part 1/4
There’s something like four different ways I’ve heard this story told. I guess I don’t have much choice in how I myself tell it, but you should know going in that you might get a different version if you head into town and ask around. Might be age? I don’t know. I was a kid, something like thirty years ago. I’ve told it so many times there’s a hole in my head where the memory used to be. I’m gonna get a pitcher of ice water and a couple glasses and then we can get going. This humidity makes it hard to think. Be right back.
So like I said I was told this story in something like 1991 er ‘92. I remember the yellow ribbons around the trees out in front of the school showing support for our troops in Operation Desert Storm. My cousin Bobby was in the Air Force, a navigator for refueling tanker aircraft. Makin’ sure the bombs got all the way across the ocean to Iraq, I guess. Anyways, I remember the ribbons, which is how I remember when it was. You’ll see. When you get older, not even old, just older, all the shit in your head will start to run together and yesterday could have been ten years ago. You start finding ways to reassure yourself you were who you was when you were there. It’s hard to explain but you sort of live all of your years at once, all of the time, stacked on top of one another. The weight eventually starts smashing them together. In this case I’m pretty sure we’re talking the first couple years of the 90s, though. Because of the ribbons.
Can I pour you a glass? Iced cold. Fights back the breathlessness in these dog days.
Anyway, you asked about Paul and what I’d heard happened to him. It started in the fall. We all came back to school after a summer of bee stings and sword fights. Jackson Valley Elementary pulled from five rural counties. Most of us kids were spread out with our families through the spread of homesteads and half-dead farms. If you had a friend at school, there was a good chance he might live thirty minutes away by car. Summer time was sort of, you know, us going our separate ways. This was before cell phones and the internet and so you either lived nearby or you didn’t exist. I always came home to a mostly empty house -- another story for another time -- and spent most of my days out of school waiting to go back. I learned quick what boredom was like, you know? A boy could only entertain himself so long. I never would’ve admitted it as a kid but every year but by the end of summer I was aching to get on that bus back to school. What had all my friends been doing? Did they go to the shore? Did they see the Braves win streak? What secret knowledge would they each bring back to the lunch table? Swears, stories, evidence of the unknown adult world. None of us will ever forget Tom slowly and secretly pulled a torn magazine page out of his pocket and unfolded it: a jagged quarter page of Pamela Anderson, topless and missing her legs and a hand. David came back with a broken arm and a story of intense bravery involving a ladder. Matt showed us the pocket knife his grandfather gave him. Corey spent the summer with his Dad in Florida and was tanned so dark he’d somehow matured more than the rest of us. Kelly let us pass her new Gameboy around in awe trying to top each other’s Tetris scores. We all knew Lucas was making up his summer camp stories but we played along anyway. We were astronauts out in open space, reporting back to each other about what they’ve seen and what might exist outside of the infinite stands of trees. Our lunch table was home base. There was no truth but what we’d seen with our own eyes and could swear to god we weren’t making it up. Evidence of more. Evidence of potential.
Evidence of potential.
So you probably know the facts, right? Most of the details have been dug up and laid out for all to see. “Crusher: the disappearance of Paul Stoker, a True Crime Podcast.” Yeah. Yeah I’ve heard it. Couldn’t help myself. Haven’t watched the streaming show that came out a few years later but I heard it ain’t great. Not surprised. No one really likes an unresolved story.
‘Course they don’t ever talk to any of us. There’s enough info out there in the papers and such to get most of the basics of course; the names and the places, the police reports and the newspaper archives. In the advertisements they used our second grade class yearbook photo with a big red circle around Paul’s picture. When you go back home pull it up and you’ll see me two photos to the right, missing both of my front teeth like a cartoon character.
Everything was alphabetical of course, so Paul was only ever a few spots away from me whenever we were lined up or sorted out. I was always behind him, so I remember him better from from the back. Honestly, that has always freaked me out. I can’t remember his face, but I can remember that he always had his hair spiked up with gel. Bright blonde. Always had a gold chain around his neck. Maybe for a cross? He mostly wore blue. He was a few inches taller than me, even then. Those are the details I truly remember. I think I truly remember. Of course I’ve gone back and looked at Paul’s picture plenty of times to remind me what that face looked like. Should look like. That ain’t the same as remembering, though. I wish I remembered him more, is what I’m saying. Even though we only knew each other a few years something like this sticks with you. Kinda haunted, you know? Hate to use the word. He was a real person and something real happened to him. I don’t mean to say haunted in like a magical way. Something real happened to him.