by Guy Johnson
Jackson had identified the store and the source of the food smells the moment they stepped onto the docks. He headed toward the store, ready to slake his thirst and eat his fill. He had ten dollars in his pocket and he was hungry. The man grilling the fish was old and wizened and had the stump of a cigarette smoldering between his lips. Jackson watched him expertly flip a whole fish from spot to spot with his tongs. His hair was tied in a handkerchief and his pants were rolled up to his knees. He looked like a figure out of a Japanese samurai movie. Jackson pointed to the fish and the man answered him in a flood of Spanish. Jackson pulled out his ten dollars. The old man shook his head and repeated a word followed by pesos several times.
Behind him Jackson heard a male voice with an American accent say, “What have we here, Jimmy?”
Another male voice answered, bemused, “I don’t rightly know, but he’s waving enough money to drink all night.”
Jackson turned and saw two young white men staring at him. They were wearing cowboy hats, T-shirts, and jeans. He had been taught to be suspicious of whites but not to fear them. “Do you have change for ten dollars?” he asked, his hunger impelling him forward.
The slimmer, taller man said, “Jimmy, you got all the Mex money.”
Jimmy, the shorter, more muscular of the two men, said, “Sure, little buddy, I can help you.” He reached into his pockets and pulled out a wad of money made up of bills from both the United States and Mexico. He counted out a wad of Mexican currency and handed it to Jackson.
Jackson accepted the money questioningly. “How much is this?”
Jimmy snatched the ten dollars from his hand and said, “Don’t worry about it, you got enough to get a couple of fish!” The men turned to walk away.
Jimmy’s friend laughed. “Easy money, Jimmy. You ought to go into banking!”
Jackson, concerned that he was being cheated, said, “Wait a minute! This isn’t ten dollars!”
Jimmy turned and gave Jackson a hard look. “Better shut your mouth, pickaninny. You’re lucky I didn’t jes’ take your money.”
“I want my ten dollars back,” Jackson demanded, his voice rising in volume.
Jimmy crossed the few feet that separated him and Jackson and poked the boy hard in the chest with his index finger. “I told you to shut—” Jimmy didn’t get to say anything else. Carlos struck him hard on the side of the head with the butt of a large knife. The blow knocked Jimmy off his feet. He fell in a heap on the wooden planks of the pier. His friend started to come to his aid, but the cocking of a shotgun stopped him. El Indio was standing behind him with the weapon aimed in his direction. There was a short, swarthy, balding man with El Indio. When Jimmy’s friend saw him, he paled noticeably and stuttered, “We didn’t know, Señor Ramirez. We didn’t know he was a friend of yours!”
Señor Ramirez ignored Jimmy’s friend and went right to Jackson. He knelt in front of the boy and asked with a thick Mexican accent, “Did he hurt you?”
Jackson shook his head to indicate that he wasn’t hurt. He mumbled, “He took my ten dollars and gave me this.” He opened his hand to show Señor Ramirez the wad of five-peso notes.
Señor Ramirez glanced at the money briefly and asked, “Did he touch you?”
Jackson nodded affirmatively and rubbed his chest where the man had poked him.
“Which hand?” asked Señor Ramirez.
Jackson indicated his right.
Señor Ramirez stood up and walked over to Jimmy, who was still sprawled on the ground, woozy from the blow he had received. Señor Ramirez said something to Carlos, who quickly knelt and held Jimmy’s right arm. Señor Ramirez stomped Jimmy’s immobilized hand. Jimmy’s scream shredded the night as his knuckles popped like popcorn. The foot raised and stomped again. Jimmy screamed again and then suddenly stopped.
People started to pile out of the bar. Someone even said, “That’s Jimmy.” But the sight of the shotgun quelled any thoughts of heroics. There were hostile rumblings from the bar’s clientele when an older man pushed his way to the front. He had the air of a man who was used to being obeyed. When he saw Señor Ramirez his posture changed from commanding to solicitous. “Sorry to bother you, Señor Ramirez,” he said with a quick, respectful nod of his head. “Everyone back in the bar! This is not our business. Back in the bar!” There was a brief milling and mumbling as the patrons filed back into Mary’s. The door to the bar closed with a slam and curtains were drawn across the windows.
