by Rob Pierce
“Ugh.”
“He do something to you?”
“He beats me up when his friends are around.” Jeremy shrugged. “He’ll find me tomorrow.”
“And beat you up?”
Jeremy shook his head. “This time he’ll find me behind him. He’ll find me on his back.” He took a breath like he had more to say. No more words came.
“Doing what?” I looked hard into Jeremy’s eyes, but like his mom’s they didn’t say much.
Jeremy shuddered, but only briefly. “Pounding his head in the ground, until he stops bugging me.”
If Tommy was a bully this was okay with me, but I had a feeling Theresa wouldn’t approve. “How’s he bug you?”
“They jump me. Anywhere I might be alone. On the way home, in the school bathroom… I stopped going at school. Tommy’s never by himself. They hit me, they pull down my pants, they laugh at me.”
I wanted to loan him Rico’s brass knucks. “You’re gonna get this kid alone and beat the shit out of him?”
Jeremy shook his head. “His friends are gonna see.”
I nodded again. “You wanna practice some street moves?” Jeremy got up from the couch and I turned off the TV. “Always approach in fighting position, turned to the side. And if you can stomp on his foot, do it, hard. Then punch him in the face when he looks down.”
“What if he doesn’t look down?”
“Kick him in the nuts. He’ll look down.”
***
I wanted to watch those twelve year olds try to fight my ten year old. He hadn’t bulked up much yet but he had good footwork and timing, and he’d never been afraid. It’s a shame when a trainer can’t see his boy fight. I wanted to see him pulverize Tommy, wanted to be there when the bullies either turned and ran or stayed and lost. There are boys who learn nothing until they bleed; others bleed too soon or too late to ever learn. Timing is everything.
Theresa got home about seven. “Smells good. Where’s Jeremy?”
“Steak and sautéed mushrooms. In his room. Wanna eat?”
“Is there salad?”
“If you want. Want a drink?”
“No, I’m fine.” She sat down at the kitchen counter. “Maybe a little wine.”
I poured her a glass of Merlot then set to chopping vegetables.
She sipped. “Thanks. I’ll take a small plate of the other stuff.”
The mushrooms were cooked with so much butter I wasn’t sure they counted as a vegetable anymore. But there were onions on top of them, and the steak was tri-tip. I didn’t see how a small plate was possible. I served her one anyway, resumed chopping vegetables.
“What’s the occasion?”
I mixed the salad in a bowl and set it down next to her plate. “Me and Jeremy worked out. We were hungry.”
“Was it a special workout?”
I got some dressing out of the fridge, poured it lightly over the salad. “It was a successful workout.”
“What was successful about it? What was the goal?” Theresa hadn’t eaten yet, her fork was poised over the salad.
“The goal,” I drank from my beer, “is showing a twelve-year-old bully he’s better off picking on someone else.”
“He’s been picking on Jeremy? A twelve year old?”
“The next time he tries he’ll get his ass kicked.”
“What?”
“He’s a sixth grader picking on fourth graders. He picks on Jeremy again, he’s gonna get embarrassed. And hurt.”
“What have you done?”
“Taught Jeremy how to defend himself. He’s still a good kid. He’s just a ten year old most twelve year olds will not want to fight.”
Theresa took a bite of her salad, set down her fork. “I’m not sure I like this.”
“You should try the steak.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“The mushrooms too. This is a beast of a meal.”
“You’re dodging the subject.”
I drank more beer. “You haven’t made a point. The boy’s getting in shape so he won’t be afraid at school. We were hungry, and this is about the only good meal I can cook, so I cooked it.”
“Okay. The point is I’m glad you’re helping Jeremy.” She twirled her fork as she talked. “But I don’t know what you’re doing, so I don’t know how much it helps. I don’t want him getting beat up, but I don’t want him to be a fighter.”
“Shit, you know how many fights he’d have by now if he had a brother? Boys fight. If they don’t know how to fight, they get beat up.”
