by Tom Sheridan
“Slaughterhouse furloughed me this week. That’s all! I’ll have your dinero next week no doubt!”
Franco cocked back for a trademark ground and pound.
“I got my daughter’s christening. Don’t hit me in the face, primo!”
Primo. Eddo was praying to God that Franco had Hispanic heritage. Like that would somehow earn him a break with The Brawler. Like they were long-lost fuckin cousins. A second ago, Eddo’s tearin away like a race car. And now he’s playin the race card.
“¡Qué pasa is you gotta pay!” Franco dealt a couple body blows to Eddo. But. Spared his fresh fuckin face. “You got fuckin money for spinners?” Franco then had to spare him altogether.
The block boomed with bass. An orange Challenger rolled by. Real slow. Tints cracked halfway. With that fucking song blasting. “Mi Calle” by Castro Y Gambino. TJ didn’t have to know Spanish to know it was a badass beat as he stood across the street. Palms sweaty despite the winter weather. Word around Ill Co was that the orange Challenger was pushed by a CG-67 banger. The driver grilled Franco with his pierced eyebrow and backwards hat. And from TJ’s point of view, his teardrop tattoo.
The gangsta’s black eyes grilled Franco. I fuckin see you.
Franco’s hazels shot right back. Fuckin see you, too.
Eddo let himself up. Dusted himself off. Hopped on his bike and pedaled away. La-dee-da. Like he was headed to a fuckin picnic at the park.
Franco called after him. “Next week. Plus the juice.”
The orange Challenger power braked. Spun its tires for a good ten seconds. Then peeled outta there. Left Franco and TJ in a cloud of smoke.
Franco kept a tough face.
TJ wrinkled his. Didn’t like the smell of it.
TRACK 7. RAY DAY
TJ WALKED TO his high school by way of Bunns Lane for the first time. Fuck, it was far from the high school. Almost in Amboy. Not that TJ was in a rush. Fuckin Ray. Another fuckin gray day. No weather at least. No wind. No wintry mix. Just still. A touch of humidity even. Made the 10 degrees feel like 20. What good fortune. Musta been the St. Paddy’s Day luck of the Irish.
TJ continued along in his green hoodie and green vest for the occasion. The occasion that, according to Mom, was about two things. First and foremost, a celebration of Irish heritage and how Saint Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland. But also a day of ironic mourning. To remember why God invented alcohol. To stop the Irish from takin over the world. Like her grandfather who had moved to America, served as a World War II medic, and built his own contracting business. Then watched it contract on the account of his contracted disease. The medic who self-medicated. His handsome son left not with a handed-down business but with a handed-down message: Take care of business. The handsome young man respected his father’s ringside orders. And charged out with a nickname dedicated to his mother.
It was actually TJ’s dad who loved the holiday unequivocally. In his younger years, he’d say it was cuza the car bombs. But back then, as it was now, he saw it as a day that brought together the town. With that slogan all around. Everybody’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. What a special day. That one day a year. When Franco knew what the fuck he was.
TJ yanked at his green vest as he walked. Puffy thing kept riding up. His hoodie was all tight, too. And the half-cut tag tickled his neck. Worth it, though. Couldn’t be caught walkin around in size “Small.” Instead, TJ was rocking size “Men’s.” And it was too tiny for anyone to want to take. Perfecto.
TJ trooped along like a Koopa Troopa past Pearl Street. Home to the hottest couple of ball courts in town. Even a couple tennis courts for the classy. Except for when they were locked up in the winter like they were now. Then their main function was to play host to steel-cage-style street fights where two kids would climb over and rumble. Whoever could beat the other badly enough to make time to climb out was the winner. And the play structure. How could such a monster structure from TJ’s childhood now look so miniscule? Damn.
