Alex had been on the Extra Squad for two weeks (he attended afternoon school) when the regular man called in sick. The day counselor from Lincoln filled in. He was younger than most, barely thirty, and he was nicknamed “Topo” (Gopher) because of his protuberant front teeth. Nobody called him Topo to his face, but disguised voices often called to his back: “Topo es puto,” or “Topo sucks dicks.” He reacted with rage. His real name was Mr. Lavalino, and the boys thought he was tough. They respected toughness but not cruelty. Mr. Lavalino was also cruel occasionally; he used the boys under his control to vent a variety of frustrations. Alex knew him only by sight when he took the Extra Squad one bleak, rain-threatened morning. The dozen boys were digging up a leaky pipe near the front of the institution. They’d reached the pipe the day before, but the actual leak wasn’t precisely where they’d excavated. They were enlarging the ditch by following the pipe. The earth was soft, but the work was sloppy. It had rained during the night and turned things to mud.
The boys had divided themselves into shifts because everyone couldn’t work simultaneously. Some loosened the earth with mattocks; others shoveled out what had been loosened. Alex was half-leaning on his shovel, watching the other shift do their stint, when the dirt clod hit him behind the ear and shattered. It didn’t hurt, but it stunned him momentarily, the surprise of it. When he turned, confused with shock, his face commencing to draw up in anger, he expected to see another boy. Whether it was a joke or an insult, he was ready to issue a challenge.
No boys were looking at him. But Mr. Lavalino was. The man was standing beside a fifty-gallon drum with a fire in it. He wasn’t warming his hands. He was glaring at Alex.
“Get your ass in gear,” he said. “Quit lollygagging and leaning on that shovel with your finger up your ass.”
Every word was like an unexpected slap. He didn’t even want to explain how the work was divided; he was trying to fight the redness growing in his eyes and brain; it made any long, explanatory sentence impossible. “Did you … throw that?” he choked out; even those few words were difficult.
“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Lavalino said, nodding his head for emphasis, voice rising, “I threw it. You don’t like it or something … punk?”
Alex couldn’t reply, not in words. “Punk” was the ultimate insult. He was beginning to pant, his breathing loud and strained, the excessive oxygen further dizzying his brain. All peripheral sights disappeared. In the reddening world he could only see the grotesque face of Mr. Lavalino grinning with malicious challenge.
The fury that erases thought took over. With a gasping scream he raised the shovel like a baseball bat and ran at the man—he meant to erase the grin with gore. He would bash in that face.…
But Mr. Lavalino no longer grinned. In seconds he blanched, seeing the truth. He flinched back one step and then turned and ran, yelling out, “Help! Help!”
The original distance between them was fifteen feet, but it was across the ditch and the mound of soft, damp earth. Alex stumbled, nearly falling, but found his balance and veered around the ditch.
Within moments the violent drama turned to comedy. Mr. Lavalino ran around the ditch, keeping it between himself and the enraged youth. The boy chased him around it once, sinking into the soft dirt, unable to get close enough to swing the shovel.
The other boys on the crew had stood dumfounded. Boys fought boys, not the Man, especially not a man such as Topo, who was notorious for kicking around anyone who showed the slightest rebelliousness. And this newcomer brandishing the shovel while sobbing in rage was obviously crazy. Nobody but a crazy kid would do this.
After the second time around the ditch, both of them panting, Alex stopped. So did Mr. Lavalino, keeping the ditch between them like a moat. Using a shred of reason, Alex feinted continuation of the chase, and then he started to charge directly over the ditch. He could leap it and cut off his prey. But first he had to go over the pile of soft dirt dug from the ditch. It was too soft. He sank in, stumbled, and fell to his knees, the shovel out of control.
At that instant, a fat black boy, compelled by a loathing of violence he would never admit (scarcely even to himself), took three quick steps and tackled Alex from behind. It was a high tackle, the black boy’s shoulder slamming into Alex’s back. The shovel jumped from Alex’s hands, and he went face-down into the dirt, the weight of the heavy boy pinning him.
“Motherfucker!” Alex yelled reflexively, keeping his mouth from the earth and trying to struggle.
Other boys saw the madman disarmed and came forward to subdue him. The front office, and maybe the parole board, would look favorably on this humanitarian behavior. Young they were; naïve they were not. “Settle down, settle down,” one of them said, meanwhile putting a headlock on Alex.
Alex twisted his head away from the soft dirt so he could breathe. Struggle was useless, but he muttered curses, for now into his mind jumped the certainty of punishment. To threaten their power was the worst behavior imaginable. They went half crazy over being attacked. And the worst part was that the punishment would come without his having had the satisfaction of smacking Topo with the shovel.
“Lemme up,” he said.
“Take it easy, pal,” the fat black said. “You’ll just get in bad trouble.”
Mr. Lavalino came around the trench as the fat black and two others helped Alex rise, meanwhile still holding him securely. Two hands pinned each arm, and resistance was useless. Alex watched the man approach, anticipating blows and planning to duck his head as much as possible, the memory of the terrible beating in Pacific Colony flashing into clear focus. Maybe he could tuck his chin next to his shoulder and take the punishment on the forehead. That was better than taking fists in the mouth and nose. It might even hurt the motherfucker. Hands often broke on foreheads.