Señor Ramirez turned to look at Jimmy’s companion, who was shivering with fear. “What am I going to do with you?” Señor Ramirez asked as he walked toward the man.
“Please, señor,” the man begged. “It was an honest mistake! We didn’t know this kid had anything to do with you! Honest!”
Señor Ramirez gestured to El Indio, who swiftly stepped up and smashed the butt of the shotgun behind the man’s knee. The man crumpled with a wail: “I didn’t even touch the kid! Please!”
“Show me your money!” Señor Ramirez demanded.
The man emptied his pockets. A jingling sound rang out as change and keys fell on the wooden planks. He offered his paper money to Señor Ramirez, who then counted the money swiftly and threw down some bills. “There is money to buy gas or catch the southbound bus to Santa Rosalia. It leaves from the plaza at ten-thirty tonight. If you are here in the morning, you will be treated in the manner that you deserve.” Señor Ramirez walked over and said something to Carlos. Carlos knelt down and began rifling through Jimmy’s pockets. Jimmy was delirious with pain and not yet fully conscious. He began to moan. Carlos took the money out of Jimmy’s pockets and gave it to Señor Ramirez, who spit on Jimmy then threw a few bills on his supine body. Señor Ramirez went to the old man who was grilling fish and spoke quickly, then he gave him some bills. The old man accepted the money gladly and began wrapping all his cooked fish. Señor Ramirez turned to Jackson and offered him the remaining money, which was considerably more than the amount Jackson had originally been given. He took the money with trepidation. He was frightened by the decisive violence of the man and by the deference showed him by the people in the bar. He nodded his head and said respectfully, “Thank you.”
Señor Ramirez nodded his head as well and a big smile broke out on his face. He patted Jackson warmly on the shoulder and said, “El Negro’s grandson. I have not seen you since you were christened, but I have heard much about you!” As he turned to walk away, El Indio fell in step with him. Jackson started to follow the two men off the pier when the old man with the fish caught his attention. The old man gestured that he should take the bundle of fish. Jackson’s expression lit up. Forgotten were the two men who still lay crumpled on the pier. He rushed over, almost losing his money trying to take the bulky package of fish.
El Indio said something in Spanish to Señor Ramirez that made everyone, including the old fishmonger, laugh. Bewildered, Jackson followed the two into the darkness. Still chuckling, Carlos appeared at his side and took the bundle of fish from him. Jackson looked up at Carlos with a quizzical expression.
“Do you want to know what my uncle is saying?” Carlos asked without a hint of an accent.
“You speak English?” Jackson asked, surprised.
“Second-year business major at San Diego State College,” Carlos answered with a laugh. As they stepped out onto the floating dock, he explained, “I went to high school in Imperial Beach.”
“Why did everyone laugh back there?”
“My uncle was talking about you. He said, ‘The wolf cub has the appetite and spirit of a wolf, but is still a wolf cub.’ ”
They climbed onto a large, shiny motorboat. Big lights on the roof of the top cabin illuminated the deck. Provisions and fuel were being loaded by several barebacked men. Jackson had never been on a boat so large. Keeping out of the way of the stevedores, he began exploring. There was a large cabin on top of the boat with a steering wheel and a lot of electrical instruments. In front of the cabin, there were several chairs with seatbelts t
hat were bolted to the deck. Jackson noticed little windows on the side of the hull and assumed there must be several cabins below, but he did not venture there because of the bustling traffic. Señor Ramirez was moving about the deck, barking orders and directing men. El Indio, apparently having stashed his shotgun, joined the work crews and pitched in like a veteran. Jackson looked for somewhere to sit that would be out of the way. He saw Carlos waving to him from a seat on the main deck. Jackson made his way carefully to him. Carlos had been assigned to keep an eye on him by Señor Ramirez to ensure there would be no further problems.
