The Story Behind the Story: “Plan B”

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When I was a kid of seven, we lived in a place infested with soft shell snails. It was common knowledge those little monsters were poisonous. You swallowed one, you were gonna die. This was before helicopter parents, child safety locks and seatbelts. When kids ran in packs like wild dogs, played games in the street, swarmed over backyard fences, rode bikes without helmets and shoplifted with impunity.  I was the youngest, but my brothers were there to protect me. When somebody declared a snail fight, I didn’t yet know enough about death to be terrified. We sought out ammo in the damp places, plunking snails in coffee cans. We divided into two teams on separate street corners. I was picked last. The heaving started and shells smacked into heads and arms and chests with crackerjack crunches, exploding into knots of slime. Oozing corpses were flung back and forth until they disintegrated. The fight kept on until Randy reared back to throw, mouth open. An incoming snail channeled right down his gullet. I saw it in slow mo. He held his throat, eyes bugging. Screamed. Too late. Everyone yelled at him to barf. He looked ready to hurl until he took off running toward