Satchmo’s stomach dropped to his feet, his throat twisted like twines making rope. He turned his head to see what he knew he’d already seen. To make sure that his first thought—and peripheral vision—hadn’t lied. Mr. Jerry had gotten a dog.
Mr. Jerry’s wife had passed away a few months ago. A week later, Satchmo stood with his mother at Mr. Jerry’s front door, a house plant in his hand. His mother was holding a pound cake she’d made him as a way to say Sorry for your loss. And Satchmo wished the pound cake was enough and that his mother didn’t have to keep talking and suggest Mr. Jerry get a dog. Adopt one from a shelter.
Pound cake. Not a dog from the pound, Satchmo thought.
“Lose a life, save another,” his mother said to Mr. Jerry sweetly.
To take mine, Satchmo had thought.
Mr. Jerry said no, no, no. Said he wasn’t ready. Guess he was ready now. And not for a small one. Not for a furry football. But for a big, husky thing that looked like it was mixed. Some German shepherd. Some Labrador. Some rottweiler, some monster that Satchmo wasn’t sure was there or not, but decided it was so.
That was all he needed to see to start devising plans. Escape routes.
* * *
Today, after school, Satchmo Jenkins left his last class of the day, math, and headed to his locker in a haze. He opened it, swapped out books and stuck his head in his locker for a moment to take a few deep breaths to get himself together. This walk home was going to be a big one. One that he hoped wouldn’t result in him adding a smiley-faced scar on his other leg.
“Satch, catch,” John John Watson called out, tossing a textbook at Satchmo, who looked up at just the right time to not be hit in the face. He blocked the book with his hands, then tried to grab ahold—tried to catch it—fumbling, fumbling, fumbling it before it hit the floor. “You left it in Mrs. Stevens’s class,” John John said. He pulled a few random sandwich bags from his pocket, folded them awkwardly, then stuffed them back down.
“Oh. Good looks,” Satchmo said, trying to snap himself out of it or at least pretend he was never snapped into it. “Lifesaver.”
“No problem,” John John said, before hustling off.
Satchmo picked the book up, tossed it in the air, caught it. A small piece of paper slid out from between the pages—an invitation to Cynthia Sower’s comedy show. But Satchmo was in no mood for laughing. He tossed the book in the air again, caught it again, before putting it in his bag and closing the locker door. Snap.
After he got outside, headed toward the corner, made the right on Portal as if walking toward Chestnut Street, but making the right onto Nestle before getting to Chestnut, he started running down his game plan, amping himself up for the mission. That’s what this was for him—a mission.
Okay, Satch. You’re prepared.
You’ve thought it all through.
You will not get bit. You will not get eaten.
Breathe, Satch. Breathe and work it
all out.
If the dog jumps the fence,
when the dog jumps the fence don’t panic.
Just do what you’ve planned.
Break to the right. If Mr. Jerry’s pickup truck is
parked on the street, jump into
the back of it and
scream for help.
That’s the first base. That’s your go-to. But
if for some reason Mr. Jerry’s truck isn’t there,
if for some reason he’s out, I don’t know,
saving other dogs while his neighbors run for their lives,
then keep going right onto the Carters’ property.
You won’t have time to ring their doorbell,
plus Mr. and Mrs. Carter will be at work,
so run
behind their house. They have a pool. It’s not a big pool,
and actually you’ve never even seen it, but you remember
your mother talking about
how all the neighbors are gossiping about how they were
putting a pool in their backyard
in this neighborhood,
and she was saying it like she wasn’t gossiping too,
so if there’s actually a pool back there dive in.
Don’t worry about how deep it is.
You can swim.
Just jump in there. Hopefully the dog won’t even follow
you back there, but if
it does, maybe it won’t jump in the pool. But if
for some reason
it does jump in, you jump out.
Immediately.
The thing is, dogs have to do that ridiculous
doggy paddle thing,
so they can’t be vicious and do that at the same time.
