Ironman

by Chris Crutcher

  Mr. Nak said, “That’s pretty good, Shu, but I was hopin’ for somethin’ a little more general.” He turned to this kid named Elvis, who everyone in school knows out of self-defense. Elvis is one of those guys who started shaving in junior high, and then started using the straight razor he shaved with to take everybody’s lunch money. He’s a big guy, runs about two-thirty, I’d say; kind of fat, but with plenty of muscle underneath, homemade tattoos on all the parts of his body he could reach, and the permanent expression of a pit bull about fifteen seconds before a fight. “Elvis,” Mr. Nak said, “you wanna take a shot at it?”

  Elvis just glared, trying to stare a hole in Mr. Nak.

  “Guess not,” Mr. Nak said, and turned back to me. “Me an’ Elvis are learnin’ each other’s body language,” he said. “Don’t worry, Brewster, I’ll find somebody who knows what’s goin’ on here.” He glanced around the room, his gaze falling on the girl from the weight room. “Shelly,” he said. “Maybe you can pull me outta the mud here.” But Shelly said, “I don’t feel like talking today, Mr. Nak. Could you ask someone else?”

  Mr. Nak said, “Anybody want to go for it?” and everybody studied the floor. He smiled and looked back at me. “Don’t write my letter of recommendation just yet. Only been at this a short while. I’ll give you the lowdown.” He clasped his fingers around one knee and rocked back on the desktop. “Everbody here is pissed off about somethin’, and everbody’s done something while they were pissed off that got ’em here. Now, what it is that everbody’s pissed off about is a secret. My job is to find that secret. Any questions?”

  I said nope.

  “So make my job easy. What’re you pissed off about, Brewster?”

  He caught me by surprise, so I said, “I’m not pissed off about anything.”

  “Really? You takin’ this course for credit?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So how’d you get here?”

  Shuja laughed and whispered loud behind his hand, “Tell ’em you come in a limo.”

  I laughed back, kind of nervous like, and said, “I got into trouble with Mr. Redmond.”

  “What did you do?”

  I hesitated, glancing around the room. Then, “I called him an asshole.”

  Spontaneous applause broke out, Lar, no kidding. Mr. Nak smiled. “Sounds like maybe you spoke for the masses. I think you’re gonna fit right in here.”

  Everyone stopped clapping except this really weird-looking kid with long hair and a headband, wearing a University of Washington T-shirt so dirty it looked like a year-old dust rag, and bell-bottom pants. He just shook his head and chuckled and slapped his hands together like none of the rest of us was even there. “Called Redmond an asshole,” he said, over and over. “Called Redmond an asshole. Whooeee. Called Redmond an asshole.”

  Mr. Nak said, “Okay, Hudgie, we heard him,” and the kid jerked like somebody had slapped him back to consciousness, looked around kind of sheepishly, and said, “Called Redmond an asshole. That’s a good one. Life sentence. No possibility of parole. That asshole Redmond will make sure of it.” Hudgie didn’t look like he needed anger management, Lar. He looked like he needed the space aliens who sucked his brains out to give them back.

  “Tell you what,” Mr. Nak said directly to me, “we’ll get back to you. Why don’t you just listen awhile, and see what you think?”

  That sounded good to me. I’d had about all the attention I needed, because old Elvis never took his eyes off me once, and I got the feeling he’d soon be steppin’ all over my blue suede shoes.

  Mr. Nak turned to the rest of the group. “Anybody got anything they want to talk about?”

  A kid named Joey raised his hand. He’s one of the few regular-looking guys in the group—nice clothes, dark, kind of slicked-back hair, would be pretty good-looking if you could ignore the permanent scowl on his face. The guy looks like an Italian Mr. Yuk sticker. He said, “I got somethin’.”

  Mr. Nak said, “Go.”

  “We got a skunk in our house.”

  Mr. Nak said, “I’m assumin’ you’re not talkin’ about your pappy,” which got a few laughs.

  “No, man, a real skunk. Comes in through the cat door.”

  Mr. Nak said, “That’s interestin’, but I was lookin’ for an anger issue.”

