The Fat Lady

When we were kids, my brothers and I were pretty much able to roam the neighborhood. I think my parents were not as strict on us by the time I was in 3rd grade. My oldest brother, Darrell, was 14 by then, and my middle brother, Ira, was 11. When we lived on the older side of Elk Grove, we were surrounded by kids. The Quads were basically on top of one another, not spaced by yards or long, double car driveways. Someone was always around. And the neighborhood was safe. It still is, but I think everybody is more cautious.

The only time I felt threatened was when The Fat Lady, who lived in the Quads with her Fat Son, tried to grab me. Everybody was afraid of The Fat Lady. Legend had it that she would steal a kid, bring him to her home, chop off his head, empty it to a hollow shell, fill the shell with ground beef and rice, and feed it to her son. It was a strange childhood rumor, but one we all wholeheartedly believed. Not that we had any proof or anything (like actually knowing a kid who she took), but we knew it was true.

As products of the 70's, we had to make up things to occupy our time. The only game system available back then was Pong (and boy was that FUN) and there were only three channels on the TV. Outside was literally where we wanted to be. Our fun mostly consisted of ding-dong-ditch, running through the cornfield, playing tag, and hanging out by the big green electric box.

The Fat Lady lived near the green electric box, so she had access to watching our every move. To scare one another, we would yell, "Here she comes!" when someone wasn't looking and then laugh and say, "Gotcha" when the victim fell for the prank.

One of the last times I remember seeing The Fat Lady was just before the summer was over. We were hanging out on the common grass area behind her house thinking of things to do with our day. I had my back to her house and fell for the "Here she comes" trick twice that day.

I should have known better by the time the third one rolled around. I should have detected the difference in Dave Barrow's voice. It was quieter, it was shaking; his heart was racing as mine would be moments later. When Dave said the words, I chose to ignore him, saying, "Yeah, right," instead.

In the corner of my eye, I saw her figure approaching me. The Fat Lady was there and she was reaching out to grab me. I was going to be her next victim. She was dressed in layers upon layers of clothes. She had a big, thin, pattered (all I remember is red and white) scarf covering her head. She was hungry for my brain guts.

I'm not recreating a memory when I think about The Fat Lady. She really did reach out and grab me that day. I am not sure I have ever forgotten the level of fear that ran through my body that afternoon. She grabbed me, probably with a lot less force than I imagined it was, but still enough to contain me in my spot. Everyone screamed and began scattering away, including my brothers. I was going to be gone forever.

As the guys ran, they yelled, "Get away, Cory, get away!" I shook my arm free rather easily, pushed her away from me and ran. I ran and I ran and I ran. I didn't look back. I was too afraid to look back. I ran home where I knew my dad would be. I ran home, opened the front door, closed it and locked it behind me, unsure if my brothers were safe or not.

My father was sleeping on the couch and the commotion woke him up. He jumped from the couch, ready to tackle the intruder who shook him from his slumber. When he realized it was me, he got angry.

"What the hell are you doing, punk?"

"The (breath) Fat (breath) Lady (breath) tried (breath) to..." was all I was able to get out of me. My father, tired of the rumor that the neighborhood kids and his sons made up, interrupted me.

"Enough of that crap with the lady down the street. Get the hell out of here and go play."

That's how life is different today. If I heard that some lady grabbed either of my kids, I'd be out of the house in an instant. People were more forgiving back then. They let their kids roam the streets from morning till night. There were no cell phones to connect us. We had to be within earshot of my father's whistle. If we couldn't hear us when he whistled, we were too far away from the house. Back then, if a kid said something bad happened, the kid's words were often questioned.

Things were simple then; much less complicated than they are today. We were allowed to go in a car with a friend's parents, even if ours didn't know them. Not today, and rightfully so. Our parents protected us, but were more open with their relationships with neighbors.

Shortly after The Fat Lady grabbed me, she and her son moved out of the neighborhood. I have no idea why. My father never went to her house to see if I was telling the truth. I was told to just stay away from her. The police were never summoned to check out her house. They were never asked to see if the headless corpses of neighborhood kids were stuffed in their closets.

The Fat Lady lives in my thoughts. I mostly laugh now when I think about her.