From the security of his seat Jackson watched Señor Ramirez get his boat ready for the open sea. Carlos handed him a large, orange life jacket and helped him strap it on. It was bulky, but Jackson liked the feel of it. He felt the boat’s powerful engines roar to life and was excited by the muffled throb of their forceful presence. When the boat pulled out of the little harbor, Jackson could contain himself no longer, and rushed to the stern to watch the lights of the little town diminish in the darkness. The bright spotlights were turned off and the deck was left in the semidarkness of the boat’s running lights. To Jackson, the stars had never been so bright before. He stared up into the moonless night sky and it appeared almost three dimensional, as if he could reach out and touch any one of the millions of points of light.
The trip took three hours and Jackson loved every minute of it. He liked the rumble of the powerful engines and the rocking motion of a becalmed sea. He saw the lights of other boats pass in the darkness, the inky outlines of small islands, and finally the moon. It made its dramatic entrance about halfway through the trip. It was not quite full but had a bright beige image which reflected off the darkening water. Carlos called him. They were breaking out the fish. Someone brought out a stack of warm tortillas and salsa. The men drank beer, while Jackson was given a Coke. It was the best meal Jackson had had in a very long time. After they finished eating, Señor Ramirez brought him up to the captain’s cabin and showed him how to steer the boat. In the darkness, they passed a large landmass with lights on it called Tiburón Island. When the boat finally pulled into Bahia Kino, it was nearly midnight. Jackson was sorry that the trip was over.
As an adult, when he recalled this initial summer with his grandfather he saw it in terms of Greek mythology: He viewed his boat passage as the crossing of the River Styx; Jimmy and his companion symbolized the two-headed Cerberus, the dog that guarded the gates of Hades; Ramirez was Charon, who ferried dead souls to the netherworld; and his grandfather was Pluto himself.
However, as an eight-year-old he could not complicate his thinking with symbolism. He knew only that he had left the land of the known, the world of routines and cold interchanges, when he and his grandmother got out of the rented car in Tecate. This was more than the recognition that Mexico was a nation different from the United States. He realized on an unspoken level that he had entered a world in which men lived by dint of their wit, the courage in their hearts, and the force in their fists.
Señor Ramirez called for the lights to be turned on again so that the process of unloading the boat could begin. Men appeared out of nowhere and began carrying bundles off the boat. Jackson found his suitcase and began making his way to the gangplank. When he stepped onshore he saw his grandfather standing in the shadows of an old building, watching him.
Monday, June 21, 1982
The bag swung back and forth slowly. It was a ten-inch-long leather oval which had an elastic cord attached to each end. One end of the cord was attached to the ceiling, the other to the floor. Jackson, dripping with sweat, stared at the bag intently. It was the elusive, chest-high object that he had been keeping in motion with his kicks. He wasn’t interested in simple repetition; every time he kicked the bag, he tried for power, to drive his foot through its leather casing. Each time he began his assault on the bag, he thought of his grandmother’s parting words at Rhasan’s graduation: “Even if you do not go down to Mexico, they will come for you.…”
He was tired, but he had twenty more kicks with his left leg before he finished his routine. The bag was an adversary to be battered and driven back. He took a forward stance and swung his foot up quickly and forcefully in a front kick, which struck the bag squarely and sent it swinging in rapid patterns that he could not follow.
“It looks like your timing is way off,” Wesley said as he came over to watch Jackson. “It’s the same principle as a punching bag: You attack it from the same angle and get into a rhythm.”
“Doing side kicks is like playing solitaire,” Jackson grunted as he began his kicks again. “You can be in a room by yourself and some weird-butt will come over and tell you to put the red queen on the black king.” He missed his last three kicks by wide margins and stopped to catch his breath.
“As far I am concerned you have two red queens and two exposed black kings. You obviously need help,” Wesley said as he poised himself, then kicked the bag lightly four times in rapid succession.
Jackson snatched a towel from Wesley’s shoulder and began wiping off. “If you wanted to help, why didn’t you loan me your towel? I’m the one who’s sweating. All you did was show off for a few seconds.”
“I worked out hard last night. The only reason I came back here with you tonight was to stretch. Now I’m ready to go. Let’s hit the showers.”