They also can’t do that fast. They’re dogs, not seals.
So when you hop out, you’ll have a head start
before the dog gets to the other side of the pool
and climbs back onto land. Use this
time to jump the fence
your mother says the Carters put up to keep Ms. Winston’s
little kids
from playing in their pool that we’re not sure exists.
But the fence is there. You know that. It’s not too high,
but get a running start because you’re going to be
soaking wet. If you still can’t get over, then quickly
as quickly as possible take off your
shirt and pants and shoes, and
try again. Sure, you need your clothes, but you need your
life more.
Your mother will understand, and you’ll get over the
embarrassment
of being outside in your underwear.
Once you’re over the fence you should be safe,
because the dog should be too tired
from all the swimming to jump the fence. But it’s going to
try. And while it’s trying you better be booking it back
to the street, and home. But if for some reason,
when you get back
to the street, the dog is there waiting for you man
you might be dead.
No. No, no, no.
If for some reason the dog is there waiting for you,
break off and jump
on that old car that’s been sitting in front of
Sadani’s house. After Sadani
had his car stolen a few years ago, he only ever buys old
crappy cars
that he can’t get working, so he won’t mind you jumping on
the hood. And if the dog jumps on
the hood with you, climb to the roof. The dog should slip
on the windshield some, but don’t count on that.
While he’s slipping
and sliding,
jump off the car and see if it’s unlocked. Sadani never
locks the doors
of those cars because he knows
they’re impossible to start and
therefore impossible to steal.
If it’s open, jump in, close the door.
This is a safe place
because you don’t need to turn the car on
to roll the windows down.
It will have the old kind of window roll-downer.
Crack the window and scream until help comes.
But if for some reason the door is locked, pull the
sausage patties you saved from this morning’s breakfast out
and
fling them like Frisbees. If the dog doesn’t go for them
though really, who wouldn’t? then you’ll have to
break out your routes.
Your zigs and zags.
Just like back when you and Clancy pretended to be in
the Super Bowl,
him the quarterback and
you the wide receiver.
Where do you think Clancy is?
What do you think he’s doing right now?
Throwing Hail Marys?
Running the opposite way?
Not helping his teammates?
Why didn’t he chase Brutus?
Why didn’t he tackle him?
If he would’ve tackled him, you would’ve barked at it.
Growled at it so it knew what that felt like.
Not important right now. What’s important
is making sure you have your
zigs and zags ready. Be prepared to cut
left and cut right,
stutter and juke,
stagger and jerk.
He has four legs and you have two, there’s no way
the dog will be able to keep up, right?
Or maybe the more legs the better?
Who knows, but do it anyway.
Zig and zag all the way home.
When you get to your house, run around
to the side door that you left unlocked
this morning knowing your mother would kill you
if she knew you left the door unlocked
because y’all don’t have a guard dog
or an alarm system.
If for some reason, some strange reason, that side door
is locked well, Satchmo
you’ll have to just pray
for a miracle. A distraction. Something crazy
like a school bus falling from the sky.
This is what Satchmo told himself, what he was ready to execute—the master plan to save his life—as he approached Mr. Jerry’s house. Satchmo had purposely walked on the other side of the street to give himself a little bit of an advantage. No need to bait the beast. As he slinked past Mr. Jerry’s front door, coming up on his side yard, Satchmo’s backbone became rawhide, his stomach a squishy chew toy, his palms wet but his fingers dry like dog treats, when he heard the bark. Well, not really a bark, but the gruff voice of an old man.
“Satch! Satch!”
Mr. Jerry was calling out for him. He was kneeling behind the fence, rubbing the dog’s head, its tongue slapping the old man’s cheek. No bite-bite.
Love-love.
“Satch, come here,” Mr. Jerry said, his face a touchdown dance all its own. “I want to introduce you to my friend.”
