Kindness for Weakness

by Shawn Goodman

  Wolf Larsen: “You’re right,” he acknowledged at once. “I never thought of it in that way before. But is the opposite true? If you are braver than I, am I more cowardly than you?”

  At first I didn’t think this passage applied to me. I thought that if I kept to myself and didn’t cause any trouble, I’d be okay. But I’m starting to believe that it’s not possible to avoid trouble at Morton, just like it wasn’t possible for Van Weyden on the Ghost. He had to get a knife and prepare to fight the cook, even though he was terrified. He had soft hands, but he still had to learn how to splice rope, set sails, and navigate. And I am learning things, too. That guy I told you about, Samson? He’s teaching me to lift weights, and I’m getting really strong. And my brother, Louis? Let’s just say that I won’t be following in his footsteps anymore. I guess I’ll have to make my own path from now on.

  Write back again, if you can.

  Sincerely,

  James

  44

  After a week, nobody talks about Oskar anymore and things start to get back to normal. At the Ping-Pong table some of the guys bring up Moses Rivera.

  “When do you think he’s coming?” says Wilfred.

  “Don’t talk about him no more,” Double X says.

  “Why not?” says Wilfred, indignant. “Moses is the bomb.”

  “Because, my mother goes to the same church with Moses’s godmother. She say something happened to him.”

  “Then he ain’t coming here?”

  “No, he ain’t coming here.”

  Double X drops his paddle on the table and walks away.

  “What’s his problem?” says Wilfred.

  “Nothing,” Coty says. “Xavier ain’t got a problem, but Moses do. Some dude stabbed him in a fight. He’s alive, but no more boxing.”

  Nobody has much to say until after school, when we have group. Mr. E begins by asking again for a show of hands. “I know it’s been a few weeks, but who remembers that scenario I gave you, about the punk who stepped on your new Jordans and didn’t apologize or show any respect?”

  Arms shoot up straight and high.

  “James?” he says. “How would you respond?”

  I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. Aside from Antwon, who is too cool and hard-core for the group, I’m the quietest.

  “What’s your answer?”

  I look around. Antwon is picking at his nails, playing indifferent. Levon stares out the window. The other guys and Mr. E look at me, waiting. “If it’s bad for my family,” I say, “I won’t fight.”

  Freddie nods, but the gang kids mutter. Antwon calls me a pussy, and Levon says that I’m not making a choice, because I don’t know how to fight anyway.

  But Mr. E gives me a thumbs-up and speaks to the group. “This here scenario is a choice. Stay with your family, or fight and get locked up. Love on the one hand, hate on the other. Which do you stand for? Which do you believe in?”

  He looks around the circle at us, one at a time, his dark eyes working their way into ours like he can see inside and know what we’re made of. I know what I’m made of, but I wonder about these other guys. What’s inside of Antwon? Double X? Or Freddie, for that matter? I know they’re as screwed up as I am on the surface, but what’s way down deep, beneath all the attitude and talk—something really strong, or the same thin bullshit that made Louis set me up? I want to know what the right way to be is. Why can’t Mr. E tell me that?

  Mr. E pulls out a stack of index cards and a box of sharpened pencils. He hands them out while Samson counts to make sure we don’t steal them for weapons.

  “What do you want us to do with these?” Wilfred says.

  “I want you to write down your choice. Put your name on it if you want.”

  We turn the blank cards over in our hands.

  “Eighty-six percent of the boys who leave this place will get rearrested,” says Mr. Eboue. “That means only fourteen percent will make it. The choice you put on this card will determine which one you will be.”

  “What happens to the cards?” says Coty.

  “Your card will stay on the bulletin board until you leave. Then you take it with you.”

  “Why we gotta take it with us?”

  “So you’ll know which one you are. So there’ll be no surprises.”

  We sit around, uncertain, confused.

