The Blood Brothers, Part 5: Black Circle

We don’t know what morbidity came into our minds when we began a new Blood Brothers tradition. We had the idea to do something great for each other on our birthdays. That great thing was kidnapping each other. It was something I’ve had a little bit of experience in. As Mark, Ryan, and I planned out the cover story for Johnny’s kidnapping, we realized that we needed to add a cast member to our plot in order to make the plan believable. For this plan, we needed someone special.

We needed somebody from the other side of the tracks.

There is something odd about the town where we grew up. Cardston is a small town where the vast majority of the population are the good-natured, down-home, salt-of-the-Earth, yes-sir-thank-you-ma’am types. Literally across the Northernmost street in town was an Indian Reservation. Close to that road, there used to be train tracks, so I guess the “other side of the tracks” idea was pretty literal back home.

Unfortunately, the cowboys and Indians don’t really integrate well into one, united community full of handshakes and hugs. It feels like two separate communities that reluctantly associate with each other out of some kind of obligation or necessity. Although the white kids and the native kids went to the same schools since kindergarten, we hardly knew each other. Every couple of years there are well-meaning members of both communities that attempt some type of integration activity, but sadly it doesn’t take long for the enthusiasm to die down and for the two groups to return to the segregated status-quo.

That was just the way it was, and in hindsight, I really wish it wasn’t that way. I hope that I may one day be forgiven for my complacency, and for not actively trying to bridge the gaps that are so obvious to me now. I hope the two communities can heal of the wounds that exist between them, and maybe just one day they will be the community that we sang about in Church. Zion: of one heart.

But let’s get back to business. Fortunately for our small group, I knew just the perfect person. I was on pretty good terms with a really funny native kid in our class, named Cody.

He and I had this kind of unspoken respect for each other (the kind that required a respectful nod whenever we made eye-contact in the hallway) that went way back – all the way to Mr. Toast’s 5th grade class.

To 5th graders, The Small Gym was what the Colosseum was to the Romans: A confined area where the only escape was victory or a body bag; where mere mortal men became gods; where the wheat was quickly sorted from the chaff at a devastating pace; where the bloodlust of revenge was visited upon rivals with most extreme prejudice.

Cody was the new kid, and his first day in class marked the arrival of a living legend. He threw those pink fuzzy dodgeballs with astounding precision in which, until then, I was confident only heat-seeking missiles had the capability for. He could dodge those bouncy projectiles as if he were operating on premonitions of their respective trajectories.

I remember being absolutely blown away by the ease in which he could ninja. This new kid was awesome. Our class was up against a grade 6 class – older, bigger, meaner kids. Cody was the last man standing. The class chanted “CODY! CODY! CODY!”

Even though Cody was a #nativeamericanninjawarrior, he was no match for the 14-dodgeball coordinated assault. Although the older kids won, what is certain is that we felt like the winners and we never got creamed by a grade 6 class again. We formed an alliance that day, and spent the rest of our 5th grade dodgeball career kickin’ ass and takin’ names.

UNfortunately, Cody wound up moving away from Cardston soon after.

PROfortunately, Cody moved back in High School.

On that fateful March morning in English class, I leaned across the aisle to Cody to have our first legitimate conversation since before puberty and said, “Hey. So… do you want to help us kidnap Johnny?”

“Who’s Johnny?” He responded, in a way that sounded very uncertain of my exact intentions.

I pointed to the seat in front of me.

“Oh that curly-haired kid? Uh… ok. But why?”

“Well, it’s his birthday tomorrow. We want to kidnap him tonight as a prank. In order to make our cover story believable, we need somebody to play the part of a drunk and dead Indian.”

My heart was beating pretty hard, because I had just realized how racist that sounded. He kind of cocked his head at me as if he couldn’t believe what I had just said. Maybe the look was him trying to figure out how to play a character that was simultaneously drunk and dead. I was sure I was about to get punched.

But instead, Cody leaned back into his seat and he started into a wide grin.

“Let’s do it.”