TJ’s peregrinations pushed him past Town Hall. The mayor’s office. It struck TJ that even the town wished it was back in the day. Back when the whole town had Friday night light fever. Back when Franco and Julie would take little T to every game. Back when the football team and its headbreaker Hector Herondo lined up at linebacker. When its assassin Anthony Akiro left chalk marks around receivers crossing the middle. When its O-Line elephant Aaron Vochuk made pancakes like he was Uncle Buck. When its baller Brandon Sweet built a brand on the right sweep. When Ali Raja and the 4-3 D picked off passes like Ali Baba & the Forty Thieves. When Wyatt Irthe shotgunned any and all comers like he was Wyatt fuckin Earp. When The Sheriff and his men put teams in tombstones all the way to the town’s last state title. Back in the day. Back when the blue-collar bangers on the bowling team, the motherfuckin bowling team, scored a turkey with three state titles in a row. Back when everyone in the hood was feelin good. Droppin some Whadaya say now, WOOD! The deep-voiced side-of-the-mouth battle cry that could be heard all around town. From basement bangers full of wasted creatures in Jordan sneakers to teachers n preachers in those Friday night bleachers. Back when the president, Slick Willie himself, slid into the halls of the high school to share his thoughts on National Kick Butts Day. (And to shore up some electoral votes in the process.) The visit all arranged by Woodbridge’s All-American mayor on the rise. The handsome Irishman with the beautiful wife and kids. TJ was sure McGreevey, who had since then gained the governorship only to be outed in a national scandal and out of politics altogether, beckoned for back in the day. Then again. Maybe not. At least the love gov was living his truth. TJ, meanwhile, felt like a total fuckin phony. Hoodie like he was hard or some shit. Bench-warming on the ball team. A-student of stupid classes.
TJ continued to walk the boulevard of broken dreams. Past the middle school. He once saw a picture of the inaugural class. Ten cheery old chaps from 1910. Back when Proper was “proper.” TJ wondered what they’d think of some of the kids out front on this cold winter morning, present company included. The baggy clothes. The beat-bopping Bose. The lack of backpacks. All a rueful reminder to TJ. He was halfway to Ray. Still, he carried on before he was late. Carried on hatin ’08. Past Little League fields now so little. Wondering as he crossed his hood. What do you say now, Wood?
TJ made his way onto the frozen tundra out front of his high school. More diverse than ever. Now some kids were green. From the Irish kid and his green iris to the black quarterback and his girl Iris. But not Ray. Ray wore gray. A gift from T-gay. Must not have been enough because Ray’s grill was still grilling him. Shit. TJ shoulda brought his Ouija board. So he could séance St. Patrick and have him bounce the boa constrictor before him. Like Ray’s woken up the past few school days and said, I feel like fucking up TJ today. Or maybe he was chilling with Lenore the night before and she said something about TJ being cute or funny. Musta been that. Cuz she was also standing there with apologetic eyes. Some conspicuous space between her and Ray. The Big Pole. TJ liked to think it was cuz of the big bat he used to bat cleanup. Or cuz he was a quarter Polish. But that’s as far as TJ would go. Didn’t want to give Ray the satisfaction of another scenario. Ray who was standing there with the same salivating grin he had when he was in the batter’s box. And the pitch being grooved to him today was TJ.
“What up little bitch.”
“Nothin I’m good,” responded TJ as if Ray had greeted him pleasantly. Considering Ray put a wrap on the rap this past Friday, TJ now chose flight instead of fight. He kept walking.
Ray mushed his head. “Faggot ass cut.”
TJ thought about pointing out that gays had good fashion sense and that it was a compliment. But why get punted to another part of town? So, “Chill yo.” Big mistake. Biiig mistake. Didn’t TJ just learn in Lane’s class that there were four types of sentences? And he chose a command? People hate commands. Thankfully, Ray was there to give him an enrichment lesson. “Don’t tell me what to do, little bitch.” Ah, Ray
. Where would TJ be without him? In school. Relaxed. Ready to read and write.
Instead, Ray was pushing him away from school. A few feet. Then ten. Then ten more. Followed by a fall of five more. TJ turned to break his fall. Busted right through a Saran wrap sheet of ice. Into mud. CROCK come to life. Luckily, the stout gym teacher plopped in his lawn chair across campus was so curious about what was going on that he actually got up. It was enough to break things up.
As Lenore headed for the door, as Screws took a final puff of his P-Funk, as UN pulled in another pile of pesos, TJ pulled himself up. Mucked in mud as he slithered away. A garter snake driven by the glorious Saint Ray.
