The Confession of Ricky Schmidt

By Rex Nipper

This book is based on actual events. Ricky Schmidt is looking back on the most pivotable moment of his life and how he dealt with it. It's a first person account from age 4, through his teens where he had to choose, along with his friends, if he was going to be a victim, or victor in a time where compassion was often seen as weakness. He de

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ranting Rex Publications
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988989707

Book preview

Prologue: Damage

THE PLATE-GLASS WINDOW NEXT to me exploded into a waterfall of splintered glass and windowpane. I threw my arms up as huge shards of glass fell over me, splattering on the ground at my feet. It took me a moment before I realized that the deafening boom wasn’t the window but the shotgun from inside the house. Literally, every muscle in my body clenched like I’d stuck a butter knife in a wall socket. My instinct was to immediately shoot back. But with glass all over me and the risk of more shots bein’ fired, I took off across the porch and hurdled the railing like a track star. I hit the ground, rollin’ into a pile of shoveled snow on the opposite side of the driveway. I then scrambled to my feet and ran to the side of the house where Mike and Jimmy were already standin’ and pressed myself against the outside wall.

Mike’s tactic of hit-and-run was workin’. We were certainly pissin’ the guy off anyway!

Hit-and-run, man, Mike said. Hit-and-run.

According to him, he learned it from his brother, who had been in Vietnam. I’m not sure if that’s who he learned it from or even if his brother had ever been in Vietnam. I wasn’t even sure if his brother was ever in the Army. I mean, I’d met his brother…not exactly combat material. If he was in the Army, he was most likely in an office somewhere. He looked more like an insurance salesman than a combat veteran, so I wouldn’t be surprised if Mike had made the whole thing up.

Dude, they would go in, hit, and run out. Then they’d go in from another direction and hit again, doin’ a shitload of damage with like three or four people.

Well, that’s what we were doin’…damage…at least at first. Nothin’ ruins your day like a twelve gauge.

After me, Mike, and Jimmy hashed out our plan of hit-and-run, Mike parked his truck at the end of the alley behind the house. We would go in, break a window, kick in a door, or whatever, and watch as shit hit the fan. It was night, and the guy never turned off the lights inside or pulled the shades, so most of the time, we could see where he was. What a moron. When things calmed down, we would go back in again, creatin’ as much havoc as humanly possible.

The three of us took off in different directions. I ran behind the back corner of a house on the west side of the street. It was a small yellow bungalow with white shutters and flower boxes, completely different from the rest of the neighborhood. The old couple who lived there had been in it for about fifty years. Houses in the neighborhood were a combination of modest family homes, and dilapidated slumlord properties, whose occupants could care less about how they looked. I just hoped that the people who lived in the nice yellow house were too old and too deaf to know what was happenin’ across the street. I woulda felt pretty shitty had they woken up and gotten their heads blown off.

Mike got in his truck. I wasn’t sure which way Jimmy went. Briefly, I thought I would stay and hide out to see what was gonna happen. I thought better of it though and decided to head home. After all, I was pretty shaken from my brief encounter with death.

I gingerly peeked around the corner of the back porch to see if anyone came out on the street. I wanted to make sure everything was safe. It was quiet, patches of snow still left from the latest winter storm deadening the sound of the city. The only thing I could hear at first was a slight wind. Then the sirens started to approach from off in the distance. After all, guns bein’ fired across from an elementary school in Des Moines, Iowa wasn’t really commonplace. You’d think people would have at least looked out to see what was happenin’.

Once I was pretty sure it was clear, I moved a few steps away from the back of the house. When I knew all was quiet, I turned…and ran chest first, right into Jimmy.

Fuck me! I nearly wet my pants! He was standin’ behind me the whole time. I was concentrating so hard on what was goin’ on across the street that I didn’t even hear him. My first thought was that I was busted. I must have turned sheet white.

I gritted my teeth and called him an Asshole! He let out a laugh, called me a pussy, and walked right past me to see what was happenin’. I just stood there holdin’ my chest, feelin’ like I was about to go into cardiac arrest. I was tryin’ to catch my breath as Jimmy nodded toward the house.

