The Slugs

Lila Dubois

The most precious slugs were always on the side of the house, where the roof met the neighbor’s Eucalyptus tree, and the pale leaves and terracotta tiles kissed to a permanent shade. A damp shade, where nothing ever dried, and the slugs stayed thick and firm and moist. A murky shade, a cavernous shade, a mysterious shade. A scary sort of shade, even, because we were kids and still revered the darkness.

Even with the darkness, the slugs on the side of the house were worth it. They were juicy and wet and alive. And we needed them for what we had planned.

So while the parents talked and drank on the porch, we kids began the hunt. Barefoot, we crept up the driveway, padded across the mossy rug of lawn, and gathered before the gate on the house’s left side. The most remote side. Far from the porch lights and clinking green glass noses of Heineken and adults and belly laughter. The east-facing side, where the sun disappeared each day and the shadows of dusk dripped early like a navy honey down the house walls.

It was here at the gate by the side of the house where we gathered before entering the final frontier. Always here we would pause. Huddled. No one saying a word, everyone knowing what had to be done. Each mustered in their own way the courage that would be needed to reach out a small hand and push open the wooden gate, flecks of chipped white paint sticking to their clammy palm, and then—deep breath—step into the inky black beyond.

Eventually someone always did find the guts, and when the gate lurched open, the lot of us crept in single file. Utterly focused, thinking only of accomplishing the mission and getting out quickly with as few casualties as possible. Past the stack of firewood and collection of loose clay tiles—which had fallen from our roof, and which my dad had saved, piled along the side of the house, with every intention but, invariably, zero practical ability to put them back to their rightful places. Past the rusting ladder and the pooper scooper buzzing with flies. Past the chimes and the bird feeder all clogged up with leaves. Past the splintered shed that held the old pool noodles and Halloween decorations and boxes from grandma. Then, finally, on the other side of that, were the big rocks. This was where the good slugs lay.

We made swift work of it. In single practiced motions we flipped the rocks and plucked the wriggling slug bodies from the ground. They squirmed and burrowed into the wrinkle ravines of our palms as we ran back to light.

The play was always short. The point of the game was to dress the slugs. To do this, you first vigorously rub a piece of chalk on the sidewalk, all in one spot, until the chalk becomes a useless nub, leaving behind only a pile of colored powder. The chalk will stick, as it turns out, to anything slimy or wet. So when you roll a slug in pink chalk—voila— the slug comes out completely painted. A whole new look. Totally and utterly suffocated in pink. Like a Barbie slug, these were my favorites. But you could do it with any color.

A blue policeman slug. A yellow fireman slug. A red devil. A white ghost. A tie-dyed hippie.

They never lasted long.

Though the science remains still unclear, it was evident that something in the chalk did not agree with the soft porous skin of the slug epidermis. Within minutes of dunking, their bodies began to writhe and twist. Their amorphous beings twisted and, had they been able to, I’m sure they would’ve gasped and screamed and maybe cried out for help.

Having been through it before we did not panic. We watched.

We recognized the scene before us as an inevitable consequence of life. The cost of play and fun. The slugs shriveled into Raisinets, the moisture sucked from them like marrow until their guts had fried. After a few minutes, the slugs stopped moving.

Thus began the funeral procession. The second part of the game. A parade of small feet pat pat patting barefoot against the sidewalk, cement still warm though the sun had begun its descent. Hands cupped around rubbery slug bodies. Death concealed like a pocketed booger.

Without thinking, we knew to do this. To hide the bodies as we passed the parents and older siblings on the way to the gravesite. To clasp our fingers tighter and tighter around the bodies until our knuckles turned white. This was the only way to ensure we were holding them hard enough, to ensure nothing would fall from our grips over the course of the small trek. Even then we must have known that it was in some way a shameful thing, to be holding these unmoving boogers. We were couriers of death, however innocently or not, and somewhere deep inside I’m sure we knew it. The price of our play we carried in our palms, pale raisiny slug corpses clutched quietly to our chests. We’d failed again to be benevolent gods.

Once more, barefoot, we crept up the driveway. Across the mossy rug of lawn. And just short of the white gate, we stopped, unwilling to pass twice in one evening into the side yard. We could just bury the slugs here. The soil was damp enough and the rocks along the fence were perfectly fine to cover them. There was no concern for headstones. We lifted the rocks that lined the outside of the fence—the heavier ones sometimes requiring two sets of hands—unfurled our white-knuckle grips and let the gummy little corpses roll to the dirt below.

Lying there in the cool mud, they reminded us of how they’d been when we first picked them—albeit crusted in flakes of fuchsia and purple and green. Suddenly, death had no part in it. They had been our playmates and we were just dropping them off and saying: bye! same time tomorrow? Out of our hands and back beneath the damp cover of rock and moss and soil, their bodies carried none of the shame. They were home. They were safe. We had returned them back (nearly) to where they should be, nestled by the side of the house. And we felt certain that if their slug parents had been home, they would have thanked us, saying how kind we were to have included their slug children in the neighborhood fun. We brushed the dirt and chalk speckles from our hands. Satisfied. Even lifeless, we all could agree, they were certainly the most precious slugs. We tucked them in and said goodnight.

By this time, evening was sneaking quickly into complete night. Parents had lingered long enough chatting on stoops and called for us to return home. We ran back with haste, knowing what was coming. Knowing it was always better to be inside, snuggled tight and warm in our beds before the inky haze oozed out from the side of the house and smothered in darkness the whole sky.

Lila Dubois is a 21 year old musician, odd-jobs-doer, and student at the University of Pennsylvania who writes primarily to maintain personal sanity. She has been featured in The FADER magazine, The Pennsylvania Gazette, and recently won 3rd place in the Parker Prize for Journalism. Her music can be found on all streaming services. She currently splits her time between Paris, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia.