Kindness for Weakness

by Shawn Goodman

  “I believe in people,” he says. “Good people like my family and my friends.” After a moment he adds, “And I believe in you, James. Because you trusted me to teach you something, and today your skinny ass lifted a lot of plates. And that impresses the hell out of me. Now let’s go eat.”

  47

  At breakfast I am still glowing from Samson’s compliment. “I believe in you, James,” he had said. My arms, shoulders, and chest burn with the memory of what I did in the weight room. One hundred and eighty-five pounds! Maybe I’ll call Louis and tell him, even if he’s an asshole and might not care. But from now on, that’s his business—whether or not he cares. I can still brag if I feel like it.

  Antwon’s eyes stay fixed on me all day to let me know that he’s not going to forget about his offer. One more day left. Freddie says that there’s no plan and Antwon’s just fucking with me, seeing how far he can push until I snap. He whispers that I should kick him in his knee when we’re in the lunch line. He points at his own leg and says, “Get him right here on the side; it’ll buckle. Then you take his fuckin’ head and smash it on the metal counter. You do that, and he won’t mess with you no more. I guarantee it.”

  At our table Antwon eats his food and buses his tray. Then he sits quietly, pretending to mind his own business, while secretly eyeballing me every time Horvath dips his own head to shovel up his macaroni and cheese. When the guard goes up to get a second helping, Antwon says, “You in?”

  I shrug.

  “Go on and shrug,” he says. “See what happens to your bitch ass.”

  There are rumors that Pike is coming in later with a new resident. I wonder who it is and if he will look as scared as I did. But all my curiosity disappears when Pike comes in with a kid who looks a lot like Tony, only a little older and with a hard, mean face instead of Tony’s perpetual wiseass grin. He is carrying a stack of state-issued clothes and a yellow resident handbook. He stares straight ahead, avoiding our eyes.

  Even when Pike says to the boy, “Tony, take room number one,” I still don’t want to believe it’s him. How could it be? Tony was smart. He knew how to take care of himself. But the really dark thought is, If he can’t make it, then what chance is there for the rest of us?

  Tony goes into room number one and starts putting away his clothes. Mr. Pike shuts the door to give him some space. It’s an uncharacteristically kind gesture, but he follows it up with something rude.

  “Mr. Honors Stage, my ass.” He says it loudly enough for everyone to hear, especially Levon, who is Tony’s enemy from their old neighborhood. Supposedly they were in rival gangs, although every gang seems to be the rival of every other gang.

  Suddenly Levon is happy and full of life. “Permission to ask a question, sir?” he says to Mr. Pike.

  “What?” Pike says.

  “Can I, like, welcome Tony back to Bravo Unit?”

  “Shut up, Levon,” says Pike. “You’ll be back here again, too, so don’t get all high-and-mighty.”

  Levon scowls, which is to say that he goes back to being himself.

  Tony stays in his room for hours, and it is not until dinnertime, when Mr. E and Samson are supervising us, that he tells Freddie, Wilfred, and me what happened.

  “Everything was going good,” he says. “I got a job at El Taino Café and I was getting it from my girl every single night. I swear!”

  Everyone smiles in appreciation of easy sex.

  “You get busted for weed?” Wilfred asks.

  “Man, I hardly smoked at all, and I was careful.”

  “That’s good,” says Wilfred.

  “So what happened?” Freddie says.

  “My girl told me she was pregnant. And she’s religious and shit, so she wanted to, you know, keep it. And I wanted to be a real man and be responsible and shit, so I said, ‘Fuck it, let’s have a baby.’ ”

  Usually we aren’t allowed to have real conversations in the cafeteria. Whenever Horvath or Pike or Crupier works, it is strictly eat and run. But Mr. E and Samson tell us that the only way to learn how to have normal conversations that aren’t focused on drugs and gangs is to practice. So Mr. E just breezes by to make sure we’re not plotting a revolt or something, and then he touches Tony on the shoulder and says, “It’s good that you’re telling your story, Tony. There’s no shame in making mistakes, so long as you’re man enough to learn something from them. Right, guys?”

