Little Chicago
Page 10
Yes, I say.
Mrs. Ovitron says, Get to work then.
I take out my notebook and start the essay.
I write:
I feel the need to swear because swearing allows you to use important words that you would not otherwise use. This is not good or acceptable behavior, I realize this fact.
My hand gets a cramp, so I stop writing. I count the words. It is only thirty-one words.
When I try to come up with other things my head just gets heavy, so I write fuck four hundred and sixty-one times and then add:
is not acceptable language for the sixth grade.
This takes me nearly the full hour cause I press my pen in really hard with each fuck.
You’d be surprised how difficult it is to write the same word four hundred and sixty-one times while pressing your pen in.
When detention is over my hand feels like it got stepped on.
I turn in my essay and leave.
I look over my shoulder but Mrs. Ovitron is not interested in what I wrote.
She’ll probably burn it.
I can practically see her getting ready to light the match.
11
I walk home on Caton Farm Road.
I don’t stop at the construction site but I watch it as I pass by.
There are several men inside the unfinished house. They are measuring things and using tools. One guy has a hammer. It’s the biggest hammer I’ve ever seen. They are all wearing hardhats and blond boots. The guy with the hammer sits and drinks out of a metal thermos. The stuff in the thermos steams up through the whole house.
I get this feeling that if they see me they will chase me down.
So I start to run.
It is sleeting again and my ears feel like vegetables from the freezer.
Mary Jane Paddington’s Koren Motors windbreaker is making swishing noises.
According to Coach Corcoran my running form is sub-par.
Sub-par, Brown! he shouted when we were doing the fifty-yard dash. Sub-par form! Sub-par!
After I crossed the finish line Steve Degerald added, You run like a fuckin pansy, Chicken Legs.
When I got home that night I looked up pansy in the dictionary. The first definition said that a pansy was a garden plant. The second one said it was an effeminate youth.
Of the two definitions, I prefer to think of myself as a garden plant.
I decide to cut through Hamil Woods. The trees are silver with sleet.
I walk across the baseball field and stop at the Smudge Man’s sewage hole. I dip low and put my face near the opening.
It doesn’t smell like sewage at all. It smells more like mud and grass.
I wait but I don’t hear anything.
I think maybe he’s tuning his violin.
Or maybe he’s time-traveling to the Himalayan Mountains many centuries ago.
Suddenly a bunch of blackbirds spring from a tree.
When they caw they sound like people screaming.
I almost fall into the hole but I keep my footing.
Here’s your chance! I yell down the hole. You don’t even need your violin!
I wait for a few more minutes but nothing happens, so I walk away.
At the edge of Hamil Woods I see the deer again.
It comes right out and stands there like it forgot something. You can see its breath smoking out of its nose.
I take two steps toward it and it just stays there.
Hey, I say.
Its fur is wet from the rain.
Its head is huge and solemn.
I take two more steps toward it. Nothing happens, so I take two more.
There’s something wrong with one of its ears. Like part of it got chewed off by another animal.
Mr. Prisby will occasionally talk about the food chain and predator-prey relationships. Birds eat worms. Big fish eat little fish.
I imagine a wolf in the woods. It’s got yellow eyes and a snarling snout.
When I put my hand on the deer I am surprised at how warm it is. I can feel a pulse in its neck. It’s pulsing so hard I can almost hear it.
Up close the deer smells like Hamburger Helper. Its eyes are huge and liquidy.
So brown they could almost put you to sleep.
Then the wind gusts through the trees and the deer jerks away. When it jerks I jerk too and my shoe falls off.
And then, just like that, it’s gone.
Like it got thought by the woods and then the woods changed its mind.
I stand there and try to follow its path through the trees but there’s nothing.
I leave my shoe and keep walking home.
I smell my hand frequently and I am glad that the deer’s still on it.
The houses along Black Road look like they’re all keeping secrets. I imagine people staring out at me from cracks in their curtains.
My feet start to sting again and just before I turn onto our street I take my other shoe off and throw it at a car.
It’s a green Dodge Dart and it looks very old.
The car is parked, so this is not such a brave thing to do.
But it feels good to throw the shoe and it makes a loud noise when it hits the car.
I almost want to go back and throw it again.
When I finally get home there is a man with tools leaving our house. He is short and has a muscular neck.
He also has a face like a pig’s. It’s red and swollen-looking.
Who are you? I ask.
I’m the plumber, he says. I came to fix the heat.
Oh, I say.
Tolstoy called.
Who’s Tolstoy? I ask.
I think that’s your little brother, right?
Sort of, I say. Is it fixed?
Yep. The pilot light of your boiler went out. It’s happening all over town. It’s pretty common when it gets cold so unexpectedly like this.
There’s a black Swiss Army knife attached to his belt. Al Johnson was going to buy me one of these for our one-year anniversary. It was going to be a secret between him and me cause Ma wouldn’t have approved.
It’s called the Swiss Army Champ Utility System and it’s got many functions.