  “Hey, man, this skunk pisses me off.”

  Mr. Nak shrugged. “Okay, so has he done his dirty deed in your house?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He eats.”

  “That all?”

  “Yeah, that’s all.”

  “So why do you get all riled?”

  “He’s a skunk, man.”

  Mr. Nak looked at me. “Joey likes smoke and mirrors, likes to keep me off any subject that might get close to home.” He patted his chest to indicate where home was, then turned back to Joey. “You got a plan?”

  “Gonna shoot his ass. Got my old man’s .22 and some buckshot load, and I’m gonna wait till I catch him outside and blow his ass to smithereens.” He leveled an imaginary rifle at an imaginary skunk and said, “Bloooom!”

  Mr. Nak rocked forward and smiled. “Yesterday, in one of his rare public outbursts, Elvis here demanded, “How does anybody get out of this chicken-shit group?’ I said ‘anybody’ needs to participate real regular in discussions, let the rest of us in on the parts of his life he—or she—don’t want us in on, and respond to a few concrete assignments. You, Mr. Joe, get the first concrete assignment of the year.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “Leave the skunk alone.”

  Joey sat up straight. “You out of your mind?”

  “That’s been wondered more than once.”

  A titter ran through the group about then, Lar, and I remember thinking Mr. Nak sure is every bit as crazy as everybody says. I mean, he wants this poor jerk to invite a skunk to dinner.

  Then Mr. Nak said, “Look, Joey, why is it you think the skunk ain’t sprayed?”

  “Nobody’s pissed him off.”

  Mr. Nak said, “Hit ’er right on the head, pardner. An’ accordin’ to ever rap sheet I got on you—and there’s one for ever week for ever teacher—you like to piss people off. For the next week, Mr. Skunk is goin’ to represent Everteacher. It’ll be your job to keep him all nice an’ calm. Mess up an’ you’ll know it right quick.”

  Joey said, “Oh, man, are you kidding me?” Then he paused. “What about my old man or my old lady? What if they piss him off?”

  “From what you said the other day, your parents could use a little work on their restraint, too. Tell ’em this is a family project. Kind of a Be Nice to Mr. Skunk Week.”

  “They ain’t gonna like this.”

  “Tell ’em it’ll get you through Anger Management quicker. An’ it’ll keep you all out of the principal’s office.”

  “You might be getting a telephone call.”

  “Dial 1–800-MR-NAK.”

  You might think that cohabitation with a skunk is a bit of a strange assignment for anger management, Lar. I sure did, but hey, I’m new to this business. And I’m stuck with it because Redmond ain’t budging. That’s not without its irony, either, because it’s pretty hard to imagine Redmond and Mr. Nak on the same planet, much less in the same school.

  Gotta get a late-night run in, so I’m signing off. Don’t worry, if things get too strange, I’ll tone them down for the novel. We don’t want any of that truth that’s stranger than fiction in here, do we? I mean, is this a mainstream epic, or what? Play your cards right and you can make me fabulously wealthy.

  Ever your loyal fan,

  The Brew

  CHAPTER 4

  Lion pushes through the side door to the Industrial Arts wing of Clark Fork High School fifteen minutes before the bell signals the beginning of first period, to find Noboru Nakatani nearly disappeared beneath the hood of a 1964 Mustang. He resists the urge to announce his presence with a blast of the horn and gently drums the hood with
his fingernails instead. “Hey, cowboy, what’s happening?”

  Nak backs out from under the hood, stepping down from the front bumper, wiping his hands with a grease rag. “Shoe Fairy had to give these boys a little hep with this engine,” he drawls. “They like to tore it up yesterday, got so frustrated. I swear the young’uns in this class think ever tool’s a potential hammer.” Nak places his foot on the front bumper. “What’s on your mind this mornin’, Lion man?”

  “Brewster show up?”

  “Oh, yeah, he showed.”

  “What’d you think?”

  Nak smiled. “I think he figured he come face-to-face with the Hole in the Wall Gang when he walked in the room, but he’ll do all right.”

  “Think so? You think he belongs there?”

