You Don't Know Me

by David Klass

  Violent Hayes, I was happy to escort you to the Holiday Dance, but let me remind you that I myself am not a dancer. No one has ever taught me how to dance, and that may be a good thing because I believe I have no ability whatsoever. The sad truth is that I cannot even stand still in time to music. Furthermore, I am wearing shoes that are not shoes, they are torture devices designed to create blisters and make me lean to one side or the other like an indecisive Tower of Pisa. To attempt to dance in such shoes would be nearly suicidal, and I have recently sworn off suicide.

  Violent Hayes, are you leading me out to the very center of the dance floor? Did you not hear anything I was saying? Violent Hayes, are we waltzing? Is this your soft body pressed up against my own? Are we boogying? Are we moshing? Has the room tilted, or am I now standing on the wall? Is this really music, or a grenade assault? Is this moshing, gyrating, mass of adolescent energy a high school dance or the first battle of World War III?

  We take a breather. I get Violent Hayes a glass of punch, and have one myself.

  “Wow,” Violent Hayes says, “you’re a great dancer. Where did you get those moves?”

  Violent Hayes, I learned those moves from watching nature shows on television. Those are, in fact, the exact contortions a wildebeest manifests when it is being devoured alive by a pride of hungry lions. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I was just trying to follow the music.” And then I ask her, “Do you know Mindy Fairchild and Toby Walsh?”

  “I know who they are, sure, but I don’t think either one has ever said a word to me since third grade. Why?”

  “Because I believe they are about to join us,” I tell her.

  And, indeed, our school’s star athlete and resident beauty are walking in our direction. She is wearing some sort of absurd tinsel and mistletoe tiara, having apparently been chosen Queen of the Holiday Dance earlier in the evening. Toby, amiable as ever, thumps me on the back. “Hey, John,” he says, “saw you out on the floor. Didn’t know you were such a dance machine!”

  Toby, I am not a dance machine. I am not even a dance windmill or a dance waterwheel. But tonight I am wearing Essence of Stupidity as a cologne, and it has made me fearless. “Well, you know how it is,” I say.

  “That’s such a lovely green dress,” Mindy tells Violent Hayes. “You look really pretty in it.”

  “Thanks” is all that Violent Hayes can manage in reply. But I believe these kind words from the most popular girl in our antischool make Violent Hayes grow a foot taller, and her face suddenly beams like a sunburst.

  Mindy turns to me. “Say, John, you haven’t seen Gloria around?”

  “No,” I say, holding on to Violent Hayes’s hand. ‘And I haven’t been looking for her, either.”

  “Well, she was supposed to be here. She’s bringing this new date. She wanted me to meet him. Chuck something.”

  “Wagon?” Toby suggests helpfully. “Steak?”

  “No.” Mindy giggles, and bats her athletic escort on the shoulder. “His name is Chuck Woodblock, or Woodbridge, or Bridgewood. He’s some big football player at State College.”

  “And he’s chasing high school girls? He must be really hard up,” Toby observes. “Come on, Dance Queen, I like this song,” he says, pulling Mindy out onto the floor. As they pass me he mutters, “Go easy on that punch, Johnny boy. I think somebody spiked it.”

  Ah, that explains why the dance hall is spinning. That explains why the next hour or so of the dance passes by in a slightly hallucinogenic whirl. That explains why my eyes seem to flash like two disco balls, and why the room seems to get smaller and then bigger and then smaller again. Are we having fun, Violent Hayes? I believe we are. Is that Billy Beezer dancing with Karen Dirigible? Did he just come over and shake my hand and say no hard feelings? Is that Andy Pearce fast asleep under the punch bowl table?

  At exactly eleven o’clock I am out in the middle of the dance floor when I suddenly dance right smack into a wall. No, it is not one of the walls holding up the ceiling of the town hall. The wall that I dance into is movable—it has, in fact, moved to get in my way. The wall that I dance into is, in fact, the massive chest of a young man who is, I believe, following the directions of his date. The young woman in question is wearing an expensive and rather slinky blue ball gown. The gown has been cleverly designed to just cover all the curves and straightaways of Glory Hallelujah’s nubile body without very many stitches to spare.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Glory Hallelujah says, her gaze lingering on my torn pants and shabby shoes.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “but I am busy dancing with my date.”