  “Go ahead,” Mr. E says. “Choose.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, we write down our choices. I know I’m not going to get arrested again, so it’s not much of a choice for me. I am going back to high school, where I will take every class that Mr. Pfeffer teaches. And I’m going to read all kinds of good books and study hard so I can get into college and leave Dunkirk. That’s what I’m going to do.

  The other kids are scrunching up their faces from the effort; for them, it’s a very hard decision. Mr. Samson collects our cards and looks them over. “I’m going to read them out loud, but I’m saying right now, you guys need to work on your spelling.”

  We laugh, nervous about our words being read aloud. Group is the one place where we’re allowed to talk about our past lives; the rest of the time, guards tell us to shut up and mind our own business.

  “Okay,” says Samson. “The first card says, ‘I’ll fight.’

  “Second card: ‘I will stay and help my family.’

  “Third card says: ‘Fight.’

  “Next card: ‘The right answer is to walk away, but I ain’t weak. I’ve seen what happens to weak people.’

  “Let’s talk about this,” Samson says. “What happens to weak people?”

  Shouts ring out, until Samson raises his hand and points to it as a reminder.

  Levon raises his hand first. “If you’re weak,” he begins, scrunching up his face like he’s trying to force out the right words, “girls don’t want to be with you. And your little brothers and little cousins won’t look up to you. If you’re weak, nobody want to be your friend.”

  “You all agree?” Samson says, scanning our faces quickly. “How about being kind to other people?” he says.

  “Same thing,” says Levon. “People mistake your kindness for weakness.”

  “Yeah,” Coty says. “You kind, you weak.” Samson says we’re almost out of time, but he wants to talk more about this. He quickly reads the rest of the cards and tapes them up on the bulletin board.

  “Now,” he says, “you all need to stand by your choices. Fighters should expect to get locked up again. If you can accept that, then there’s no shame in it. Everybody is free to do whatever they want in life, so long as they accept the cost.”

  Coty raises his hand and waits to be called on. “But, Mr. Samson, what if I change my mind?”

  Mr. Samson smiles. “Then you get a new card.” He holds one out.

  Coty thinks about it, then looks at Antwon and Double X. “Not yet,” he says.

  Back in my room, I pull out my Jack London book and read Wolf Larsen’s take on the whole argument:

  “Might is right, and that is all there is to it. Weakness is wrong. Which is a very poor way of saying that it is good for oneself to be strong, and evil for oneself to be weak—or better yet, it is pleasurable to be strong, because of the profits; painful to be weak, because of the penalties.”

  45

  It’s hard to believe I’ve been here for almost three months. My old life in Dunkirk seems far away, and what I really want is to go out in my old hooded sweatshirt and walk. I want to eat breakfast at Rusty’s Diner, and then joke around with Earl, the janitor. I want to sit in school and listen to Mr. Pfeffer tell stories and talk about books. But my sweatshirt is locked up in Central Services, along with everyone else’s street clothes. I’ll have to wait at least three more months before I can put it on and walk out of here (and that’s if I can get early release, which seems like this mysterious thing that so far only Tony has gotten).

  There are no more good books to read, either. After finishing The Sea Wolf and Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned, I tried reading th
e stack of paperback thrillers and mysteries on the Bravo bookshelf. But after the second one, they all seemed the same. Out of boredom I pull out the big unabridged dictionary, a musty leather-bound thing that must weigh twenty pounds. I flip absently through the onionskin pages.

  “We got to talk, dawg,” says Antwon from behind me. “Ain’t nobody gonna interrupt, either, so sit your ass down.”

  “Okay.”

  He sits a little too close, eyeballing me. I look back at him. The tension reminds me of a Sea Wolf chapter where Van Weyden and the cook sit at opposite ends of the galley, sharpening their knives on whetstones. “Whet, whet, whet, it went all day long. The look in his eyes as he felt the keen edge and glared at me was positively carnivorous.”

  Antwon doesn’t exactly look carnivorous, but he’s sure not friendly.

