Larry Nailer lived down the street. He was older than me. I was six, he was eight. Larry and I cut a worm open once. At least, we started to cut a worm open once. Sort of hard to explain. Something else happened.
It was Saturday, I remember, early afternoon. I was picking dandelions out of the yard. Larry walked by. He said, hey. I said, hey. A pinkish-red thing squirmed in his hand. Wanna help me dissect a worm, he asked.
I was surprised. Elated. Thrilled. Larry Nailer, I assumed, didn’t know I was alive. I was also unclear how “dissect” was defined. And what it entailed. But I thought he was cute. I wanted Larry Nailer to like me. I wanted to impress him so I said, okay.
The worm wiggled on, unaware of its fate. Larry took out his Swiss Army knife. And that’s when it happened. Pictures popped in my head, images straight from John Carpenter’s dreams. I tugged Larry’s sleeve. I said, what if it screams?
He looked at me—how can I put it—as if I required “L” and “R” on my shoes, a note on my collar in case I got lost and a medical clearance for sharp, pointed tools. Larry looked at me like I was an idiot, and tersely explained worms aren’t wired for sound.
Okay. Maybe not. But I’d swear on a Bible I've heard them at times. Wailing. Sobbing. Screaming in pain. It’s funny, you know; I barely remember what Larry looked like. Except for his smile. That big toothy grin. And those blue-green eyes and that wavy brown hair. Dimples in his cheeks. Cleft in his chin.
Other than that, I barely remember. It's been such a long time. I've cut into plenty of worms since then. And I don’t care what anyone says, all of them screamed. Big, small. Some louder than others. Loudest one was about Larry’s size.