“I’m not sure you’re an expert. The way you were raised, how you wound up—I don’t want that for my son.”
“I’m not teaching him to rob banks. I’m teaching him self-defense.”
I took a drink, she took a bite of mushroom. It was slathered in butter, it had to cheer her up. It didn’t show on her face. She looked sad. “What’s he telling you he’s not telling me?”
“I don’t know. We talk guy stuff. Sports and fights. No girl stuff yet, he’s only ten.”
“I think I said that.”
I nodded, watched her eat a little more, trying out the steak. Still no smile, and that was good steak. “It’s not your fault,” I said. “You can’t be a dad. There’s things about being a man. When he gets to a certain point, he can do it on his own.”
***
First day on the new job. A little nervous, nothing special. Rico met me at an outdoor café. We sat and faced the street, drank a cup of coffee. He handed me a list. It had names, addresses, amounts. “Don’t hurt anyone,” he grinned, “except to make em pay.”
I nodded. I didn’t even want this job. It was seasonal work, I’d try it for a month or two. It was right before Christmas but that didn’t bother me; these weren’t shakedowns, they were gambling debts. If you don’t pay your bookie he’ll send someone to collect. Everyone knows that. I didn’t know if I’d feel good about doing the work, but I wouldn’t think it was wrong.
The list wasn’t that big. With my face, it was easy to look menacing. I figured I’d collect plenty. “Anything else?”
Rico shook his head. “You got a question on the job, step away from it. It won’t be urgent. Finish your day, talk to me about it.”
I nodded. I knew that much or they wouldn’t have hired me. Rule number one—do your job. Rule number two—shut up. “Like therapy, right?”
“Don’t ask me those kinda questions, you fuck. Buy a magazine and jerk off. I only answer job questions.”
***
My day was easy and I got home early. I collected from almost everyone, put a scare into a couple others, inflicted no major pain. I didn’t like it and I didn’t see how I could grow into liking it, but I could do it for the money.
I opened a beer and put on some music and sat on the couch. I needed to do nothing after work. I’d watch a game or a movie but people would get home before it was over. So I sat on the couch with my beer and thought very little, about collecting money and games that could be on and how people might bet them.
I blinked when the apartment front door opened, realized I’d dozed off. The music brought me back a little, and I took a slug from my beer and watched Jeremy walk into the kitchen.
“Turn around.”
He stopped, but only a second and kept walking.
“Turn around.”
He stopped again, and this time he turned. His lips were swollen and cut, and his face was the kind of dirty that happened only if you were shoved into the ground.
“How many did you fight?”
His clothes were a mess. He stepped to the fridge, opened the door, and grabbed a carton of milk. “Three.” He drank from the carton.
“How many did you beat?”
“Mom isn’t here?”
I shook my head.
He put the carton back, shut the fridge door. “I’m gonna be in trouble.”
I finished my beer, got up from the couch, met him at the fridge. “What happened?”
&n
bsp; “Tommy jumped me from behind like he always does, but he missed.”
I set my empty on the counter, opened the fridge and grabbed a new bottle. “Then what?”
“I dropped down low, like you taught me, bent forward a little. Tommy bent too, like you said he would. So I stood up a little, and I turned a little, and I swung my elbow hard at his neck like you taught me.”
I smiled. I could almost see it. “So you elbowed him in the neck. Then?”
“No, he was still bending lower. My elbow hit his nose, and there was this kind of crunch, and he put his hands over his nose but there was blood all over them.”
“He fell?”
“On his knees. He screamed and he cried. His face looked bad.”
I bent down, so my face was near Jeremy’s. “And his friends?”
“Neil and Bob. They ran at me at the same time. I hit Neil and Bob punched me in the face. I bit his hand and Neil hit me and I fell over Bob. But I grabbed his hair and I threw his face into the ground.”
“You threw Bob’s face?”