  “Me and Coty and Double X been talking,” he says. “We decided to hold off on giving you a beat-down. Instead we gonna give you a chance to prove yourself. A opportunity.”

  “No offense, but I don’t want any opportunities. I just want to do my program and get out.”

  “I hear that, but me and my boys, we got this plan, see, and we want you to be in on it.”

  He slides down in his chair, all relaxation and confidence. His long legs are splayed out in front of him, hands dangling off the armrests, bony knuckles crosshatched with scars. I try to think of what Louis would do. He would probably bring the dictionary down right on his kneecap. Antwon wouldn’t even see it coming. And then what? Louis would smash an elbow into his face. He’d say something like, “That’s what I think of your opportunity, fuckhead.” But I can’t see myself doing that. I’m not Louis or Wolf Larsen. I’m more like Van Weyden. The run-and-hide type.

  “Why me?” I say.

  “Because, man, you’re all on your own. Like me and Coty and Double X. None of us are going anywhere for a long time, unless we take things into our own hands, which is what we’re talking about doing. You down?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  Antwon sits up in his chair and opens his eyes all the way. They are brown and empty, like there’s no real person inside him, just a tall skinny kid with scarred knuckles who cares only about his reputation and the power of his gang.

  “Yeah, you do,” he says. “You either in or you out, so don’t be like your faggot friend, Freddie. Be a man and make up your own mind.”

  I ignore the comment about Freddie. What would I do about it anyway? Nothing.

  “Why would you even want me? I don’t know anything about gangs,” I say, trying to talk my way out. “I’d probably mess things up.”

  “Don’t worry about that. My crew got plans for your pasty ass. And right now we can use you.”

  “I have to think about it.”

  “You’re disappointing me, man. Why you wanna do that?” He nudges my canvas sneaker with his own, down low where no guards can see. “Tell you what. Offer’s good for three days, then we ask someone else and you out.”

  He holds up his fist for a bump even though the guards will notice and yell.

  “Later, white bread.”

  I touch his fist cautiously like it might be a trick, like it might explode in my face, but nothing happens. The guards are not watching.

  At night I knock three times on the heater and tell Freddie about my conversation. I ask him what kind of a plan he thinks Antwon is working on.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Those three assholes couldn’t escape from a paper bag. It’s probably something stupid like beating up another kid; that’s what it usually is. You just need to keep away from him, James. He’s shady and shifty, times ten. Know what he did to get in here?”

  “What?” I’m listening, but I don’t really want to hear. Why can’t I just do my program and leave? Why can’t I keep to myself and be invisible? I wish I was back at home, where I was invisible, wandering the streets and neighborhoods in my shitty sweatshirt and holey sneakers.

  Sometimes I think that the world won’t allow people like me, like it’s going to stamp out and crush everyone who is weak and mild. Because even though I’m getting physically tougher, I’m not a fighter, and I don’t know what I’ll do when things come to a head with Antwon. Is it wrong to find your way without fighting or taking from other people? It must be.

  “He beat some dude with a piece of pipe,” Freddie says. “Dude was lost and asked for directions. Antwon was with his boys and said, ‘I’m gonna help this poor brother find his way.’ Dude got a cracked skull and lost an eye.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

  46

  After several weeks of working out with Samson, I am finally changing, getting stronger and visibly bigger. Tonight he comes on shift and takes Freddie and me to the weight room for Stage Night. It’s become a ritual: one hour of lifting followed by take-out food.

  I go through the warm-ups he showed me, while Freddie heads straight for the stair climber. He rotates the TV set on its wall mount so he can watch a gossip show that Horvath has prohibited on Bravo Unit, with the declaration, “No queer shit on my unit.”

  When I’m done stretching and warming up, Samson loads the bar on the bench press with twenty-five-pound plates.

  “I want fifteen,” he says.

  I space my hands out on the bar, shoulder width, like he showed me. I breathe deep, repeat, and then lift the bar on the third exhalation. The reps come off easy, and for the first time I feel truly powerful, like I can do anything. On the last rep Samson guides the bar up and says, “Good. Now rest for thirty seconds.”