Mr. Lavalino was pale with fright, not florid with rage. His hands were raised with open palms. “Easy, Hammond, easy.” Every other time he’d asserted his authority—these were tough punks who only understood and respected force—it ended there. It never got to the administration building about a kick or a cuff. This one would go to the disciplinary company for the attempted assault, no matter what the provocation, but throwing the dirt clod could cause repercussions—at least a reprimand in the personnel file; it would be seen during promotion hearings.
Alex was still being held by two boys, and Mr. Lavalino was still frowning his indecision, when the institution patrol car pulled up. The supervising counselor, who cruised the reformatory checking on things, had seen the boys standing around instead of working. He didn’t get out of the automobile, merely rolled down the window as Lavalino came over.
“Anything wrong?” the supervisor asked.
“Naw, not really. Just some bullshit friction I can handle okay.”
The supervisor looked at Alex; he had been told about him in a staff meeting just last week, as were many newcomers over the course of time. “That’s Hammond, isn’t it? He’s supposed to be wild … borderline psychopath with real problems about authority. So keep your eye on him.”
“Oh, I can handle him,” Lavalino said, smiling in a way that added to the claim.
“I know you can.”
“What’s on the menu? It’s almost lunch.”
“Boys’ mess hall or staff’s?”
“Both. I eat where it’s best.”
“Chili mac for the gunsels. Salisbury steak for us.”
“Both lousy. But the chili’s free.”
The supervisor chuckled, said good-bye, and drove off. Lavalino clenched his teeth and turned to deal with Alex. The man’s shoulders were round in unconscious body language supplication, and his hands were extended palms up, showing he was hiding nothing. “Easy does it, young’un. You don’t have to be upset.”
The tone more than the words jolted Alex, surprising him, for he’d expected a raging adult who would curse and threaten at the very least, and very possibly might lose control. The conciliatory tone stopped Alex cold, yet he sensed that t
his wasn’t the man’s real nature. The man who’d thrown the dirt clod was the true Lavalino, not this phony with a soothing voice.
The adrenaline was gone from Alex, so instead of continued rage there was thought, and even a moment’s reflection said that pacifying the situation was the right thing to do. He had won; the man with power was now calming him. How different from three minutes ago—the dirt clod and the arrogant challenge.
“Let him go,” Lavalino said, having made sure the shovel was at a safe distance. “Are you cooled off?”
“Yes, I’m okay.” Actually, he was trembling from nervous exhaustion.
“C’mon,” Lavalino said, then glanced at the dozen boys standing around, all of them watching intently. “Take a break,” he said to them.
Warily, Alex followed the man’s beckoning gesture and fell in beside him.
“I’m not going to report this. If I did, you’d be in the disciplinary company for at least thirty days … and that’s no picnic. And it’d probably mean an extra few months before parole, too. But it’s partly my fault. I didn’t mean to hit you in the head with that chunk of dirt. Bounce it off a leg or something … just get your attention so you’d work.”
“I was working … hard as anybody. The mattocks were loosening it up for the shovels to dig.”
“Okay, okay, let’s not argue about it. Anyway, you’re not getting a disciplinary report … but keep it quiet, ’cause my Italian ass would be in a sling, too, for not reporting something this serious.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not a fink.”
“And lemme give you some advice, kid … rein in that temper. It’s gonna bring you lots of misery if you don’t.” Lavalino punctuated the advice with a big brotherly squeeze of Alex’s shoulder. The man’s solicitude, real or faked, short-circuited the undercurrent of anger still in Alex. The lonely boy within washed over the tough kid. Momentarily his eyes were wet, and he turned his face away, stifling the telltale sniffle. Lavalino was still talking, but Alex didn’t hear. He was asking inwardly: Why do I always have to fight? Why is it so ugly? God, I’d just like to be like everyone else.
From the institution power plant came the blast of the noon whistle, signaling it was time to return to the detail grounds for lunch. The whistle also exploded flocks of sparrows from roofs and trees. After lunch Alex went to school. He and Lavalino turned back to where the youths were gathering the tools and lining up. The incident of violence was over.
But not forgotten. The boys on the crew were from various cottages, and by evening all had told the story of “some crazy motherfucker in Scouts, a white guy named Hammond, tried to knock Topo in the head with a shovel … had the dirty bastard running with his tail between his legs.” Boys fought each other without thought, but what Alex had done was the ultimate “craziness.” During the next couple of days he was pointed out on the detail grounds, and the storytellers embellished what they’d seen so that some boys thought Alex was a “maniac,” which wasn’t a pejorative, and some boys thought him a “ding,” which was definitely pejorative.
Distorted word of the assault got to most of the counselors, too, despite the lack of a report. A boy officer in Roosevelt Cottage gossiped to the night man (who smuggled cigarettes in at a dollar a pack when they cost fifteen cents), and the night man told his morning relief, who told others at lunch. When Lavalino was approached, he disparaged the seriousness; he couldn’t admit running scared from a twelve-year-old. The counselors never got the whole story, but they got enough to recognize that Alex, although certainly no match in a fight against many of Whittier’s youths, was one of the more unpredictably explosive. Some men would simply watch him closer, others would be cautious, and a few would take it as a personal challenge and decide to come down hard if he showed any temper toward them.
