Escape Artist

by William A. Noguera

  Nearly a month after my confrontation with Benny and his two partners in crime I came out of my world religion class and was heading for my locker when I saw Mark by the far corner of the gym standing watch. Normally I would have ignored it, but something told me I shouldn’t. It was lunch time, and since I wouldn’t be late to any class I decided to see what was up. Taking the long way around the gym, I came to the opposite corner from where Mark stood and looked. There, about halfway down, near the stairs that led to the parking lot, stood a bunch of people looking at something. I knew Benny was involved since Mark was keeping watch.

  I went down to where everyone stood and that’s when I saw Greg push Bobby to the ground. Bobby got up and tried to walk past Greg, but was pushed back again. Benny sat just a few feet away, lighting Bobby’s model planes on fire. He placed them on the small wall where he sat and, one by one, he burned them.

  I guess after a month, a bully’s brain resets itself and forgets everything, because otherwise he had to know I’d find out. Or maybe they talked themselves into believing they’d be able to deal with me. Either way, I was done playing. This time I’d make sure they remembered me and why I punished them. I jumped down to where Greg held Bobby. I took three quick steps and, as Greg saw me, I hit him in the face. He doubled over to cover himself and I kicked him in the face, staggering him before he turned to run.

  Benny saw it and stood up, leaving Bobby’s planes in ruin. I didn’t say anything. He knew what to expect and acted on it. As soon as we were close enough, he threw two looping punches, hoping to connect with my face, but he missed. In return, he got a vicious upper cut to the jaw that turned his legs to rubber. I picked my shot and connected a crushing right cross to his eye, dropping him to the ground. When he tried to stand, I grabbed him by the throat and got in his face.

  “I told you. Fuck with him and I’d fuck you up. Do it again and I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.”

  I punched him in the face again. I looked at Bobby, who had tears in his eyes, but I could see his anger, too. He hated Benny and Greg, but he hated himself even more for not being able to do anything about how they treated him.

  “You okay, Bobby? I’m sorry I wasn’t here fast enough.”

  “My models are ruined. I worked all summer on them and now they’re ruined.”

  Only then did I have the opportunity to look closely at his models, and I understood. They were not simple models. They were small-scale replicas of the real thing. Bobby had put the fighter planes together perfectly and painted them to match.

  Benny and his buddies would pay for them. It was as simple as that, and I would be the collector.

  The next morning I arrived at school early. For the past few months, I’d ridden my bike to school on the days it didn’t rain. Since I ran the hills surrounding the school each morning before school, riding my bike saved my mom the trouble of taking me. At least that’s what I told her.

  The truth was, I liked being alone and the four-mile bike ride gave me that.

  That day, after locking my bike at the school, I ran four miles and showered quickly. I normally ran five miles, but I wanted to be in the school parking lot before anyone arrived. I had a job to do and I didn’t want to be late for my first day at work.

  I stood by a large tree just to the side of the parking lot and waited. Benny pulled up in his mini truck. It was all fixed up, lowered with chrome wheels and a nice paint job. Greg and Mark were with him. As soon as he parked and they got out, I peeled away from the tree and walked up to them. As I neared, I could see the effects of my beating on their faces. Benny had a black eye and his mouth was swollen. Greg had a large bruise on his cheek. But other than that he looked fine. As soon as they saw me, they stopped and watched me. I went right up to them.

  “I told you not to fuck with Bobby. You ruined his models, so you’ll be paying him back.”

  Mark said, “I’m not paying for—”

  Before he could finish, I slapped him hard across the face.

  “What? I didn’t hear you. You’re not paying?” When he didn’t respond I said, “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  Mark just looked at me while he touched his face. I knew it stung.

  “The way I see it, you owe Bobby a hundred bucks for his models, his time, and because I told you if you fucked with him again I’d trash you.”

  “Man, those planes aren’t worth a hundred bucks,” Benny said.

  “Maybe not. But your truck is, right? Every day goes by that you don’t pay me, I’ll take something from your truck. Piss me off and see what happens. I promise you, paying Bobby back will be a lot cheaper than fixing the damage I’ll put on your ride.”

  I looked at Greg. “I’ve always wanted a killer skateboard like this.” I grabbed the board he was holding. “Man, this is clean. Thanks.” I turned and walked away.

  “What about my board?” Greg said, and without turning back I replied, “You’ll get it back when you and your girlfriends pay up. Piss me off and I’ll light it on fire.”

  As I climbed the stairs to the gym, I saw Bobby running toward me.

  “What’s up, Bill?”

  “Nada. Just thought we could try out my new board.”

  “That’s a really nice board. When did you get it?”

  “A few minutes ago. Greg donated it to the Bobby fund.”

  At first he just looked at me. Then he realized what I was saying.

  “Oh. You took it from Greg. That’s funny.”

  “Yeah, try it out. It’s ours ’til they pay you back for messing up your models. I told them they had to pay you a hundred bucks and every day they don’t pay I’d take something from them.” Bobby seemed unsure, but I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it, and this time they’ll learn to leave you alone.”

  Bobby smiled. “All right, can I try out our board?”

  I laughed. “Yeah, go for it.”