Franco’s on-guard olive arms glistened with sweat as he darted around the ring. Looking like a tank in his hunter tank. A tank under attack. By Taz. The banger from Bangkok was half the size of Joey but twice as fast with twice as high hair—sprayed green for the holiday. The muy Thai Muay Thai terror threw a blizzard of knees and ’bows. Looking like a troll as he trolled Franco. A troll with lightning-fast limbs attached to a shredded torso. All tatted with Asian characters. Siamese if you please.
Franco had a hell of a jaw. Hardened over time boxing both on Bunns Lane and in the ring. But ten years into the fight game and a knee to the kidney still killed him. Same for elbow flexes to the solar plexus. Good motivation to fend them off.
Taz threw some kicks. “Actually you a cross between Pacquiao. And DiCaprio.”
“Oh yeah? That’s not bad—”
“The look of Pacquiao and the hook of DiCaprio.” Taz swept the fool to the floor.
Fuckin Taz. Been breakin Franco’s balls from jump street. From before Franco ever met him. Used to be Franco that held the Town Legend Belt. Back from when he was on a collection as a 19-year-old. The first three, the Joe Blows handed it over hassle-free. Even thanked Frank for coming by to pick it up. But the fourth. Cranky muhfucka barely put it forth. As Franco was walking out with Baby T in his car seat, the Joe Blow blew his top and beat feet. His haymaker was headed for the back of Franco’s head when Franco reacted. The car seat swung around—Franco could still see the smile on Baby T’s face—as the car seat coldcocked the dude upside his head. As the Joe Blow dropped, the latest town legend rose. The Baby Boomer.
While there were countless tales constantly bubbling up from the melting pot town of tough guys and gals, a lot of people had that as number one. Until the stick-up.
After decades of doing the dishes, saving up money, and taking English as a second language classes, Mr. and Mrs. Bidaya opened the Bamboo Bistro. Its slice of the Avenel strip mall was their slice of the American Dream. And their exotic dishes tasted like a dream. To them, anyway. When it came to the locals, it was the pad Thai that padded their pockets. Still, Mr. and Mrs. Bidaya couldn’t be more grateful. They even had regulars who played the specials. The cops who copped the lunch special every Tuesday. The working parents who took the 2-for-1s to go on Thursday evenings. The retirees who sat every Saturday. There 4 pm on the dot for the early bird special. The Bidayas were blessed. They had something special.
So content about their place in the community, they left the door unlocked after closing one night. Maybe many nights leading up to that night. But definitely that night. Mr. and Mrs. Bidaya were at the register when they registered two hooded hoods who rushed in and drew guns. Mr. Bidaya threw his hands up and said, “It’s all yours.” One walked around the counter. Booted Mrs. Bidaya’s ass outta the way. When Mr. Bidaya began, “There is no need for—” his bucked teeth were bucked out. One hood bust out laughing like the bust-out teeth was Chris Rock’s bust-out performance. The one where Rock was the first to take issue with guys like these.
Funny Money these two. While Funny laughed, Money stuffed his pockets. But as he ran the register on the counter, something else ran on the counter. Two little white-stained-brown sneakers. Owned by a diminutive dishwasher still in his apron and hair net. Funny wasn’t finding shit so funny no more. He pointed with his finger on the trigger, “Mothafucka—”
The hair-netted dishwasher dropkicked the gun like he was a luchador. But it went off anyway. Mr. Bidaya rushed Mrs. Bidaya to the back as the dishwasher dropped Funny with one crack. Then charged for Money. But Money’s begging for mercy made him stall. Money had taken a bullet to the balls.
The papers reported that the hoods were from Newark. Which was strike one in Franco’s book. Making his birthplace look bad. No big deal. Just a first pitch to see what the pitcher had. Strike two was the kid on the cover of the paper that had even bigger hair than his best bro Joey Yo. And then strike three. The hundred-mile-an-hour heater that blew away Franco’s best swing—his Baby Boomer. Local jokers had come up with a New York Post-worthy headline for the shooting incident at the Thai restaurant. It went down in town lore as: The Bang Cock.
The incident had turned the whirlwind before Franco from Tanasith Bidaya into Taz. And now here he was, prankin Frank with this DiCaprio-Pacquiao shit. Franco scrambled to his feet. “You fucker.” He countered with some kicks of his own. Tagged Taz in the head. Spiked his hair some more. Then moved in and muddled it up. When a kid walked in all muddied up. Shivering. Shook. Franco hurried to the side of the ring. “T. What the fuck happened?”