It’s got scissors and a saw.
It’s got pliers, too.
I imagine taking the plumber’s knife and using it for criminal purposes.
He says, You realize you aren’t wearing any shoes?
I say, I know.
It’s getting awfully cold out to be walking around barefoot.
My hand sort of reaches toward the knife.
You feeling okay? he asks, taking a step back.
I’m not falling, I say.
What? he says.
I say, I said I’m not falling!
Okay, he says.
There is a white van with lettering on one side and he points to it. It says PISTOL PETE’S PLUMBING.
I imagine him in the van. He eats McDonald’s and throws all the wrappers in the back seat.
Well, he says, I better get to my next appointment. Take it easy.
Then he walks by me and gets in the van.
I can hear his door shut and the engine start.
Move, I tell my legs.
Move now, I say.
Cheedle is sitting at the kitchen table with a girl. She is wearing a blue plastic raincoat and there is a red umbrella in her lap.
They’re eating scrambled eggs with ketchup. It reminds me of this puke puddle that was outside Mr. Prisby’s room. No one would claim it.
Mr. Prisby said, Oh, it must be a new kind of mold then, and everyone laughed.
I have to punish myself for looking at the eggs or I’ll get sick.
I dig my nail into my thumb every time I feel myself wanting to look.
I focus on the girl instead.
Her hair is curly and brown. It looks more like a wig than hair.
Her eyes are round like buttons. I think they’re sort of blue, but that might just be the raincoat playing a trick.
He says, Hey.
I notice that he is wearing a collared shirt with a tie. He looks like he works at a funeral home.
He says, This is Anna Beth Coles. She’s in my Chaos and Creativity class. I spoke to you about her the other day.
Oh, I say. About what?
Kissing lessons, she says.
Her voice is too deep for her body. There’s something fake going on, I am convinced of this.
My eyes find the scrambled eggs and ketchup and I nearly fall to my knees from the grossness but I catch the table with my hands.
What happened to your shirt? Cheedle asks.
Um. I fell on a tomato, I say.
He says, Smells like paint to me.
It was a painted tomato, I say.
Interesting, he says. What about your shoes?
What about them? I say.
Where are they?
I gave them to a blind man, I say.
Well, he says.
That’s all he says: Well.
How old are you? I ask Anna Beth Coles.
I’ll be eleven next week, she says.
In a flash I see her naked. Her breasts are flat like mine, with pen dots for nipples.
Cheedle says, She’s prepared to provide you with remuneration.
Anna Beth Coles puts a ten-dollar bill on the table and says, I feel like I’m entering a phase of my sexual development where I need to explore vast possibilities.
I look at the two of them sitting there. I imagine them singing a duet.
I say, I’m not giving lessons today.
Anna Beth Coles says, Why not?
I say, Just cause.
I feel my face filling with heat.
She says, But I walked all the way over here in the bad weather.
Okay, I say. Give me the money first.
She hands me the ten-dollar bill.
Cheedle says, I would like to observe, if that’s okay, and continues eating his eggs.
Anna Beth Coles wipes her face with a napkin and moistens her lips.
Open your mouth, I say.
Anna Beth Coles opens her mouth. Her gums are crowded with teeth.
I say, Not that wide.
The she adjusts her lips and I place my mouth on hers. Her spit tastes like Hershey’s chocolate syrup and Twizzlers. We stay that way for several seconds and then I take my mouth off.
She wipes her lips with the napkin.
Cheedle continues eating his eggs.
There, I say. Lesson completed.
Anna Beth Coles looks up at me and says, Glog!
I’ve never heard anyone say Glog before.
I’ll bet it’s a cross between God and log.
I’m not sure why Anna Beth Coles would want to mix these two words.
She is staring at me like she might cry.
What? I say.
She says, That’s all I get for ten dollars?
I say, One step at a time.
Well, that sucked! she says, and pushes away from the table and walks out.
Cheedle acts like nothing has happened. He just eats his last forkful of scrambled eggs and ketchup.
Sometimes I wonder if he has emotions.
It’s the way he just sits there. He’s like a rock with a brain.
The rain is starting to get in the house, so I go over and close the front door.
I can see Anna Beth Coles at the end of the block. Her blue raincoat looks bluer far away. I wonder if her eyes do that too.
Her red umbrella is so big I imagine the sky lifting her up and sucking her through the clouds.
When Ma comes home she tries to pretend that she hasn’t dyed her hair.
It’s supposed to be blond but it looks rusty and dumb.
In the kitchen she puts some things away and then she comes out to the living room and sits next to me on the couch.
I can smell the chemicals in her hair.
It’s like the couch burning.
I know this smell cause Shay burned some holes in the cushions with a cigarette once. She was mad cause Ma grounded her for stealing twenty dollars out of her purse.
The whole living room stunk for days.
The burn marks are still there. It looks like the couch got bit by a dog.
Cheedle is typing and watching Blackbelt Theater.