  While Bobby played, Benny, Mark, and Greg came up from the parking lot. They looked at me, then at Bobby riding the board. I smiled at them and thought, Payback’s a bitch.

  I carried the skateboard around the rest of the day. I liked that Bobby told everyone what I had done. The news about the fight yesterday also spread through the school. When I passed people I saw their looks and heard what they said. To me it was the easiest lesson I’d ever learned. They respected me because they feared me.

  At lunch time, I sat talking to Bobby when a girl came up. I knew her name was Michelle, but I never really talked to her. She was a junior, so we didn’t have classes together.

  “Hi Bill, can I talk to you?”

  “Hi Michelle. Yeah, what’s up?”

  Bobby smiled and made his eyebrows go up and down real fast. I laughed.

  “You’re an evil little guy, Bobby.”

  I stood up and took a few steps to where she stood.

  “I was wondering what you were doing this Saturday night. I’m having a party at my house and my parents will be gone. Do you want to come?”

  “Yeah. That would be cool. I don’t know how long I can stay, but I’m there.”

  She smiled at me. “Here’s my number. Call me and I’ll tell you how to get there.”

  “No doubt. I’ll call you. Thanks for inviting me.”

  She walked away and I couldn’t help staring at her. She was something else. About five foot five, with long, straight black hair that fell past her shoulders, blue eyes, and a nice body she showed off as often as possible in short, revealing outfits. And she wanted me to come to her house. I looked at the number she’d written.

  “So, are you going?”

  I had forgotten Bobby.

  “Yeah, I think so. I’ll call her and see what’s up. I have a lot of stuff to do, but I’ll probably go.”

  “She lives in the Heights, about a block from me.” I suddenly realized she hadn’t invited him.

  “Hey bro, I’m sorry you weren’t invited,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m only a freshman.”<
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  “Yeah, but so am I and she invited me.”

  “You don’t look like any freshman I know. Don’t sweat it. Even if she invited me, my parents would never let me go.”

  I looked at the number again. I’d go, but I wouldn’t stay long. I just had too much to do. It seemed like no matter what, I always had something, some responsibility, to attend to. During the week my day started at 5 a.m. with a light breakfast and twenty sets of pushups, jump squats, and pull-ups. I’d then ride my bike to school and run five miles, shower, then go to class. After school, depending on the sports season, I’d go to basketball practice, or track. Then I’d go home, eat, feed my animals, and do the rest of my chores. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I’d ride to the Hapkido studio and train for three hours, return home, and do my homework. Then if I had time, and if I could sit still, I’d pull out my sketchbooks and draw and arrange mathematically-based forms.

  On Thursday and Friday my schedule was the same except, instead of going to the Hapkido studio, I went to Jeff Runge’s small training school where I learned wrestling, grappling, and ground-fighting techniques. On the weekends I surfed early and met up with The Pack, went hunting or fishing, and on certain weekends entered surf competitions or participated in fighting competitions. Since being sponsored by Aquatic Pulse, I had entered three surf contests and, although I didn’t win, I did well, loved surfing, and enjoyed being part of a team. Fighting was a different story. I rarely lost, and when I did, it was because I was disqualified for being too aggressive and hurting my opponent. The competitions I entered were based on a points system, or controlled fighting. As I got older and more aggressive, the rules made me angry. I didn’t see the point in pulling punches and kicks, so when I fought it was for one objective—to knock my opponent out. Anything else seemed silly to me and a waste of time. The steroids made me more and more aggressive, impatient, and short-tempered. I couldn’t sit still before because of the ADHD, and I’d become even worse on steroids. My mind was in constant motion, and I often felt as if I’d lose control.

  I had a fighting competition in two weeks, and although I was in the middle of training, I’d go to Michelle’s party. I liked her, and for the first time someone had asked me to a party.

  I wondered why she’d asked me to her party. I realized it was out of respect and because of my reputation and how I looked. From that moment on, I saw myself differently. I understood how I appeared to others and how well the mask I wore fit.

  That afternoon before school ended, I asked to use the bathroom, but instead went to the parking lot. I went directly to Benny’s truck and popped off his Tornado mirrors, then threw them in the trash as I went back to class. I smiled to myself. Now that I had power, I could make up for all the years I’d suffered at the hands of bullies.

  The next morning before school started, Benny, Mark, and Greg came up to me while I spoke to Michelle, and gave me a hundred dollars.

  “Can I have my board back?” asked Greg.

  “Yeah, go for it.” I pushed the board to him.

  “How about my mirrors?” Benny asked.

  “What mirrors?”

  “The ones you took off my truck.”

  “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I’ll tell you this, fuck with Bobby again and we’ll do this all over again, but it will double. Now get the fuck away from me.”

  I watched them walk away.

  “Oh my God, that’s so cool. You made them pay you for messing with Bobby,” Michelle said.

  “No, I made them repay him for ruining his models. This money’s for him.”

  “I’ve known Benny since elementary school. He’s always picked on people and gotten away with it.”

  “Things are about to change for him.”

  On the way to first period, I saw Bobby and gave him his money. He just stared at it.

  “Thanks, Bill,” he said.