  “I think before you do any more dancing, you owe me an apology,” Glory Hallelujah’s husky companion informs me. “You just bumped into me, peewee.”

  “No,” I correct him. “Actually, you bumped into me.”

  He grabs me by the shirt collar. “Is that right? Well, I hear you used to go out with Gloria. And I hear you didn’t treat her very well. And when Chuck Broadbridge hears something like that, it makes him real mad.”

  But before Chuck Broadbridge can say anything else I hear a loud KEE-WAK sound, unlike anything I have ever heard before, especially during a Holiday Dance. It sounds like the earsplitting crack of a bamboo trunk snapping in half before hurricane winds. Chuck Broadbridge lets out a scream and begins hopping on one leg. Upon reflection, I believe the sound had nothing to do with splintering bamboo but was actually generated by the impact of Violent Hayes’s high-heeled right foot connecting with Chuck Broadbridge’s left shin. “She kicked me!” he gasps. “I can’t believe it. She kicked me. She could have ended my football career!”

  “And I’ll kick you again if you don’t leave my date alone,” Violent Hayes tells him, targeting his right shin for a possible second strike.

  Glory Hallelujah steps forward. “Oh, big John, the soccer star,” she says. “So you have to hide behind a girl, huh?”

  “I don’t have to hide behind anyone,” I say, making sure to keep Violent Hayes between myself and Chuck Broadbridge at all times.

  “If you say another word, I’ll kick you, too,” Violent Hayes warns Gloria.

  “You wouldn’t dare, you, you . . . water buffalo. Is that a green dress or a golf course?” Gloria asks her with a mean little laugh.

  “You can’t make me feel bad, you feather-headed ostrich-faced piece of expensive garbage,” Violent Hayes tells her. “You’re the one who should feel bad. You had the best boy in this whole school, and you let him go, and you didn’t deserve him for one minute. Now get out of here or I’m really going to kick you.”

  Violent Hayes draws back her leg menacingly and Glory Hallelujah and Chuck Broadbridge beat a hasty retreat. They take up a fallback position twenty feet away, and begin pointing at us and conversing angrily, as if trying to work out who is to blame for their rout on the battlefield.

  At that moment I spot two enormous eyebrows cruising around me in tighter and tighter circles, like a shark scenting blood. I believe that Dr. Whitefield may have witnessed the shin-kicking episode, and he may be planning to top off his evening with a late double ejection from the Holiday Dance.

  “Violet,” I say, “it has been a lovely evening, but perhaps we should head home now.”

  She glances at her watch. “Wow,” she says, “it’s after eleven! You’re right, we’d better go. I think I’ve had about as much fun as I can possibly have in one night.”

  25

  Gotcha

  Who are this young couple that walk together up No-View Alley, hand in hand, completely unmindful of the whooshing wind and the flocculent snow? They appear to be old friends, or perhaps new lovers—interestingly enough, in the Lashasa Palulu language, the two terms are rather similar.

  Newly fallen snow lies several inches deep on the rooftops and sidewalks and lawns, a glistening and pristine white carpet that muffles their footsteps and turns their conversation to whispers, so that it is hard to tell what they are talking about. I am quite sur
e they are speaking utter nonsense to each other, but they appear to be having a very good time.

  They reach a house that looks like it needs to lean against the houses on either side of it for support against the wind. “Why don’t you come in?” Violent Hayes offers. “I’m sure my parents have gone to bed by now. We could have some hot cider and watch TV in the basement.” Violent Hayes, your eyes are gleaming in the moonlight.

  Ah, the young fellow is tempted. But he has learned a thing or two in his brief life that is not a life. “I would love to,” he says, “but it’s late, and as you said yourself, it would be hard for the evening to have been more fun. So let’s say goodbye now.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay.” She hesitates. The moon discreetly hides its face behind some clouds. “John, will you kiss me good night?”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” I try to warn her. “I am a notorious nose biter. A lip nipper, and perhaps even a tongue chewer.”