  “Yes,” we all say, dying to hear the end of the story. Any news of the outside world, even bad news, is welcome, and Tony’s story promises to be good.

  He continues. “So I was all set to pick up more hours at El Taino, when I start thinking about time and shit.”

  “What do you mean?” Wilfred says, looking at the clock for clues.

  “Like, how long does it take for a girl to really know she’s pregnant?”

  “Damn!”

  “Damn is right,” Tony says. “Long story short, I found out some dude was taking my place with her while I was locked up.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Man, it don’t matter who it was. What matters is I took care of his stupid ass.”

  “And your girlfriend?”

  “She ain’t my girlfriend no more.”

  “So what now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But there’s no way I’m doing another year in this place without no privileges. I can tell you that much. They gonna have to send me somewhere else. I’ll see to that.”

  Back at the unit, someone has slipped a note into my school folder. It says, “Times up. Mak yore desishun.”

  It takes me a minute to figure out the last word, but I have no doubt who it’s from or what it means.

  48

  After lunch Mr. Pike drops an envelope onto my desk. It’s from Mr. Pfeffer:

  Dear James,

  I am sorry to hear about the terrible events at Morton. I am filled with stupid adult questions. How can such things happen in a state facility? Aren’t there investigators or people to step in and make changes? Like I said, stupid questions. Because I can tell from your letter that you are experiencing a reality that might be difficult for the rest of us to comprehend. We don’t want to know that ours is a world that isn’t safe and doesn’t always make sense. I hope only that you get out soon and with as much dignity as possible.

  Good job finding that passage in The Sea Wolf. It’s important, I think, to know that a man can be afraid and that this doesn’t necessarily diminish him. I have been in places where it was necessary to be afraid (Laos and Vietnam). The only people not to show fear were crazy.

  I sincerely hope for your sake that there is no Wolf Larsen at Morton. I have known only one such person in my time, and all I can suggest is to stay clear. You cannot reason with or fight a man like this. He will destroy anyone in his way. Accordingly, I agree with your observation that the ending of The Sea Wolf did not fit the story or Larsen’s character. A fight to the death did seem imminent, and appropriate.

  I like what you said about finding your own path. I hope you’ll forgive me for taking the liberty, but after I read your last letter, I went and signed you up for my Advanced Placement English 11 class. We’ll be reading a bunch of books I think you’ll enjoy, and the class can benefit from your voice and perspective. You can start at the beginning of next semester, or whenever you get back. (It’s all squared away with your guidance counselor.)

  Take care, James. Keep reading, thinking, and writing.

  Your friend,

  Stephen Pfeffer

  49

  Time is up on Antwon’s offer. All day throughout class I hear him and his boys whispering, calling me pussy, and punk-ass. I try to ignore it, but I can’t. My chest feels tight and I start to sweat. I’m so sick of taking shit from people like Antwon. I don’t want to take any more shit.

  Antwon sees me standing in the dayroom waiting for him. He lopes over. “Yo,” he says. “Time’s up. You in?”

  “No,” I say flatly. My eyes narrow.
My breathing gets shallow.

  “No’s for pussies and faggots. Which one are you?”

  I look around at the bloodthirsty faces of Levon, Double X, and Wilfred. They are hungry for violence. They want something exciting to happen, something to take their minds off the day-to-day of school, chores, and getting bossed around by guards who hate them.

  “Come on, man, tell us! Which are you?” Coty and Double X join in.

  I want to ask them why there aren’t other choices. Because if all you can be is either a pussy or a faggot, or someone like Antwon, who is strong but empty, then I think we’re all doomed. Wolf Larsen, with all of his strength, ended up being pathetic and alone. And dead. Socrates, too. His fists, his rock breakers, only brought him pain. It wasn’t until he started thinking, and questioning, that he found any peace.

  Antwon steps closer. “I asked you a question. Are you a pussy, or a faggot?”

  “Neither,” I say, scanning the unit floor for guards. I see Horvath in the staff office talking on the phone; Pike is nowhere to be seen.