Thus, within a few weeks of leaving the receiving cottage, Alex Hammond had gained high visibility—was known by the majority of the boys and counselors. He noticed it on the detail grounds. The cottages marched there at work call twice a day. They were dismissed to go to specified areas according to their assignment. For a few minutes all could mingle. The only other time it was allowed was at church. Otherwise the inhabitants of one cottage were kept away from those in different cottages. After the shovel chase, Alex got occasional nods of recognition at work call. Boys he didn’t know would nod or wink on meeting his eyes and say, “All right, Hammond.” Or, “Easy does it, Hammond.” It happened four times in two weeks. It made him feel good.
It also got him in a brief fight. While joining the school line one afternoon (the largest single group, some hundred and fifty boys), the officer ordered: “Right dress!” The arm that came up didn’t just extend for spacing; it shoved him violently.
“Hey, man!” he said, regaining balance, looking at the boy who had shoved him. He was smaller than Alex but he was in Lincoln, the toughest cottage, where his size made him stand out. Alex had noticed him before. His name was Fargo.
“You don’t like it?” The challenge was thrown.
“Naw, I don’t like it from a fuck. Don’t shove.”
“Aww, you might tell Topo what to do, but you’re just another punk from Scouts, so don’t tell me nuthin’.”
Punk! Punk! The word of words in the reform-school lexicon. A fight was inevitable. That thought was in Alex’s mind when Fargo kicked him in the ankle; a hard kick with steel-capped toes. While the pain shot through Alex, his fist shot out into Fargo’s nose. Blood poured instantly and profusely. Alex stepped back and out of line to get room to fight. The ranks broke up for the combatants.
Fargo, however, was leaning forward, holding his head extended so the blood wouldn’t drip on his clothes. He was muttering obscenities.
The teacher supervising the march to classes saw the bleeding boy and called a halt. He ordered Fargo aside and had them form into ranks. Alex watched Fargo being led toward the hospital by a counselor, and then he was marching on to school. Throughout the afternoon, Alex couldn’t concentrate—not that anyone else even tried to concentrate, or any teacher cared. Reform-school youths have no concern about education, and teachers who wanted to teach resigned to work elsewhere. Whittier had school classes because the state law required it. Everyone did what they wanted short of rebellion and riot. But where most others drew pictures, played games, or leafed through magazines and cut out lingerie ads, Alex tried to learn some things because they interested him: history, geography, social studies. He refused even to try to learn mathematics or science, but the teacher was happy to have a boy desirous of learning anything—most couldn’t read and didn’t care to learn how—so she let him decide, helping him. It really came down to reading; he liked what he could learn simply by reading.
This afternoon, however, the printed pages became sheets of squiggles. At evening recall on the detail grounds he would have to continue the fight. He wasn’t afraid. Rather, the fear was controlled and he was ready to fight—but the wait had his mind running repeatedly over the situation. His brain was stuck like a gramophone record. Once more he wondered why he had to fight continually. Other people didn’t have to; he knew that from books. Momentarily, he considered “turning the other cheek,” but it made him chuckle. If he turned the other cheek they’d have him bent over spreading both cheeks of his ass while making a toy-girl of him—a punk.…
Alex was quickly out of the classroom door when the whistle sounded. He waited on the walk while the line of classrooms emptied. He knew an aggressive demeanor might give him an advantage, especially if he started swinging first.
Fargo wasn’t at school. He hadn’t returned following the bloody nose.
When the school formation marched onto the detail grounds and was dismissed, Alex didn’t go to the area where Scouts formed. Instead he stayed in the center, visible and available, while work crews and shop crews arrived and dispersed to the various cottage formation areas.
Fargo was still absent. Was it fear? That was hard to believe, both from how he’d acted and b
ecause he lived in Lincoln, the toughest cottage. The smallest guy in Lincoln, too. Yet where was he?
Alex could wait no longer. Cottages were forming ranks. He started toward his own and saw Lulu Cisneros, his first acquaintance in Juvenile Hall, coming toward him. Weeks before, when Alex had gotten out of Receiving, Lulu had given him half a pack of Camels. (Lulu’s visitors made him reform-school rich by smuggling him two packs every Sunday; Alex carried them in from the visiting grounds for five cigarettes.) Later, from the shoe shop, Alex pilfered him a pair of capped-toe brogans, a shoe much favored by the boys. Having a pair was a status symbol.
“I was lookin’ for you—where you line up?” Lulu said.
“I’ve been waitin’ here for another guy.”
“Little Fargo?”
The surprise on Alex’s face was sufficient reply.
“He’s at the cottage,” Lulu continued, “and maybe has a broken nose. It’s swollen up and both eyes are black. That’s why I’m here. Do you wanna forget it?”
“He fucked with me. I didn’t fuck with him.”
Little Boy Blue Page 21