  “It’s a good idea,” she says, closing her eyes and moving her head forward.

  Violent Hayes, is this a kiss? It feels so soft and warm. I did not know that kisses came in this flavor. Ah, so this is why people like kissing. Now I see, now I see!

  “Good night, Violet. Here’s your brother’s jacket back.”

  “Good night, John.”

  Who is this young fellow in the shabby shoes and the ragged gray corduroy pants who is floating home from the Holiday Dance? How is it possible that he can walk home through the newly fallen snow and leave no footprints? It must be a hovercraft pretending to be a fourteen-year-old boy, and this happy whistling sound must be some open valve releasing steam from the hovercraft. Oddly enough, the steam from the hovercraft seems to be whistling the melody to the tuba solo in “The Love Song of the Bullfrog.”

  The boy reaches his block that is not a block, trips on a curb, and falls face first into the newly fallen snow. Ah, so it is me after all. I get up looking like Frosty the Snowman and laugh at my own clumsiness, a jolly happy soul indeed. In fact, I am more than jolly—I believe I am filled with glee—which is a very dangerous way to be. In fact, if you live in a war zone, there is no more dangerous combination in the world than being slightly drunk on spiked punch, filled with glee, and wearing Essence of Stupidity as a cologne.

  I approach my house that is not a house. I am so filled with glee that I do not conduct the necessary reconnaissance. I just open the front door and start to walk in, when a hand reaches out and grabs my right arm in a painful grip. “Gotcha!” a voice says, and I smell the whiskey reek of the man who is not my father.

  No, in fact, this does not happen. Just as I did not go down into the basement with Violent Hayes and incur the wrath of her mountain gorilla of a father, I do not try to enter my house that is not a house without conducting the necessary reconnaissance. You see, as I mentioned a moment ago, I have learned a few things in my life that is not a life. First, I note that the man who is not my father’s truck is not around. This is a very good sign. Then I circle the house, peeking in the windows. The rooms are all dark, and the TV is not on. This is another good sign.

  I walk halfway around the house, and see no signs of life. My house that is not a house is quiet, dark, and, to all appearances, empty. I reach my backyard, pass the apple tree that is actually a gray-leaf tree, and stomp through the ankle-deep snow to my back porch. I quietly climb the steps, open the door, and slip inside. But as I reach to turn on the light, a hand shoots out of the darkness and grabs my right arm in a painful grip. “Gotcha!” a voice says, and I smell the whiskey reek of the man who is not my father.

  I attempt to pull away, but there is no escape from his grip. “Hello, John. Do you happen to know what time it is?” he asks, with mocking politeness. I get the feeling that he has had quite a bit to drink.

  “After eleven,” I say, looking around for someone to shout to for help, or for an escape route, or even for a weapon. But we are all alone at the back of my dark house that is not a house.

  “Any idea what I had for dinner?” he asks.

  If I do shout, I believe the falling snow will muffle my cry for help. And I know I will not get a second chance. “No,” I say, “I don’t know what you had for dinner.”

  “Nothing,” the man who is not my father says with a laugh. And then his grip on my wrist grows tighter, and yet tighter. “Nothing at all.”

  “There’s food in the fridge. You could have cooked something for yourself—” I break off then, as my wrist is twisted almost completely around.

  “You give me lip, you’re gonna make it worse for yourself. Where have you been all night?”

  “At a dance,” I gasp.

  “Yeah, right, as if someone would want to dance with you. I’ll teach you to mind me. I’ll make you dance.” And he begins to drag me along the hallway, toward the door to the basement.

  I have a sudden very vivid flashback from our last visit to the basement—I feel his thick leather belt lashing my back and shoulders as I try to ward off blows to my face. My body recoils from the memory, and I yank away from him. Somehow, I loosen his grip on my wrist . . . and then his hand is gone completely. I am free.

