The Hill We Should Have Left Alone
Be Where Your Feet Are: A new story from the edge of memory
Some places are made for bad decisions.
A steep hill. A narrow bridge. A summer afternoon full of daring and just enough boredom to tip you into trouble.
This is one of those stories—the kind that makes you laugh, then wince, then remember exactly what it felt like to realize you’d crossed a line. It’s about poppers and panic. About the kind of scolding, you don’t forget about bikes, badges, and the unbearable power of adult disappointment.
It’s also about the moment a kid learns the difference between harmless fun and real consequences.
And yes—there’s a little bit of pee.
Thanks for walking this path with me.
—Todd
Then He Peed His Pants
The hill was perfect for bad decisions.
It dropped fast and steep, like a dare. At the bottom was a one-lane bridge, barely wide enough for one car, and just rickety enough to make your heart race. You had to time it right. If a car was coming from the other side, someone was going into the creek.
Matt and I—me ten, him eight—had our bikes, scraped-up knees, and a box of poppers.
Not real fireworks. Just little white paper pouches filled with powder that popped when you threw or stomped them. They weren’t dangerous, just loud enough to feel thrilling. Just bad enough to feel worth it.
We had a plan. Sit just up the hill from the bridge and toss a few poppers at passing cars. Watch the explosions. See the drivers flinch. Laugh until our sides hurt.
It was probably my idea.
We crouched in the grass and waited. The first few cars took the bait. The poppers hit the hood or windshield and cracked like tiny firecrackers. The reactions were priceless. A swerve. A brake tap. Maybe a shouted curse we couldn’t hear. We howled.
Then came the car.
It looked ordinary. Just a brown sedan. No lights. No sirens. No markings. Nothing to give it away.
“You think that’s funny? You trying to kill someone?”
My arm was already in motion when something on the driver’s chest caught the light. A gold badge. A tan shirt. Brown pants.
He was in full uniform.
But he wasn’t in his cruiser. Just his car, probably on his way to work.
Too late.
The poppers left my hand and hit the windshield with sharp, cracking pops. One. Two. Three.
The car kept moving. For a second, I dared to hope we were in the clear.
Then the brakes screamed.
He slammed to a stop just before the bridge. His car hovered there like a snake deciding whether to strike.
Then the reverse lights flared.
We froze.
Our escape plan ended at “bike.”
He roared back up the hill, tires spitting gravel. The car skidded to a stop beside us, half on the road, half in the grass. The door flew open.
He came out swinging with his voice.
“You trying to kill someone?” he shouted. “You think that’s funny?”
He was furious. Not performative fury, either. Real, adult-you-screwed-up fury.
“You throw something at a windshield, a driver panics, jerks the wheel, and what? They hit the bridge? They die? That’s your idea of a joke?”
We didn’t think it was funny anymore.
Matt and I stood there straddling our bikes, legs pale from a long Midwest winter, tall socks sagging around our shins.
And that’s when Matt’s bladder gave out.
Right there on the road.
A dark, slow bloom spread down one leg of his gym shorts. He would deny it for decades. But I saw it. And I’m pretty sure the Sheriff did too.
We didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
He made us give him everything. Name. Address. Phone number. Parents’ names. He told us he’d be calling them. No ticket. No arrest.
Just something worse.
When he finally drove off, back across the bridge, we jumped on our bikes and pedaled home like we were fleeing a crime scene. Because, well, we kind of were.
Sometimes, the shame was enough.
I found my mom folding laundry in the basement, using the Air Hockey table like she always did. I blurted out everything. The hill. The poppers. The Sheriff. The promise of a phone call. I figured if I beat the story home, I had a chance at survival.
The phone rang not long after.
I only heard half of the conversation. Calm. Even.
It was the look that wrecked me.
Not anger. Not punishment.
Just disappointment.
I don’t remember what happened next. Maybe I was grounded. Maybe not. I honestly don’t remember.
Sometimes, the shame was enough.
We never threw poppers at cars again.
And Matt? He still swears it was sweat.
Afterword
Matt passed away after a long fight with cancer.
In my memory, though, he’s still that younger kid, straddling his bike on the side of the road, gym shorts damp with shame and something like truth. That moment is etched in my mind more vividly than most. Funnier than it should be. Sadder now than I ever imagined.
He would probably still deny it.
But I’ll always remember.
I felt your fear and saw that cop...