  “You think he don’t? Those kids ain’t a whole lot different from any who’ve been roughed up pretty good. They’re a little raw, but I’m bettin’ they got all the same workin’ parts as the fancier models.”

  “So you think Bo will make it okay?”

  “I think he’ll make it just fine. What is it you’re worried about?”

  Lion shrugs. “You know how some kids just get under your skin? He seems hungry for something I’ve got, but I don’t know what it is for sure.”

  “Best be findin’ out,” Nak says back. “You might have to step up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean most kids ain’t good at tellin’ what they need because they don’t know. Whenever we see it, that’s the time to act.”

  Lion thanks him and disappears through the doorway leading down the long breezeway toward the main building: Best be findin’ out. You might have to step up.

  Nak sneaks back under the hood of the Mustang, humming “Tumbling Tumbleweeds.”

  OCTOBER 24

  Dear Larry,

  Getting a little testy there this morning, weren’t you, Lar? Especially with the guy who said anyone who intentionally desecrates an American flag is a traitor to his country and ought to be treated the same as a person giving away national secrets in wartime. Your “freedom of expression” argument was good, and I liked your idea that people who really believe in the Constitution know that everybody’s rights are protected, not just those who agree with us. What I’d really like to have in my own life, though, is that little button you push just before you say “Rest well,” to end it for any caller who gets too stupid or belligerent for even your tolerance level. I would have called in, but by four-thirty in the morning “Larry King Live” isn’t live anymore; it’s repeated from yesterday. If I could have called, I’d have asked if you thought those rights of expression were for everybody, and I’m betting you would have said yes. Then I would have told you I’m a seventeen-year-old high-school kid and asked if you thought the Constitution held up for me, too. I’m kind of glad I couldn’t really get to you, because I’m afraid you might have said what most adults say: that teenagers aren’t quite done yet, that we’re impulsive and adults intervene because we aren’t ready to manage our lives. But in my four-thirty A.M. fantasy you gave a different answer that lent weight to my powerful need to express a thing or two to guys like Redmond and my dad. Who knows, maybe you would.

  Thought I’d bring you up to date on the Nak Pack, because what’s been going on the last few days messes with my head. After Mr. Nak told Joey to invite a skunk into the family fold, I figured the best way through was to be polite and keep my mouth shut. Then, about three or four months down the road, I would just tell Mr. Nak I never seem to get mad anymore, could he please tell Redmond I’m cured, and that would be that. But I don’t think it’s going to be that easy. See, Mr. Nak’ll be talking about how anger comes creeping up, hoping you’re not paying attention so it can trick you into something really embarrassing or degrading, and before you know it he’s got you thinking about your life, or worse, talking about it. He keeps asking what seem like harmless questions, and it almost seems safe to answer them. Next thing you know you’re ready to say something you thought you’d never tell anybody.

  The other day he gave us this hypothetical problem. He said, “Okay, close your eyes an’ pertend you’re five years old.” (Excuse the grammar and spelling here, Lar, but in case you haven’t noticed, I write it the way Mr. Nak says it. Maybe it’s a sign of prejudice, but listening to this long tall cowboy talk, coming out of a five-and-a-half-foot-tall Asian guy, is a kick.) Anyway, Shuja put up a stink when Mr. Nak said that, because in his world you close your eyes for nobody. What Hudgie sees when he closes his eyes can only be imagined, because the minicam in that guy’s head is operated from a remote control long, long ago on a planet far, far away. So Mr. Nak said just do our best an’ if things got too uncomfortable, it was okay to peek. He finally got us zeroed in on ourselves at our first day in kindergarten. Shuja felt obligated to tell us who-all’s ass he had to kick just to start off even, because there’s bigots everywhere, even in kindergarten, but Mr. Nak just nodded and went on. “Now imagine the person you been trustin’ all your life, your momma or your daddy or whoever, has told you from the git-go that this color”—and he pointed to his green shirt—“is red. For five years nobody told you nothin’ different about green an’ red, so you start out your first day in school thinkin’ this”—and he pointed to his shirt again—“is red.”