  “Flee!” the little man who sits at the control switchboard of my brain types into his keyboard at high speed. “Legs, churn. Arms, pump. This is a do-or-die moment. Get going!”

  But my freedom is an illusion. I did not break the man who is not my father’s hold. He is merely shifting his grip on my wrist to a much more painful one. His right hand darts forward, and before I can flee, I am lifted clear off the ground by my hair. I cry out in pain, and my feet kick thin air.

  I do not know if you have ever been suspended by your hair with every ounce of your weight contributing to your agony. It is excruciating. I am being scalped by the force of gravity.

  The man who is not my father takes a step toward the basement. And then another step. We are right near the door to the basement stairs. “Dancing, huh? I’ll teach you to mind me,” he says again. Even in my agony, the stench of his whiskey breath is sickening. He is quite drunk.

  I hear a sudden growl, and then I am released from his grip so suddenly that I fall heavily to the floor. I see that my loyal dog, Sprocket, has bitten the man who is not my father’s leg, and is still in the act of chewing on it. The man who is not my father tries to kick Sprocket away. When this fails, he reaches down, picks Sprocket up by a hind leg, and hurls him into a wall. Sprocket lands in a heap and makes a terrible whimpering sound—I fear he will not be able to come to my defense again.

  But he has gained me a few valuable seconds. This time I do flee. I dodge around my distracted tormentor and make a dash for the front door. “Stop!” the man who is not my father calls. “Stop now or by God you’ll regret it.”

  I hear him coming after me. I believe that he is limping. Sprocket has done some damage.

  Suddenly I find myself playing the doomed victim in one of those B horror movies where the teenager is chased around his own house by a limping, murderous monster. Surely, you would think, I could outrun a man whose leg has just been gnawed on by a dog. But I appear to be running through our house in slow motion. The man who is not my father is coming after me, cursing wildly, and gaining with each step.

  I reach the front door. It is locked. My fingers fumble with latches and bolts. There, finally, the door flies open!

  The man who is not my father grabs me from behind. He spins me around. WHOP. The blow with his open hand catches me on top of my head and makes my vision blur and my ears ring.

  But I have a surprise for him. I have come up with a weapon. Unfortunately, it is not a knife or a gun. It is, in fact, the keepsake pen disguised as a candy cane that I was given as a door prize at the Holiday Dance. Without even thinking what I am doing, I raise it and slash at his face. I aim for an eye, but I believe that in the darkness I miss. I can feel it sink into the soft flesh of his cheek.

  The man who is not my father’s hands go up to his face. Even in
the darkness of our front hall I can see that I have drawn blood. It is said that bullies become frightened or squeamish when they are made to feel pain themselves, or when their own blood is drawn. Don’t believe it. The man who is not my father has an opposite reaction—he becomes so enraged that he loses all control. He utters a loud roar and strikes out at me with a closed fist.

  BA-BAM. I have never been punched by a grown man’s closed fist before. The impact lifts me off my feet. The good news is that he launches me in the direction I wanted to go—I fly out the door and land on our front porch. The bad news is that I taste my own broken teeth and bits of bloody lip. I do not have time to conduct a more extensive inventory of damage because the man who is not my father is coming out after me.

  There is no escape—he is faster than I am. I cannot possibly defeat him in a fight—he is far stronger than I am. Nor can I outfox him—he is craftier and meaner than I am, and I believe he has decades of experience in all manner of fights and brawls.

  Unfortunately, I have no other options.

  Among the Lashasa Palulu—that tribe that is not a tribe—there is a saying that roughly parallels the English expression “I will fight you to the last drop of my blood.” It is used only in situations of complete hopelessness, when a cruel enemy will not negotiate, and when even a divine intervention such as an eclipse is not a possibility.

  Now, some might say that continuing to struggle against an overpowering enemy is an act of foolishness that can only increase and prolong pain. Some might suggest begging for mercy, or curling up in a fetal position, shutting your eyes, and accepting your fate. But the Lashasa Palulu believe that if you are truly cornered by a merciless enemy, and all hope of flight or being saved vanishes, you might as well go out bravely and with an act of noble defiance.