  “Prove it,” he says, and shoots a sticky glob of snot onto my chest. I look down at it passively, a greenish-yellow slimy thing stuck to my red shirt. I take in the ring of boys, their animal faces hard and crazy. They are urging me to lose control and fight. And again something is changing inside me, because I do feel like losing control. I do feel like fighting. The muscles in my arms and chest flex and tighten, ready for action. It’s a new feeling, and for the first time in my life I think I could really hurt someone. It’s like the glob of snot is made of concentrated hate and it is burning through my clothes, seeping into my skin, contaminating me with rage. I want to wash it off before it consumes me and I do something stupid, something bad that will cost me my stage and keep me here longer. But maybe none of that matters anymore. Maybe all that matters is that I finally act. The boys seem to sense my readiness. They can tell that the fight is welling up in me, trying to take shape and get out. They all jeer. Cajole. Call names.

  On its own, without any thinking or planning, my body lunges. My legs coil and spring and I am airborne, driving through space toward Antwon’s stupid grinning face. His expression shows surprise as I close my fingers around his throat, thumbs digging and squeezing at the soft spots on the sides of his windpipe, my body and hands possessing their own ugly knowledge.

  We crash over a desk and onto the floor. Antwon makes a whomping noise as the impact knocks the air out of him. He tries to breathe, but my fingers press harder and shut off his supply. I am staring into his eyes, which roll back and forth with panic. What is he looking for—someone to help him? He should know that nobody’s gonna help him. He should know that it’s just him and me now, and it’s like Wolf Larsen said: “The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength. The lucky eat the most and move the longest, that is all.”

  Antwon thrashes his body and claws at my face, but still, my hands hold firm. I am not letting go.

  I could kill him, I think. I could do it. And he knows it.

  Someone pounds me on the back and calls my name.

  “James!” Freddie says. “Don’t do it. Let him go!” He tries to pull me off, but the other boys pull him away, hard.

  “Leave ’em alone!” they say.

  I release my grip; Antwon gasps for breath. He sucks air in violent spasms, chest heaving and expanding to get more, in case my fingers threaten to squeeze again. But they don’t, and Antwon takes the opportunity to drive his knee up and into my balls. The pain explodes, knocking me clean off him and onto my side. And from this position I watch his white canvas sneaker connect with my face, before the world turns fuzzy and then black.

  50

  I come out of my first real fight with a knot on my head, a pair of seriously swollen nuts, and no more stage privileges—which means that I won’t get to lift weights with Samson anymore. Antwon, who had no privileges to lose, got another month added on to his sentence.

  The facility doctor, an Indian man with small dark hands, checked me out and said I was basically fine. He said I could even play in the big flag football game Horvath and Pike have been planning all week. The game is seven on seven on the outside field with these Velcro belts that have a red flag on each hip. It’s a big deal for Bravo Unit, something that they only do once each year. Everyone except Freddie has been excited, and even though it’s been raining nonstop for three days and the field is thick with mud, the guys can’t wait to get out there to play. I’ve decided to play, too, even though my balls hurt when I run.

  Only a couple of the guys are real athletes, like Levon, who played on his high school football team in Queens. And Double X can slam-dunk a basketball, and run faster than anyone else on the unit. Tony is good, too, though Horvath says he’s got lousy technique and gets by mostly on strength. I am a terrible athlete, but I like being outside. Even though we are surrounded by a razor wire fence, I can close my eyes and feel the wind and rain and pretend that I am back home at the river, watching fly fishermen or reading a book on a flat sun-warmed rock.

  Freddie is the only one who isn’t interested in the game, and he complains bitterly. “No way,” he says to nobody in particular. “I ain’t going in that mud.”

  I tell him to shut up, but he doesn’t listen. I remind him that he could get written up and lose his stage, but he keeps on bitching.

  “Put my ass in medical,” he says. “I’ll even do extra chores.”

  Horvath walks by grinning, a sack of red and yellow pinnies slung over his shoulder. Normally he’d write Freddie up or at least give him a hard time. Instead he says, “What’s the matter, Peach? Afraid you’re going to get your clit dirty?”