We gotta go! He said a little panicked.

Ya think? Or maybe we should just wait for the cops? I said to him with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Jimmy flipped me off for the comment but then asked, By the way, you ok? I thought someone should keep an eye on you.

I’m fine. I think we need to get the hell outa here though. Can you hear that?

From the sound of the sirens, the cops were only a few blocks away. We abandoned our hidin’ place and ran north across the street, through the school playground. On the other side was an opening in the fence next to a huge oak tree. This led to the old railroad right-of-way that ran between houses on the west side of East 12th Street. It took us to the alley behind Bob’s Grocery just south of my house.

The entire ordeal likely took less than a minute, but in that moment, it felt like an eternity. Time flies when you’re havin’ fun, slows to a crawl when you’re bored, and almost comes to a complete stop when you’re terrified; and I was definitely terrified.

Since we were out of immediate danger, we trotted up the alley, the jelly feelin’ in my legs slowly dissipating. For a moment there, I wasn’t so sure about my chances, but I didn’t have any regrets. Not a one. Still, I was startin’ to become giddy and manic, like I’d been mainlinin’ caffeine.

Jimmy was givin’ me shit, tryin’ to calm me down. Man, you were movin’! I’ve never seen you run so fast. When you jumped that railing, I thought you were gonna take flight. You didn’t even—

He stopped mid-sentence, grabbed my jacket, and pulled me into the trees and bushes that lined the alleyway. I straightened out my jacket and said, Hey man, what the fuck?

He motioned down the alley, whisperin’, Shut up and get down.

A squad car had turned into the end of the alley, comin’ toward us. The cop had his lights off, so I hadn’t noticed him. Jimmy must have seen somethin’, the flash of the car off the streetlight at the end of the alley, or those cherry red lights on the top. I don’t know. If he hadn’t seen him, we woulda been spotted for sure.

The cop car was about fifty yards away, rollin’ slowly down the alley, when we hit the trees. As it got closer, you could barely hear the engine and the crunch of gravel under its tires.

We hid in a thicket of bushes clumped around a phone pole in the middle of a small grove of leafless birch trees. As the cop passed, his spotlight bounced off the houses and garages, lightin’ up the yards as the car crept slowly toward us. We kept low, hopin’ he wouldn’t see us or our shadows. My heart thumped so hard I could feel it in my ears. I was positive Jimmy could hear it and was almost convinced that even the cop would hear it. I started to sweat, even though it was freezin’. For sure, we were busted. We had to be. Hangin’ out in the bushes was a waste of time. We had to get movin’. There was no way this guy would catch us on foot anyway. Donuts were a dietary staple for these guys. Even my cigarette and resin-filled asthmatic ass could outrun them.

I was gettin’ ready to run when Jimmy, who must have felt my muscles tense, grabbed my jacket again, pullin’ me to the frozen ground, and whispered through clenched teeth, Don’t…move!

We were about five feet from the alley when the car came right up next to us and stopped. We could clearly hear the conversations over his police radio. At that moment, I thought we were caught dead to rights. He had to know we were there. Jimmy had ahold of my hair now and wouldn’t let me move. I wanted to bolt, but he woulda torn my scalp off. I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that the cop would turn his spotlight on us. He was gonna look down at us and tell us we were under arrest. Yep…this was it.

The cop’s spotlight beamed right over our heads. I couldn’t believe it—he didn’t even see us. I have no idea how he missed us, but thankfully, he did. Jimmy let go of my hair, and I turned, lookin’ at him in amazement. He just smiled. The cop slowly drove off, shinin’ his light on houses as he went.

Pussy, Jimmy said to me a second time that night, and if you had run, we woulda been busted.

After another near-cardiac arrest, we waited for my heart to stop poundin’, and then inched our way along the tree line toward the front of the house that the trees surrounded.