What do you think, Cheedle? Ma finally asks.
She is touching her hair like it’s changing temperature. Somehow her technician’s uniform looks rusty too.
Cheedle says, It looks lovely.
Ma says, What about you, Blacky? What do you think?
I say, No comment.
I think about Cheedle’s word: Lovely. Like her hair is a field or a bird.
Ma says, No comment, Blacky?
I say it again. I say, No comment.
Come on, she says. I spent thirty-five dollars on it. Be honest.
I say, What’s with your eyebrows?
They look thin and drawn on.
She says, I had them done to match my hair.
You look like a prostitute, I say.
She slaps me so hard I fall off the couch.
The feeling goes out of my face for a second.
When I look up Ma is standing over me like a tree.
There’s no need to be cruel, Gerald, she says.
And then she walks down the hall and goes into her room.
She hasn’t called me Gerald in so long the word sounds like Spanish coming out.
She slams the door and turns her radio on to a rap station.
What’s weird is that Ma never listens to rap.
I look at Cheedle.
He’s flicking something off his typewriter keys.
He says, Prostitution is not a profession most mothers find employment with.
I say, What?
But he doesn’t bother to explain, so I go in the bathroom and sit on the toilet. I don’t have to go. I just sit there.
Later I come out of the bathroom and Flahive is sitting on the couch. His eyes look huge and black.
Hey, I say.
He says, Hey.
Is Shay here? I ask.
Not yet, he says. I was sposed to meet her.
Oh, I say. How’d you get in?
Door was open.
Flahive is playing with this thing called a Zippo lighter. He can snap his fingers and make a flame. Then he flips his wrist and the top slams shut. It’s highly impressive. He does this four times and twirls the Zippo between his fingers.
The thing about Flahive is you don’t know if Flahive is his first or last name. I asked Shay once but she just said, His name’s Flahive—it’s like Cher.
He keeps looking over his shoulder like someone’s after him. There are little pink welts on his cheeks. His hair is long and greasy and his nose has a bump in it. For some reason I can’t picture him as a baby. He just came out this way.
So what’s up? he asks.
Nothin.
How’s tricks?
Pretty good, I say.
Whenever Flahive sees me he asks me this and I have no idea what it means.
He says, Stayin outta trouble?
Pretty much.
Then he says, Double trouble, keep him off the bubble, and looks over his shoulder again and sort of sniffs. I can see that his nose is raw and red. Shay’s got the same problem and I assume this has something to do with drugs.
We’re quiet for a minute and then when I can’t take it anymore I say, Can I buy a gun off you?
He says, A what?
A gun, I say.
Who told you I sell guns?
No one.
Did Shay tell you that?
No, I say. I just know.
He says, You’re a little young for a sidearm, don’t you think?
No.
What’s your name again? he asks.
Blacky.
You’re a little young to be wielding a firearm, don’t you think, Blacky?
It�
�s for protection, I say. Burglars and stuff.
I hear that, he says and looks at his watch. It’s black with red numbers.
He says, What kinda piece are you lookin for?
I don’t know, I say. Somethin small.
How much money you got?
Ten bucks.
He says, It’s gonna cost you more than that.
Okay, I say. How much?
A helluva lot more than ten bucks.
Then he stares at me for a second. It’s like he’s seeing something that he’s never seen before.
Come here, he says.
I walk over to him at the couch. He takes my hand and presses it to his chest. I can feel something hard under his army jacket.
Feel that? he says.
I say, Uh-huh.
He keeps my hand there and smiles. One of his teeth is blue.
That’s my Glock, he says. It’s German. One of the finest makes.
Wow, I say.
Then he lets go of my hand and I just stand there.
You wanna gun, I’ll get you a gun, he says. How bout a twenty-two. Think you could handle a twenty-two?
Yes, I say.
Flahive looks over his shoulder and says, Meet me tomorrow behind the 7-Eleven at Five Corners. Cool?
Cool, I say. What time?
He says, Four o’clock. But don’t tell your sister I’m doin this.
I won’t.
If you do I’ll break your pussy finger, he warns.
Okay.
And it’ll hurt a lot.
I nod.
We are quiet for a minute and then I say, What’s that? and I point to a patch on his army jacket.
Special Forces, he says. Death unto all who touch it.
I almost touch it but I don’t. My hand just wants to reach out on its own.
Then Shay comes out of her room. It’s obvious that she came in through the window again cause her arm is scraped and bleeding. It’s funny how she doesn’t even use the front door anymore.
Hey, she says, squeezing her arm with tissue. Her hair is wet and her face looks swollen.
Flahive says, Hey.
Hey, I say. What happened to your arm?
I injured it skydiving. Fuckin parachutes, man. Then she sniffs a few times and says, What’s up? to Flahive.
Nothin much, he says. Just talkin to Barry.
Blacky, I say.
Just talkin to Blacky, he says.
Suddenly you can hear Cheedle typing in the basement. He must be using a flashlight cause Ma never changed the bulb.