Jeremy nodded. “Then Neil ran at me and I pushed Bob’s head into Neil’s knee and they both, you know, stopped. They both screamed and there was blood on Bob’s mouth and Neil’s knee. I left.”
I took a drink and bent down there beside him. “Tommy never did anything after you broke his nose?”
“I broke his nose?”
“He never got off his knees?”
“Not while I was there.”
I stood and put my beer on the counter. “So this was after school.”
“Just now.”
“It’s late.”
“There was this carnival after school, the one where you bought those tickets?”
The raffle. Warriors tickets. I didn’t expect to win, so I’d forgotten. “They jumped you after the carnival?”
Jeremy nodded.
“Go take a shower. Now. Those boys jumped you and you kicked their asses. Anyone says different, I’ll kick theirs.”
Jeremy smiled. I never saw him run to the shower before.
***
Theresa walked in the door, pulled her phone from her purse. I sat on the couch, beer in hand.
“Jesus,” she said, “you live in that position?”
I drank. “I worked today. Like you wouldn’t understand.”
“But it’s something you won’t talk about.”
I drank some more. “It ain’t strictly legal but it pays good and I work again tomorrow. And no one ever gets busted.”
“You say that much and you won’t say more. You’re awful.”
I patted the seat beside me on the couch. “You could try and persuade me.”
“Where’s Jeremy?” She slid her phone open, walked into the kitchen. “Jesus, work was crazy busy—it’s good, you know? —but my phone’s ringing the whole time. I got a half dozen missed calls.”
“He’s in the shower. He got in a fight.”
Theresa was pouring a glass of wine. She stopped halfway. “Is he alright?”
“Three boys jumped him. Jeremy’s okay. There’s a boy, Tommy, he’s the leader. Don’t check those calls yet.”
Theresa looked up from her phone.
“Tommy and his friends been jumping Jeremy a while. I don’t know without seeing the kid but…” I laughed. “I think Jeremy broke Tommy’s nose.”
“Jesus.”
“No, it’s good. Three boys jumped Jeremy and Jeremy won. If they got parents wanna say something else happened, let em say it to me. So call Tommy’s mom if you want, but that boy’s a punk, and if she wants to know what happens to punks, I’ll tell her.”
Theresa looked down at her phone. “There’s a lot of messages. I’m not calling anyone tonight.”
***
Theresa lay beside me in bed and I knew she wasn’t sleeping; she was waiting for me to talk. She could wait a long time. I wouldn’t talk about my dad, or my mom who I barely remembered, she was some woman who couldn’t protect me and after a while was no longer there. Didn’t even know why they were in my head now.
I don’t know what happened to my old man. He beat me til I ran. I left the house for good when I was fifteen. Mom was long gone and so were my older brothers, and I was one more son than dad could handle. Every second in the house with him was the second before he might blow up.
And I didn’t know what else to say about Jeremy. I was so proud of the boy and I wasn’t sure she’d get it. She saw him after his shower, and even cleaned up it had to be clear he’d taken a few shots. But he’d won the fight, and the scratches and cuts on his face were marks other boys would look up to. He might not know that yet, and she might not know it at all.
It occurred to me that was a point she might follow. I lay on my back, my hands clasped behind my head. “You know, he might be a little young for it, but there’s twelve-year-old girls gonna like those cuts.”
“What are you talking about?” She answered faster than I expected, and she was angry.
I sat up in bed, pushed up my pillow behind me. I guess I’d known all along sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon. “They mighta thought he was a cute kid before. Now he looks cool.”
“Girls.” Theresa sat up beside me, threw her pillow behind her, but with enough control she could sit comfortably. “I can’t believe you’re talking about what girls think. Jeremy’s ten.”
“He’s ten and he beat the crap out of three twelve year olds. If you’re a twelve-year-old girl at that school, what would you think?”
“Jesus, that has nothing to do with it. You’re telling me he broke a kid’s nose.”