Someone obviously saw us runnin’, I said. Otherwise, why would the cop be so far away from where we were?

We looked across the playground and saw people standin’ on their stoops and porches or walkin’ toward the commotion on the other side of the street. Evidently, they felt it was safe now that the cops showed up. The area was lit up like Time Square, with at least eight cop cars surroundin’ the area. The sound of sirens seemed to have roused most of the neighborhood, includin’ the guy whose yard we stood in. He walked to the door in his boxer shorts, beer gut hangin’ so far out from under his potato chip-soiled t-shirt that it seemed to defy gravity. Seein’ us standin’ in his yard, he asked, What the hell’s goin’ on up there?

Don’t know, I said turnin’ away from him to stare at Jimmy with my eyes wide open.

I’m gonna get some pants and a coat and see what the hell the commotion is.

Yeah, I muttered under my breath, we thank you for that. Pants would be good.

He went back into the house. Jimmy laughed at my comment and grabbed me by the arm.

Time to fly, he said.

We turned and ran back toward the alley, takin’ care to ensure the cop was long gone.

We decided it best to cross the alley where we had been and cut through yards to get to the alley on the other side of East 9th Street. This would put us far away from the commotion. It turned out it was a bad idea. When we started to cross East 9th, two cop cars came from opposite ends of the block toward us. One of them spotted us and accelerated. Me and Jimmy calmly backtracked a few steps and walked up to the front door of the closest house to us and tried the door. It was unlocked. We just walked in like we lived there.

It was late, and no one was in the living room. It was possible no one was home since all the lights were out. We ran through the house and out the back door, both of us grabbin’ a banana from the kitchen on the way. We then ran through the backyard and back to the alley as fast as we could and up to my house, which sat almost directly across from the alley’s entrance. By the time that cop rolled his fat jelly-donut filled ass outa the car, we were in my backyard eatin’ bananas.

Takin’ a bite of my banana, I asked, Wanna come in and wait ‘til things cool down?

Naw, Jimmy said. I need to get home. Mom’s makin’ pork chops.

Shit, I thought. I wanted to go with him. I needed somethin’ more to eat than the banana. We really didn’t have food in the house.

Later, dude, Jimmy said.

Later, I replied.

Meet at my house later? He asked."

Yeah, I said.

I headed into my house, and Jimmy headed home. He lived close by on the next block, only a short walk. He’d easily stay in backyards ‘til he got there. Besides, he could always run through someone else’s kitchen.

I went into the house and directly to my room. I started shakin’ uncontrollably while changin’ outa my dirty clothes and had to sit for a moment to try and calm things down. Most kids think they’ll live forever, and I was no exception. However, the whole night freaked me out, and it took a while to process.

Thankfully, no one was home. My bedroom was in the basement. I was what my sister Jeanie called a dungeon dweller. It wasn’t far from the truth. I have no doubt that if I ever get cancer, it’ll be due to the radon poisoning from my years in that basement, or possibly, the pack of cigarettes, and countless joints I smoked each day.

The house was over 75 years old, built in 1904, and that was about the last time the basement had been painted. The red brick walls had once been covered with plaster and painted white. The plaster base had long turned to dust behind the paint, givin’ it the illusion that the walls had caught fire. Between the busted-up floor and the lead paint bubblin’ away from the walls, it’s a wonder I’m still alive. There were spots where you could see outside between the bottom plate and the top of the foundation. The main support beam that ran through the center of the house, an old railroad bridge timber, was cracked in two and held up by an old log that had been pounded into place. I was always sure that at any moment, the house was gonna come down on top of me.

The basement was always damp and smelled like mold and old newspapers. On my thirteenth birthday, my father built two eight-foot-long walls from 2 x 4s and wood paneling in the corner behind the stairs as a makeshift bedroom. Before that, I slept in the living room. Since there were only three bedrooms, and I was the youngest of my brother and sisters, I got the living room floor. I was three years behind my brother. My brother and two sisters were only a year apart. Evidently, my parents never saw a need for me to have my own room until then. I have no idea how they came to that conclusion. However, given the constant hormonal issues with most teenage boys, it’s easy to assume adolescence was the reason. After all, who the hell wants to walk into a room and see their brother, or son, with morning wood? What a way to ruin breakfast.