OOKABOOKA LAND
“GATHER, GATHER, gather round, ladies and gentlemen, leopards and giraffes, lollipops and gummy bears, lizard lips and googly-eyes, and yes, even you… Mrs. Stevens. I am the super-super Say-So, and I’ve come to make you laugh until you pass. Pass what, you ask? Pass gas. Pass out. Pass away. Pass anything other than… class.”
“Careful,” Mrs. Stevens warned from her desk in the corner of the room. She sat with her arms folded, watching Cynthia “Say-So” Sower put on a show in front of the class. This was the only way to keep Cynthia from disrupting and derailing the entire lesson. If Mrs. Stevens didn’t give her these five minutes at the end, Cynthia would burst into some kind of sideways monologue about whatever Mrs. Stevens had been teaching that day. Like how negative numbers deserve empathy because no one should ever feel lower than zero.
“I mean, wouldn’t you feel a little negative too, if people kept saying you less than nothing? You basically don’t even really exist. You under under. Your mama done probably kicked you out. Your girlfriend or boyfriend done broke up with you, and when you asked why, they just said something like, you ain’t enough for me. So tell me, who is crying for the negative number? Who, Mrs. Stevens? Whoooo?” Cynthia would wail and flail overdramatic fists in the air, all leading up to the big finish, Cynthia planting her face flat on the desk. Cheek to wood. And right when Mrs. Stevens would think it was over, Cynthia would lift up and ask, “You know what I would do if I was a negative number?”
There was only one answer.
“Cynthia, don’t you dare,” Mrs. Stevens warned, knowing what was coming.
There was always only one answer.
“I… would…”
One answer, and the whole class knew it.
“Cynthia. Seriously.” Mrs. Stevens shook her head.
And because the whole class knew it, they joined in and said it with her.
“RUN!”
Cynthia would jump up from her desk and charge out of the classroom. But only for a second. Then she’d come back in as if it never happened, have a seat at her desk, straighten her posture, pick up her pencil with one hand, and play with the two plaits sprouting from either side of her head—a hairstyle she loved for its comedic effect—with the other. Mrs. Stevens used to call out for her, used to stutter-step toward the door, used to threaten to write her up.
“Don’t divide me from the class, Mrs. Stevens. Please. Don’t… divide us!” Cynthia would fake beg, doubling down on the math joke.
“Oh, I’m not planning on doing any division, Cynthia. I’m thinking more along the lines of subtraction.”
But Mrs. Stevens never did. Truth is, she liked Cynthia’s jokes. It reminded her of old comedians on the black-and-white TV shows her grandmother used to watch when she was a child. So she cut the goofball a deal. If Cynthia could be attentive and serious all class, she would get the last five minutes to do her thing.
“So, L’s and G’s, let’s start with the news. This just in: Shirt… is a strange word, right? I mean, seriously, there had to be better options when it came to naming… this.” Cynthia tugged at the collar of her T-shirt. “I heard—and this is just what I heard—a long, long, long time ago, there was this dude who was a clothes maker, and he invented this thing to cover your chest and arms and stuff. Now, when he first made it, he called it an arm-belly-chest cloth. But that name was too long, so then he shortened it to an ABC. But then, the ABCs came out and y’know that became a whole thing with the song, and the cool LMNOP part, and the next thing he knew, everybody was doing it, and the clothes maker realized maybe ABC wasn’t the best name to call his arm-belly-chest cloth. But he ain’t have another name for it. One night, he was sitting with a friend. No, not one friend, a bunch of his friends. At a dinner. And everybody’s trying on his arm-belly-chest cloth thing, right? And the clothes maker is nervous, because people love it and they keep asking him what it’s called. And when he tells them, their faces drop, like they can’t believe it. ‘That’s too long of a name. We call shoes, shoes. Not toe cover-uppers!’ they said. Now, see, the clothes maker was a nervous eater. I forgot to tell y’all that part. Every time he got stressed out or, like, anxious, he would eat. And now he was nervous because everyone was saying his garment wouldn’t work unless he changed the name. ‘So what are you going to change it to?’ they asked. And instead of responding, he just started stuffing bread in his mouth. Bread, bread, bread. Just pushing it in there. ‘What are you going to name it?’ they repeated. And do you know what the clothes maker said with a mouth full of rolls?” Pause, for effect. “I’ll tell you what he said,” Cynthia wound up. “The clothes maker shrugged and said all muffled, ‘Shirt, I don’t know!’ ”
And before the ruckus could even come, Mrs. Stevens shut it all down.