TJ looked up with his big browns. On the verge of tears. “I… Dad…” muttered the kid unkempt and all verklempt. “Teach me how to fight.”
Franco slid the cawfee table outta the way. The living room’s arsenic throw rug was now an MMA mat. “You sure about this?” asked Franco. Already fearing the fallout from Mom.
T, now in a clean white T, sat forward on the age-softened sectional. “No doubt.”
Franco took a knee. “Your back’s against the wall with this kid?”
TJ nodded.
Franco wiped away a lone tear that ran down T’s face. Figured there were a hundred held back.
“He’s on my ass all the time. Outside school. In class. On the internet.”
“Cocksucker should be in none of your classes,” Franco snapped back. He hated using a word that dirty. But not then. Felt good. TJ had had plenty of mothering. It was time for Franco to be a father. “Get up.”
TJ hitched up his sagged jeans. Dad squared him up in a lefty fighting stance. It was so visceral. Especially after living with Mom and “Nanners” for so long. Mom’s insistence on academics as she read a book or completed a crossword puzzle. Nanners’ crocheting on her couch. Plastic-coated. Like it had to be ship-shape to ship to heaven. TJ now felt so alive, he half-busted a boner. Luckily, there wasn’t much to see back then. The fresh-faced frosh, despite contrary reports to his crew, had not yet hit puberty.
Franco squared up in front of T. His lead right rested before T’s face.
Damn. Dad had knuckles the size of T’s knees.
“Sure this is how you wanna handle this?”
TJ had already pondered the question all weekend. A weekend that was an eternity in teen time. If he told on Ray, nothing would happen to Ray and TJ would get it twice as bad. If not outside the school, then everywhere else. The bathroom stalls. The town’s malls. The basement of Persian Paul’s. In fact, the question was so constantly on his conscience, TJ convinced himself that telling would lead to Ray beating him to death then claiming self-defense. “Yeah.”
“Then you gotta deal with the heat,” said the looming father, casting a shadow.
“I know,” said the son, ready to step out of it.
“Throw a punch. But don’t tell me when—”
TJ wound up and threw a left before Franco even finished his sentence. Still, the fighter caught it with ease. Talk about embarrassing. TJ threw his hardest punch and Dad nonchalant catches it with one hand. Places it down at T’s side. Totally killed his boner.
“What’s the shortest distance between two points?” asked the philosofighter.
“Teleporting,” reported the pupil.
Father and son shared a grin over father’s chagrin.
“Zactly.” Franco jabbed jabs on each side of T’s head. The fists flew by like fighter planes invading air space. “Quickest punch there is. Don’t pull your arm back at all. Just straight out—boom.” Franco snapped a few more. He leaned in for a body blow—T defended low. Franco’s fist was already up top. “Misdirection,” Franco informed as his knuckles took a nap on T’s forehead.
TJ practiced jabs. Straight out. Snap. Snap. Snap.
“Put a little hop into it.”
TJ did. Pop. Pop. Pop.
“Gimme some misdirection.”
TJ jabbed but Franco’s paws paused the punches. TJ faked the body blow, came back up top—
Franco defended. “Nice—”
TJ was already shooting on Franco’s shins. Shimmied him into the shectional.
“Whoa! The fuck is that?” Franco said as he caught himself from falling.
“Misdirection,” mimicked the son. With a smile bright as the sun.
Franco shook his head. Forgot how much of a kick he got out of his kid. “You’re a step ahead of the game. Was just about to say that your best move with a bigger guy is to get him on the ground.”
“Yeah, you already taught me that.”
“Say what?”
“Back in the day. When I used to watch you train.”
The fighter’s fists fell to his sides. “You weren’t, like, busy colorin or somethin? Playin Tetris on your Game Boy?”
“Tetris?”
“I dunno. Mario 10 or whatever.”
“You’re old,” T jabbed.
But the punch only put a smile on his opponent’s kisser. “Alright funny man. Let’s take a blow.” Franco put the coffee table back in position. The spring flower blossoming before his eyes had enough watering for one day. The spring flower that, the next day, was either gonna bloom. Or get snipped.