In a sparring ring on the other side of the dojo, two men were working out. From the sounds of the blows landed, it was full contact. Jackson and Wesley paused on their way to the showers to watch the match.
“That’s not kempo.”
“No, it’s kick boxing,” Wesley answered. “Their gym got closed down and Sensei Matsuo has allowed them to work out here.” As Wesley finished speaking, one of the combatants delivered a spinning back kick. It was delivered with such force that even though it was partially blocked, it still knocked his opponent to the canvas.
“Damn! That was a hell of a kick!” Jackson said as they entered the locker room.
Jackson took off his T-shirt, turned from his locker, and asked, “Have you ever been driven by something? Propelled by some all-consuming passion?”
Wesley paused before he answered. “I don’t know … I mean, I like money and I’m reasonably ambitious, but all-consuming? No, I don’t think so. Not unless you include my twenty-four-hour pursuit of pussy. Why?”
Jackson gave Wesley a long look. “Don’t you ever worry that you’re devaluing women when you think of them as pussies?”
“No! I want to connect with them on that primal level. I’m into that caveman shit! While you’re fucking and sweaty, being a dick or a pussy is reaching into the essence of it all. That’s the real reason mankind is a successful species. Despite his brain, he has to fuck.”
Jackson laughed. “Thank you for another neo-Freudian interpretation of human history. So what happens when you run across a woman who doesn’t feel that way?”
“We only fuck once.”
“That sure is simple.”
Wesley held up his hand. “Wherever you’re going with this, I give up. You win! You can have the moral high ground. Okay? Now, we started off talking about you. Where was that going?”
“Well, sometimes I worry that I don’t have the capacity to really care about something. I don’t have any life goals which require me to dedicate myself. I sometimes think that I’ve lived my whole life by default and that I don’t exert any consistent control over where my life is going. For example, I work at the City of Oakland because I came out high in the selection process. I didn’t even start off wanting to work in the East Bay.” Jackson grabbed a dry towel and headed into the showers with Wesley. “It’s more than that, really, more than being driven. I have never really had an all-consuming desire for anything. It’s scary, like I’m drifting through my life.”
Before he disappeared in the steam of the showers, Wesley jibed, “Thank you for sharing the fact that you’re suffering from attention deficit disorder.”
Jacks
on smiled. What did he expect? This was one of his macho male friends; there could be no intimate exchange without some derision. He had unthinkingly just done the same thing to Wesley. That was part of the game. There were too many games. Too many rules. Too many things to worry about. He stood under the shower, wanting the hot water to wash all thoughts from his mind with its cleansing heat. He wanted to lose himself in the pounding heat of the streams of water. Yet he could not find even momentary peace. He began to see metaphors in the shower. He was part of an eternal human flow, a fluid of countless faces. Funneled through the vast sprinkler head of birth to different destinations, some to be stopped by objects in midflight, others to hit the wall, while still others evaporated into the very air that was breathed by all. As he walked out of the shower, Jackson wondered which stream his grandfather had passed through, and at what destination he would soon arrive.
Wesley was almost dressed when Jackson got back to his locker. He gave Jackson a questioning look and said, “Damn, man, I thought you drowned. What were you doing in there, masturbating?”
“Thinking,” Jackson answered as he began to dress.
“Thinking?” Wesley challenged. “About what?”
“Life, my grandfather; the whole ball of wax.”
“That’s it? That’s all you thought about during a two-hour shower?”
“Lifetimes have been spent in resolving issues smaller than these.”
“Suppose you tell me in plain English what the hell we’re talking about.”
“My grandfather may be dying. He was a man who took many lives, who was addicted to the drama of violence. If there is a soul that exists after death, is there some grand scheme of poetic justice that exacts payment for negative deeds?”
“You’re talking about heaven and hell,” Wesley said, fixing his tie. “If you’re a Christian, you’ve already bought into some alternative of this scenario. But ain’t nobody but the dead really got answers to these questions. It’s a riddle that can’t be answered. I say, let’s go get a drink.”