  The unit explodes with laughter, myself included. I don’t know why I’m laughing, because I am supposed to be Freddie’s friend. And also it’s a stupid joke. But I really do want to play football in the mud, like a regular kid, and I’m sick and tired of all the fights and arguments. It’s like I am too tired to resist anymore, too tired to stand up for Freddie against Horvath and Pike, and against the other boys, who are so quick to laugh at the gay jokes or the dick jokes or, in this case, the dirty clit jokes. Freddie tries his best to laugh it off, but I can see that he is tired of it, too, but in different ways. Tired of being laughed at and picked on. Tired of never being taken seriously, even when he is the only one with a plan and a ticket to college.

  Outside, Freddie and I put on red pinnies and make our way through the drizzle to Mr. Pike, our coach. He’s got a dry erase board with our positions marked out. Levon is quarterback; Double X and Coty, wide receivers; and the rest of us are linemen.

  The game is ridiculous, with more fumbles, fouls, and incomplete passes than anything else. The slick bottoms of our canvas sneakers glide across the puddles and patches of mud, threatening to dump us on our asses at any moment. On one play, Wilfred catches a pass from Antwon and takes off right down the middle of the field. He’s high stepping toward a touchdown, when, all of a sudden, his feet shoot up into the air so high that they’re even with his head. He lands with a splat, and the play ends with a pileup on a loose ball.

  Levon stands out clearly as the best athlete. He throws blistering passes that only Double X can hang on to; they bounce off everyone else’s chests or whistle through outstretched hands. Once, in a pinch, he throws a pass to Freddie, who shrieks and ducks out of the way. Everyone laughs except Levon, who seems to take it deeply personally, as though Freddie refused to accept a handmade gift.

  “Man,” he says. “Why’d you duck? That was a good pass.”

  “I don’t know how to play football! I told you.”

  Levon shakes his head sadly. “Then why you out here? Why you got a red pinney on and flags on your belt?”

  Coach Pike tells me to get ready to punt. “Drop back and wait for the snap, James,” he says.

  “What do I do when I get the snap?”

  He laughs at my ignorance of t
he game. “Kick the hell out of it,” he says. “That way.” He points at the other team’s end zone, just in case I have forgotten which way we’re going. Double X squats down, and on the count snaps me the ball. I juggle it, trying desperately to get a grip. But the ball seems to have a mind of its own; it dances on my fingertips, threatening to jump away from me altogether. I grab it just before Wilfred rushes me. At the last second, I cut to the right; he changes directions midstride and makes an athletic grab for my flag, but misses. I hold the ball in front of me with both hands, just like Mr. Pike said, and I kick it as hard as I can. It feels like a good one, but instead of a high looping punt like Mr. Pike showed me to do, it dives low and bounces down the field. A couple of yellow players try to get their hands on it, but it skips past them and settles near the goal line.

  “Good kick!” Pike yells.

  Tony picks up the ball and starts running. He’s fast enough to get past the first red players and is at the mid-field mark when Levon cuts across the field to snatch his flag. It looks like the two of them are out for blood, going too hard, and when Levon’s right leg makes contact with Tony’s, it sends Tony sprawling out of bounds and into the fence. All the other yellow players cry foul, and Horvath blows his whistle.

  “Excessive force!” he says. “Ten-yard penalty. First down.”

  Levon looks like he’s going to argue, but he knows the rules: anyone argues with a ref, and they’re out of the game.

  Tony picks himself up and knocks the clods of dirt and grass off his face. He shoots Levon a look that says, “You’re dead, motherfucker.”

  On the next play, Levon intercepts a terrible pass from Antwon and runs down the right sideline, cutting and spinning, reversing directions and, finally, making a ridiculous dive for the end zone, which isn’t a real end zone but a rectangle marked off by four orange cones. It looks like he’s going to make it, too, up and over Wilfred’s outstretched hands. But Tony comes flying out of nowhere. He runs across the backfield, full tilt and with his head and shoulders down, and collides with Levon’s airborne body. There is an audible crunch as the ball pops loose and Levon crumples to the ground. Tony stands with his hands at his sides, twitching with readiness. For what, I wonder? He’s already trashed Levon.