I was about halfway through my cigarette when mom and the rest of the clan came through the front door. I could always tell who was in the house. Mom shuffled when she walked. She was so small, just an inch shy of five feet, that she barely made the floor squeak. John, my brother, always walked with purpose. His strides had meaning. In fact, he marched more than walked. I guess it made sense that he’d joined the military. He was headin’ to Korea the next week, his first overseas assignment since bootcamp. We were all supposed to be at my grandparents for a goin’ away thing. Yeah, I had other plans. I used to be forced to go out there, but lately, my mother had backed off the requirement.

My oldest sister Jeanie walked just like mom, but she weighed more, so her steps made the floor creak. Dad was easy to recognize. He wasn’t with them, but he always wore those old leather wingtips. His steps echoed through the house like the march of a wooden soldier. However, even though my dad looked and weighed as much as an Olympic powerlifter, it was my sister Deanna who had the hardest steps. She didn’t walk so much as stomped. Each step sounded like a wreckin’ ball hittin’ the side of the house. You would think she was always pissed-off, but she just walked hard.

I was lost in my thoughts when mom walked to the basement door.

Ricky! She called.

Yeah?

Come here.

I lazily dragged my ass off my bed, put my cigarette out, and walked toward the stairs. God forbid she saw me smokin’. I really wasn’t in the mood for that lecture. Seein’ me smoke sent her over the edge.

When I was thirteen, mom found a pack of cigarettes I stole from my dad’s sister. I had been smokin’ them in the basement. I was upstairs, and she’d come down lookin’ for what I don’t know, but she found the smokes and several cigarette butts. Boy, you woulda thought I had killed someone then. She sat me down in the kitchen to lecture me about the sins of smokin’. I woulda taken it seriously, but the entire time she yelled at me, she had her own lit non-filtered between her fingers. Hell, I was just glad she didn’t find the joint I had hidden down there. The women woulda gone ballistic!

I walked up the basement steps to the landing.

Where have you been? she demanded. Evidently, I wasn’t even gonna get a preamble of how ya doin’?

Um…right here? I said like duh…where do you think I’ve been?

She looked at me with that I-don’t-know-how-stupid-you-think-I-am-but-think-again, look.

Uh huh, she said.

I curled my lip, conjurin’ up a look of disgust, let out a heavy sigh, shook my head, and muttered, Whatever.

You were supposed to go with us, she said.

I hated goin’ to see her parents. My grandmother was worse than my mother. She couldn’t leave well enough alone, always harpin’ on everything, and never lettin’ anyone just relax.

You know why I hate goin’ there, I said flatly.

You can come and be with your family occasionally, she responded. The least you could do is make an appearance.

I started to turn around and walk back down the stairs.

Hey! she called out. I’m not done talkin’ to you!

I turned and looked at her with a scowl on my face and just stared at her. Mom stared back for what seemed like an eternity before she finally spoke.

So why are the police down at the school? She asked.

Down at what school? I asked, with a look of bemused confusion on my face, knowin’ she was lookin’ for a way to connect me to the commotion goin’ on down the street. I had done this way too long, and I wasn’t fallin’ for it. Mom stared at my face, waitin’ for some indication of guilt. I think she believed she really could read minds or somethin’. However, my experience to this point showed me that she could no more tell what I was thinkin’ than the man in the moon.

When I was younger, she would ask me if I did somethin’ wrong, and I was dumb enough to actually admit to it. I had no idea how she knew. I would ask her, and all I would get outa her was a little bird told me. I wanted to choke that fuckin’ bird.

There’re police everywhere near the elementary school, blockin’ traffic, and stoppin’ cars. Evidently, there was a shooting. I figured I’d be pickin’ you up from the police station.