  I sit on the bench, breathing, my head perfectly clear for the first time in days. No thoughts of Louis and my mother. No images of Oskar twisting on his homemade mattress-cover noose above a pile of his little-kid books.

  Samson says, “You’re a lot stronger than you know.”

  I can’t help smiling, a weird feeling of heat spreading out over my body that might be happiness. I look over at Freddie sweating and dancing and pumping his legs, which are surprisingly skinny for a chunky guy like him. The TV spews some crap about how to get your house ready for a big dinner party. Samson replaces the twenty-five-pound plates with forty-fives, and then adds a ten to each side, bringing the weight, including the forty-five-pound bar, up to 155 pounds. He thumps me on my shoulder and says, “Give me three good ones.”

  I push out the set nice and smooth, controlling the weight. “I can do more,” I say after racking up the bar.

  “I know. But we’re tricking your muscles. If they know what’s coming next, they’ll never grow. You won’t get stronger.”

  He pulls the two small plates off, bringing the weight back down to 135. “No rest,” he says. “Give me twelve quick ones.”

  I get to ten before my arms start to burn and tremble. “Come on,” says Samson. I grit my teeth and push out the last two. He adds a twenty-five-pound plate on each side. “Now I want one strong one,” he says after I’ve had a longer rest.

  I grip the bar and take my deep breaths. I lift the weight off the rack, excited that I might be able to do it. But when I lower the bar, my muscles give out and I am stuck with 185 pounds resting on my chest. I grunt and push, but it doesn’t move.

  “You got this,” Samson says, bending down, putting the tips of his index fingers under the bar. “Push it out!”

  I drive my heels into the floor like he taught me and push even harder. Incredibly, like magic, the bar goes up. Slowly. Steadily. It’s got to be Samson, but how can someone lift so much with his fingers?

  “One more,” he says at the top. My arms are shaking like crazy, like they’re put together with rubber bands. I lower the bar.

  “Now push it up!” he says, before I drop it all the way to my chest. “Show me you want this!” He’s hovering over my face, encouraging, shouting.

  Again the bar starts to rise slowly, like it’s being propelled by the power of Samson’s words. At the top he racks it, says, “Nice job, man. You did it!” He is gri
nning, happy, though I don’t know why. I’d have been crushed if he hadn’t helped.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me. That was all you.” He pulls a water bottle from his duffel bag and hands it to me. “Drink this. It’ll help you recover.”

  It tastes terrible, like chalk mixed with powdered milk. “That was not all me,” I say. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “You did,” he says. “It’s a mind trick. Your brain tells you I’m helping, but I’m really not. I hardly touched the bar.”

  I finish up with fifteen repetitions at the starting weight. It feels light, like nothing at all, but my arms are beyond spent, and it’s like I’m pushing with someone else’s dead limbs. Samson helps me with the last two, and then gives me the bottle of chalky milk again.

  During squats he says, “There’s a difference between getting big and becoming strong. To get big, you hit it hard and go heavy, over and over again until it doesn’t feel heavy anymore. Or you can take the juice. Or you can shave your head and get tattoos, rip the sleeves off your shirt and buy a Harley. But none of that is real strength.”

  Freddie stops climbing his machine and falls like a puddle to the floor. “What’s real strength, Samson?” he says.

  “It’s when you’re a balanced man. When you can think as well as you can use your body. And you have to know who you are and be okay with it. If that means that you’re not ripped or tough or a badass, then so be it,” says Samson.

  “But the most important part,” he says, “is that you have to believe in something that is real and true. A lot of guys don’t believe in anything. They will tell you what they are against, what they don’t like, but they can’t tell you what they are for. Because they don’t actually believe in anything.”

  I say, “What do you believe in?”

  It’s too personal a question, but I really want to know. I’ve been waiting a long time to have this conversation.