“You talked to Jeremy. Did he tell you how long that kid’s been jumping him? Is there a fucking thing the school ever did to protect him? Is there a fucking thing anyone could do? Jeremy was gonna be a victim his whole life. You think anyone’s gonna fuck with him now? After he broke a kid’s nose? Fuck what the bully’s parents think. Your son saved his own life. All we did was put him in a position to do it.”
I clasped her hand in mine. After a second, she clasped back.
***
I didn’t like the apartment by myself. I waited for Jeremy to get home from school, didn’t know if it was a day Theresa was picking him up. If it was Jeremy alone he should be here fairly soon.
Fourth grade had been a weird year for me, and I guessed it was weird for Jeremy too. We moved to a new town when I was ten, dad never said why. But we moved after the school year started, and my new school had already covered two digit multiplication. My old school hadn’t. I struggled with the shit, took wild guesses. The teacher marked my answers wrong, never talked to me about it, like it was okay I was clueless.
I hated homework but dad made me do it after dinner, at the table in the kitchen until I was finished. Dad sat across from me with a bottle of Maker’s Mark, poured a glass and slugged it back, because he was too respectable to drink straight from the bottle, although he’d finish the whole thing in a night.
“You ever gonna finish that shit? You don’t finish that and the dishes before I go out, I’ll beat your ass.”
I knew he meant it. He always told the truth about that one. There were probably tears in my eyes; there was definitely fear. “I don’t know how to do this. They never taught it.”
“Whaddaya mean, they never taught it? What is it?”
“Twenty-seven times fifty-three. I know my tables, nine times nine, but I don’t know my twenties and thirties and forties.”
Dad shook his head, took a drink, set it down, poured another. “No reason you should. How long they been doin’ this?”
“Since we moved here.”
“And you had how many tests on it?”
“One a week.” I counted on my fingers. “Three so far.”
“And the teacher never said nothin to ya?”
“No sir.”
Dad drank his whole glass. “Are you done with the rest of your homework?”
“Yes sir.”
He poured hi
mself another. “Do the fuckin dishes. I’ll talk to your fuckin teacher.”
Dad must’ve talked to him the very next day. Day after that, I was kept after school an hour for a real good lesson on two digit multiplication. I’ve been good with numbers ever since.
***
I waited for Jeremy. I realized we’d never talked about academics. He was little and dorky looking so I always assumed his grades were fine. It’s the trade off, right? The bullies beat you up when you’re a kid, and when you grow up you’re in charge of every step they take. At least for the bullies dumb enough to play the game.
I sat on the couch and drank my beer, found an early Stones album and played it loud. And waited for Jeremy. Now that he’d beaten up the bullies, I wanted to know where he stood. I had to remember to throw something out there about his grades, but I wanted to hear how he was getting along. Like my old man, I couldn’t do a damned thing myself if he needed help with his studies. If some teacher needed intimidating to do his job, I could do that.
He walked in. I muted the stereo. “Hey, Junior.”
“Hey, Uncle Dust.”
“What’s new, what’s good?”
He dropped his fifty-pound backpack and walked into the kitchen. “It’s all okay.” He kept walking to the refrigerator.
“No one wants to fight ya?”
He opened the door, opened the milk, and chugged from the carton. He set it back and shut the door. “Nah.”
“So everything’s okay?”
He walked out to where I sat on the couch. “Most stuff’s like it was. Only, Tommy’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“He was absent.”
I took a drink. “Maybe he looks like shit.”
Jeremy smiled at me. “That’s how he always looked.”
I laughed. “He misses that face now.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened, only a moment then back to normal. “He won’t get it back?”
“You never seen a broken nose?”
Jeremy shook his head.
“That stuff inside the nose that’s like a soft bone? It’s good at getting bent, bad at bending back.”
“So his nose might look funny forever?”
I took a drink. “I know guys had their nose broke a few times. One bump this way, one bump the other, all the way down, crooked as a mountain road. Most of those guys though,” I shook my head, “they broke more bones than they got broke.”