Whatever. I don’t own a gun, but sure…it was me, I said as sarcastically as I could muster. I curled my lip again and huffed, turnin’ to walk back down the stairs.

My mother always assumed I was involved in the most random shit. Usually, I had nothin’ to do with it. My grandparents lived on a small farm east of the city. When I was five years old, someone robbed their place, and stole some guns and tools. She sat me down to see if I knew anyone who would do that. What the hell? I was five! I wouldn’t have had any idea where they lived, or how to get there. How the hell would I be able to tell anyone else?

Ok…I was at the school. So what? That didn’t mean I was always doin’ somethin’ wrong. She just suspected the worst. I will admit though, while she was tryin’ to connect me to what was goin’ on down the street, I was pattin’ myself on the back for pullin’ somethin’ over on her.

Sure…it’s bad. In fact, it’s immoral. But you all vote for who’s best at it.

Riley

MY FIRST MEMORIES OF RILEY Carmichael are from around the summer of 1969. She lived in a house down the alley from me that had been converted into apartments with two units upstairs and one large one on the main level. However, her mother rented out the entire place. My mother let me go down there to play, seein’ that Riley was the only other kid my age on the block to play with. Everyone else was either across the street or blocks away, and I wasn’t allowed to cross the street alone.

Riley had an older brother as well. He was tall and thin with long coal black hair and dark green eyes. He was much older than we were at fifteen, so he seemed more like an adult to us than a kid. When her mother wasn’t around, it was her bother who usually kept an eye on us.

Riley always had somethin’ fun for us to do though, playin’ house, or diggin’ in the dirt behind her garage. She was six months older than me, but she told me she was a year older, and that she had already started kindergarten. I, of course, was impressed. I was eager to start school since all my siblings were in school. Knowin’ my best friend was goin’ there was pretty cool.

The best part about Riley, though, was that she loved to play in the dirt. What young boy doesn’t like a girl who plays in the dirt? We would sit behind her garage and dig holes with toy bulldozers or push race cars around. She was no taller than me, tiny, with long brown hair, the same dark green eyes as her bother, and a wide smile with a couple of missin’ teeth. Her hair was always in her face, and she always wore bright yellow dresses with purple flowers. By the end of the day, she would be covered in dirt, givin’ her a wild and feral look.

We were inseparable. In fact, our little haven down the alley woulda been perfect had it not been for Jack Cooper.

Jack was Riley’s twelve-year-old cousin and a complete lunatic! He came by it naturally, of course, as his parents were equally nutty. They lived across the street from Riley and had the reputation of bein’ that house in the neighborhood that we were all warned to stay away from. The outside of their house always smelled like old diapers and moldy trash. You didn’t even need to get that close to know somethin’ was wrong. His family were usually strung out in their front yard, mumblin’ incoherently.

They sold heroin and a host of other drugs. Their customers were a combination of hippies and former Vietnam Vets who had come home, attempting to cope with whatever demons still danced in their heads.

I was told in no uncertain terms to not go on that side of the street, no matter what. If I did then I was threatened with bein’ beaten with my mother’s quarter inch thick yard stick. In fact, one of my earliest memories is bawlin’ wildly as she swung it like a broadsword behind me as I walked because I didn’t come home when I was called. To be clear, that thing never once made contact with me in any way ever. All I needed was the threat.

Thanks to the local drug business, Riley’s street was often strewn with discarded syringes, needles, and various other paraphernalia. You had to be careful not to step on anything if you were barefoot. However, it was nice when you found syringes that still worked. We used them as squirt guns, chasin’ each other around, screamin’ and laughin’, completely oblivious to the dangers around us.

Within all this chaos was Jack, bein’ the neighborhood bully. If he saw you, he would chase you to torture you. He didn’t play fair. If we were playin’ squirt guns, his always still had a needle in it, and he would threaten to inject you if he caught you. I had nightmares well into my teens of bein’ caught by him, only to be injected, and thinkin’ I was gonna die before wakin’ up in a cold sweat. We always tried to avoid him like the plague that