  “Listen, I know it doesn’t make up for your time, but maybe you can buy some new ones and rebuild them. The bottom line is that everyone knows not to fuck with you. If they do, I’ll pound them.”

  “Yeah, but what do you get out of all this?”

  I laughed even though there was nothing funny about it.

  “I get to beat up bullies.”

  Chapter 22

  San Quentin Death Row, 1989

  Drawing always came naturally to me. I was determined to use it as my anchor to ground and protect me from the world inside San Quentin.

  During my senior year in high school, I took an art class and learned a unique way to draw solely using dots. I don’t remember much about the class except this technique, and after so many years an idea formed. Using the set of technical pens the handicraft manager gave me, I experimented until I fully grasped the potential of the technique.

  After only a month, I replaced working in graphite pencil with ink stippling, and when a potential buyer came to me for one of my pieces, I would show him and explain my unique way of drawing with only dots. It seemed to fascinate everyone who saw the drawings, and after only creating two of them for staff members of San Quentin, word spread about my work. I’ll admit, I didn’t believe my technique or my delivery was as clear as when I drew with graphite and regular pen. Nevertheless, the orders continued to come, to the point I was turning them down until I could catch up. That only seemed to put me in more demand. I raised my prices and was still a year behind. I had a real sense of accomplishment because my work was so sought after. No one at San Quentin sold their work solely through contracts as I did. The handicraft manager even suggested I reduce my prices, as she put it, “so everyone can afford to buy one.”

  I wasn’t interested in her suggestions. If anything, I thought my prices were too low. But I wasn’t complaining. I had work. I was practicing and perfecting my voice and technique and being paid for it. I was also sending money home every month to help my family.

  Most men here would be satisfied with that, but I wasn’t. That ambition, that sense of wanting to be heard, drove me forward. I didn’t want to merely “work for” someone. True, I needed to continue to get commissions to support myself, but what I truly wanted—what I thought of constantly—was the freedom to work for myself. As an artist, I wanted to create what I felt and needed to express, without limitation. I couldn’t do that while I spent most of my time working on commissions.

  My solution to the problem, at least temporarily, was to make a personal expression book, where I drew and expressed myself fully, crossing into dark territory where my subconscious and vision became one.

  Each night, I’d completely abandon myself to expression and the power I seemed to be able to invoke but not fully control. My time was limited, so for one hour each night I crossed over and worked. This, at least, was the plan. But often I didn’t stop until morning. Time ceased to exist. The only thing that mattered was bringing my emotions to life.

  Those drawings I showed to no one. They were a look into the deepest part of my soul where my emotions and dreams, mixed with the influences around me, took flight and demanded attention. There, also, in those drawings and images, I worked with mathematically-arranged geometric forms and broke up the layout of the drawings and images. Each form was based on a coordinating number system that brought order and ended the chaos inside me when arranged together to complete a number combination. The images weren’t simply for the eyes. Beauty wasn’t the goal. Truth, an accurate representation of my interior sensation and experience, was what pushed me to those depths. And although I wasn’t ready to show anyone my work, an idea was born. It burned inside me and drove me forward. I wanted the world to see me, and wanted my voice to be heard. I constantly thought of exhibiting my work. The pieces I did on commission were simply pretty pictures and, to me, as insignificant as wallpaper. I believe true art is about rendering the barest of human emotion for the world to see through images that trigger the mind’s wanderings and fill the viewer with the very emotions that possess me when I create them.r />
  I wanted to be known as an artist and respected in the art world by my contemporaries. But I wasn’t ready. I needed to be comfortable with my true work and I needed to complete a body of work I could show.

  I also feared that galleries wouldn’t take me or my work seriously. I didn’t want them to use me as if I were a circus act. I decided to wait and bide my time. I’d labor to complete a significant body of work, and only then present it to a gallery for serious consideration.

  Meanwhile I continued taking on commissions and perfecting my technique and style. Late at night, when everyone slept, I crossed over into dark territory and truly worked out my problems, calming the chaos that seemed quieted only by the complete embrace of my imagination and vision.

  Sales of my work had not gone unnoticed by the man who gave me a chance to do something with my talent. Nearly a year to the day after he gave me my grade-A status and sent me to East Block, Warden Vasquez and one of his captains appeared in front of my cell. Just like the first time he came to my cell in the AC, I didn’t notice they were there. I had my headphones on while I worked and I was oblivious to their presence until they flashed their light in my eyes.

  I took off my headphones and was surprised by the warden standing at my door.

  “Mr. Noguera, how are you? I’ve come by to see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m doing well, Warden Vasquez. I’m finishing up a piece for one of your officers. I’m sorry I didn’t respond right away. I listen to music while I work and it’s hard to hear anyone at my door.”

  “It’s quite all right. I’ve been following your progress and noticed you’re taking on a lot of contract work. Honestly, you’ve surprised me. I normally give a convict a chance like I gave you, only to find myself regretting it. But with you, I must say, you’ve exceeded all my expectations. May I see what you’re finishing?”

  “Of course. I have only about ten hours more and I’ll finish it, but I believe you’ll get a good idea of what I’m doing.”