  Shuja laughed out loud and said, “Oooh, you gonna be scrappin’ with all them homeboys tellin’ you different than what your daddy tol’ you,” and I figured that was probably the point, and I peeked and saw Mr. Nak smile.

  Then he said, “Let’s drive our Jeep a bit farther down that rocky road. Let’s say that same person you grew up with, who told you green was red, also told you that when you cross the street you best be lookin’ out for all the forks and spoons speedin’ by, because if you don’t, they’ll flatten you out like a dime on a railroad track.”

  Shuja said, “Oooh, shit” again, but Mr. Nak talked right on through him. “An’ that same person, who you grew up with, an’ who told you red was green an’ cars an’ trucks was forks an’ spoons, told you anytime somebody asks your name, what they’re really lookin’ for is trouble, an’ you best nail ’em before they nail you.”

  Even Elvis snorted a bit at that.

  “What do you think your first day at kindergarten’s gonna be like?”

  Shuja said, “Gonna be a buncha ass whuppin’.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ever time you open your mouth, you gonna be lookin’ the fool, plus you’re gonna light some kid up jus’ ’cause he wanna know your name. Maybe even the teacher.”

  “Who you gonna be mad at?”

  “Ever homey in the place.”

  Mr. Nak sat back. “Now why you wanna get all burned up at them? They’re right.”

  “Yeah,” Shuja said, “but they messin’ with you.”

  “Are they messin’ with you, or jus’ tryin’ to tell you the truth?”

  Shuja snorted. “Tryin’ to tell you the truth? You five years old, man. They be laughin’ an’ pointin’. Tha’s the way with little kids. They won’t be carin’ ’bout no truth.”

  “Laughin’ an’ pointin’. Makin’ you feel how?” Mr. Nak asked.

  An unmistakable voice boomed here, Lar; for the first time in two weeks, Elvis speaks: “Like an asshole. So what?”

  Mr. Nak pointed his six-shooter finger at Elvis’s chest. “Right you are, pardner. Right you are. Just exactly like an asshole. An’ that is my point. Twenty-five freshly scrubbed rug rats, wearin’ brand-new sneakers an’ got their hair all slicked down wet and flat against their heads, an’ twenty-four of ’em know the right names for things. But not you. You gonna feel real smart? Don’t think so. Gonna feel worth a damn—like bein’ sociable? Un-dern-likely. Why? Because you’re feelin’ lower ’n a snake’s belly in a wagon wheel rut, that’s why.” He pointed at me. “An’ who you gonna be mad at, Beauregard, my boy?”

  I said, “I guess I’d be mad at just about everybody.”

&
nbsp; “You’re gonna be mad at yourself,” he said quietly. “Mad at yourself for feelin’ the fool, as Shu puts it; mad at yourself for bein’ the fool. To keep that fact in hidin’ you act mad at everbody else, because you got to hide the truth. You’re mad at yourself for bein’ somethin’ less than ever other person in that room. You don’t know why, but you are. An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else: The more of them thirty-five pounders you coldcock, the madder you’ll be, because no matter how many of ’em you knock out, you’re still the dumb one. The humiliated one. The out-of-control one.”

  Now that doesn’t seem like it should be right, Larry, but it sure felt right.

  Shelly, who I am fast falling in love with even though I’m meeting her in the next closest thing to a maximum-security prison, raised her hand.

  “You don’t have to raise your hand in here, Shelly. Everbody’s got the same right to talk as everbody else.”

  “Mr. Nak, nobody told any of us red was green. At least they didn’t tell me that. And nobody told me traffic was silverware.”

  “An’ a lucky girl you are,” Mr. Nak said. “But what about other things that were misnamed for you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anybody ever tell you everthing’s really okay when you’re feelin’ low enough to sniff whale dung? You think ‘low’ is one thing, they tell you it’s another? Ever have somebody say you didn’t really feel awful when you did? That you shouldn’t feel bad when you were eatin’ dirt? You think ‘awful’ is one thing, they tell you it’s another? Ever have somebody tell you they were whackin’ on you because they loved you?”

  “Sure, that happens to everybody.”

  “Does that sound like the right meanin’ for ‘love’? How do you like it when that happens?”