs in the tiny
room; it's just on the quartz, so light that the stone still catches
the light. Just as I am reaching up to pry the stone loose, I hear
voices, a man and a woman. The voices are getting closer, and I panic,
moving back into the tunnel and far enough down so that I'm
hidden.

"I know I heard voices coming from here," the woman says, "It sounded
like singing."

"Ma'am, there's nobody here. Are you sure you were right here?"

"Of course I'm sure." The woman sounds old, and upset. She must be one
of the people who live in the old folks home.

"What if someone's trapped down there?" she asks. I can hear her as
clearly as if she were standing right next to me. I move further down
the tunnel, not making a sound.

"Hello? Hello?" the man's voice calls, "Anybody there?"

I keep perfectly still, though I'm not sure what I'm afraid of. I can
still see the piece of quartz under its spider web coat. More than
anything I want that piece of quartz. The man and the woman argue,
until finally she begins to cry. Her sobs are low and muffled, like
someone has a hand over her mouth. The quartz twinkles in the
light.

"Now, now," the man says. I picture him patting the old lady on the
shoulder, or maybe he is mad at her, and that is why she is crying. She
says something I can't understand, and then I hear them moving off, the
ground crunching under their feet. I wait until all I can hear is the
silence, then crawl back out of the tunnel.

The quartz comes off easily, the webbing tearing away from the wall and
floating in slow motion. As far as I can tell, it's just a regular
piece of yellow quartz, part of the surface rough and part of it
faceted. It catches the light even more as I hold it up and turn it
slowly. I can't understand why it's here, in this tiny room, or why a
spider attached it to the wall. I start thinking about how a spider
could lift the quartz up, and hold it in place while it spun its web,
and I picture something huge - huge and angry with a mind of its own -
wanting the quartz back.

I move fast, back into the tunnel with the quartz held tightly in one
hand. The trip down the tunnel takes forever. I hear something in back
of me, in front of me. The concrete closes in, stretches. It
rumbles.

At the end, I slide down the concrete wall of the bayou and look behind
me, just once, to make sure nothing has followed me. The glare of the
sun makes me relax, but I am still too close to the tunnel entrance. I
head for the ditch.

Water runs over the Slime Pit again, the green sludge bright and smelly
as usual. It will be slippery again, too, and I tell myself it will be
no different than running and sliding across it like I have before. I
step back, then take two quick steps forward and jump onto the sludge,
sliding and heading towards the other side. I throw my hands out to
keep my balance, and watch as the piece of quartz flies out of my hand
and lands on top of the sludge, too far away for me to get to it. Both
the quartz and I slide down towards the bottom, almost at the same
speed, the quartz tumbling in the water and still twinkling.

I shift my feet to avoid going all the way to the bottom and into the
ditch, where I might not be able to stop at all. I move sideways, but
the quartz keeps going straight down. I reach the edge of the Slime
Pit, the concrete dry and hot, and turn around just in time to watch
the quartz roll into the bayou. I almost hear the plink-plunk of it
disappearing beneath the water's surface. I almost feel its rough and
smooth edges, still in my palm.

But there is nothing in my hand, not even the spider web that covered
the quartz. Something shifts in my head, slides and travels down my
neck to my chest, through my arms and legs. The sun pulses, then
steadies; the traffic noise is briefly unbearable. I search for a word,
and when I find it, I keep it to myself. "Typical," I think, liking the
sound of it, trapped inside my head, the word itself unable to force my
tongue to work or escape my mouth. Who would I say it to, anyway? Who
would listen?