There was a terrible murder at Stoker Hill in 1975. It was an abandoned canal where everyone in my neighborhood went to ride their skateboards; that’s where the body of Froilin Guzman was found. He was only 9 years old and whoever it was that killed him made it a point to slit his throat and castrate him.
We all got to stoker hill early that morning so that we could have an opportunity to skate and practice our tricks before the older kids got there. They were a lot better than we were and they hogged the course for most of the day. A lot of us smaller kids were simply too little to stand up to any of them and so rather than get beat up, we got there as early as we could without disturbing any of the people who lived near the canal. We found Froilin’s body at the bottom of the third course lodged between two large banana plants, his hair was wet from the over night rain and his eyes were empty and lifeless. His body was pale and for some reason I could just tell that he’d been crying. I think that most of us boys screamed more than the girls did; I was horrified of course but I also felt very bad for Froilin. He was only 9 years old for god’s sake and so tiny; how could he have possibly been able to fight back?
The area cleared out once the all the kids saw that the cops and the ambulance were there and no one skated in that area for a whole month. Eventually, the kids came back and the skateboarding continued without interruption except for the one day when the older kids arrived on schedule and us little kids grabbed our skateboards and were getting ready to leave. There was one person who wasn’t with us when we left and that was Edwin Figueroa; we had to go back and get him. We found him standing there at the end of course with no expression on his face but it was clear to us that he was crying. We asked him what was wrong and he pointed toward one of the older kids who was wearing an orange and black sweater and blue shorts. He was riding a longer skateboard with green stoker wheels.
“That’s Froilin’s skateboard and that guy is wearing Froilin’s sweater; he got that from his older brother,” Edwin said.
We couldn’t believe that we were looking at Froilin’s killer; he was definitely the same age as the other kids but he looked a lot meaner.
“Even the sun glasses he get, that’s not his. That’s Froilin’s older brother’s one,” Edwin confirmed.
Edwin told us that the skateboard, sweater and sun glasses were sent to Froilin from his older brother who was stationed in Japan with the Marines. It was something Froilin treasured and now some jerk had it all. But was it worth killing for? The best we could do was encourage Edwin to leave, after all what could we do? Were we just going to let Edwin go up to this kid and confront him? We’d probably get killed right along with him.
The following day we got to Stoker Hill very early and as we took the course all the way down to the third level, the older kid who had Froilin’s skateboard was waiting for us. We had no time to react because he kicked Edwin in his stomach and dropped him like a ton of bricks. Then he round housed my cousin Hanky and kicked me right in the groin. We were all curled up on the ground either moaning or crying. He removed a hunting knife from his pocket and grabbed Edwin by his right ear and cut it clean off and then stuffed a small dish towel into his mouth and covered it with his free hand. There was blood everywhere. Hank and I were too stunned to scream; all we could do was crawl toward each other and pray that this kid changed his mind. He grabbed Hanky by his leg and hiked up his jeans and started to slice him along his calves and shins, but even before Hanky could scream this kid knocked him out with one punch. He started in for me next but that’s not what made me scream, it was Froilin’s ghost that made me scream. It was something that I wasn’t expecting and yet there it was, standing right behind this older kid.
The older kid spun around and saw Froilin’s too; he only managed to back up one step before Froilin’s ghost took over his body. The older kid went limp for a second and in the next instant he dropped his pants and took his knife and castrated himself. After that, he cut his own throat very slowly from ear to ear.
Edwin survived his wounds as did my cousin Hank. My wounds? They're psychological and are more difficult to heal. Froilin’s skateboard and sun glasses were returned to his parents. The sweater was ruined by all the blood that belonged to that older kid. As for Stoker Hill? It’s just a memory that will never go away.
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