“Okay. Okay… that’s enough for today!” she said, trying not to laugh herself. There was no need to cut Cynthia off anyway, because the punchline landed at the exact moment the bell rang.
* * *
Cynthia’s mother worked all day and went to school all evening, and when Cynthia was a baby, her mother would rock her to sleep with bedtime stories read out of night school textbooks. She was Cynthia’s hero. A hero too busy to save her. A hero too hardworking to even find time to laugh. But a hero nonetheless. But Cynthia’s grandfather was her superhero. Not in the superhuman sense, but in the way that there was something incredible about him. At least to Cynthia. To almost everyone else, he was just the wild ex-soldier who owned the liquor store right in front of her apartment building. The kind of man who would take a wooden crate, flip it upside down, then step up on it and put on a show. Hold court right there in the middle of the store. Jokes were his superpower. The dirtier the better. Cynthia was even named after him.
His name was Cinder. And whenever
he’d introduce himself to people, they’d always ask, “Cinder, like Cinderella?”
And he’d say, “Nah. Cinder, like cinder block.”
But really, he was a bit of both. Had a toughness to him. A hardheaded, hardhanded, hard-talking man. But he was also soft. Soft enough to hold baby Cynthia and stare at her and laugh and laugh like she was the greatest joke ever told. Soft enough to know a good sidekick when he saw one. Soft enough to give her a nickname. Sweetie Say-So. Named her that because of all the goo-goos, gah-gahs, and grunts Cynthia would make whenever Cinder would pick her up. A noisemaker. Always a noisemaker. And Cinder would just salute her and say, “Sweetie, if you say so. If you say so, sweetie.”
Cinder’s girlfriend—a gray-haired, lipsticked, cigarette-smoking mail woman named Miss Fran—would always come by his store to deliver letters and bills, always catching him in the middle of his jokester routines. She’d laugh in this way that made all the bottles in the store rattle. Made all the men jealous of the love thing she and Cinder had. And when she came on Saturdays, she’d always catch Cynthia marching around outside the front of the store—prompted by her grandfather—and Miss Fran would stick stamps on Cynthia’s chubby cheeks and forehead.
“I’m gon’ put you in the mailbox. Ship you off to Ookabooka Land,” she’d tease, and Cynthia would laugh and scream no, as if Ookabooka Land were a real place.
Miss Fran died when Cynthia was seven. Hurt Cynthia to lose the only grandmother she’d ever known, but her sadness was nothing compared to Cinder’s. Seemed like Cinder’s mind floated away with Miss Fran’s spirit and voice. Or maybe it went underground with her body, buried in the cemetery across the street from the liquor store. Cinder could see her gravestone from the window of the fourth-floor unit he and Miss Fran had lived in together, five doors down from where Cynthia lived with her mom.
It wasn’t long after Miss Fran’s death that Cinder closed the liquor store. It wasn’t long after the store closed that it was knocked down. It wasn’t long after it was knocked down that the apartment complex built a playground where it used to be. A sliding board. A set of swings. A seesaw. A stage. Not a big, elaborate stage, just a concrete platform about the size of the wooden crates Cinder used to stand on in the store, a bronze plaque bolted to it that read, CINDER’S BLOCK. Cynthia hoped that maybe he’d step up on it someday. Crack a joke or two. But he never would because it wasn’t long after the store was turned into a playground that Cinder started to forget things. How to turn on the radio. How to work the microwave. And every time something simple would slip his mind, Cynthia would have to come over to help.
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