by Paul, Lawton
The plan worked perfectly except for the fact that the boat next to me was a tiny aluminum fishing boat. The bow of the crab boat hit the smaller boat and instead of gently bouncing off the other boat, putting my boat in perfect position next to the dock, the bigger crab boat nearly sank the smaller boat. The little aluminum boat lurched sideways, tilting down at a wild angle. The left side of the smaller boat was down so far that it was going to start taking on water. All the fishing poles bunched up near the left side. An old closed face rod and reel went, plunk, overboard and disappeared.
I didn't want to steal a boat and sink another all on the same night. So I put on a pair of old crab boots from under a coil of yellow rope, grabbed the bow line and jumped into the smaller boat. The little boat moved away from the bigger boat and righted itself in the water. From there I jumped onto the dock with the crab boat line still in hand, pulled the old crab boat close, and half-hitched it onto a cleat on the dock. I stood there for a moment. The boat was docked nicely between the little boat and an old pontoon boat with a ripped-up canvas top. And only one crappy closed-face rod and reel was lost in the process. The old man always said closed-faced reels were crap so I figured I'd done the guy a favor. I looked towards the apartments. Two lights were still on. I made it.
There was a small sign where the dock met the grassy slope up to the apartments. Residents and Guests of River Walk Apartments Only. High on a pole above it was the broken dock light--a big, round globe about the size of a basketball, but kind of looked like half a cracked eggshell. The grass was long and weedy and I hoofed it up with my crab boots still on. At the top I could see most of the apartment buildings. And at that point, standing between the first two buildings, I realized the one true flaw in my plans: I didn't know the apartment number.
Matty would know what to do, but he wasn't here. So I did my best Matty impersonation: I sat down right there in the grass, put my elbow on one knee and my chin in my palm and had a moment of quiet contemplation. I could see light through some of the windows here and there, but everything was quiet and no one would notice me. The first good thought hit me instantly: the image of the arrest record at the annex. I could see her signature clearly in my mind. I could see the dirty, faded quality of the paper and the typewritten sections: disturbing the peace / assaulting a police officer. But that's where it ended. I was too upset at that moment to take a good mental picture.
In the grass between the apartment buildings in the middle of the night, fresh from stealing a boat, though, I was filled with a calmness I hadn't felt in a long time. And then the second good thought came: Tyler's story. He said he could see right into our apartment from the swings. I jumped up and looked around. I couldn't see anything in the dark, but the swings had to be between the two sets of buildings somewhere in the long grassy section that ran from the river to the road at the other end. I started running right down the center. At one point one of my crab boots flew off, so I took the other one off and just carried them.
About thirty yards down from where I was sitting the dark shape of another person came into view. I stopped. All I could see was the end of a cigarette glowing red for a second, then nothing, then red again. For a second fear swept through me. But why? The apartment, my apartment, was right here, somewhere. So I started walking. I went right past the person heading straight down the center between the buildings. The swings had to be here somewhere. And then the person spoke. Just one word.
"SEAGULL!"
I turned around. Standing there with half a cigarette in his hand, greasy smile, dark hair hanging in his eyes, was the last person on Earth I wanted to see right at that moment: Johnny.
apartments
"What are you doing here?" I said.
"I live here. Dumbass."
"Oh." In the mad rush to get to the apartments I'd forgotten. Johnny put the cigarette up to his lips, then flicked the butt into the darkness. A few seconds later he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth.
"So what brings you here, Seagull?"
About fourteen lies popped into my head, each one worse than the next. I was looking for a girl. I figured he'd laugh, rightly, at that one. The old man had sent me on an errand. Yeah, at 3am. Good one. I was running away and had nowhere else to go. Exactly what are you running from? Did AJ burn your toast? No, that wouldn't work either. So like I'd done with Standish and Weinstein, I told the truth.
"I'm looking for my mother."
He didn't say anything for a moment. Then his head tilted a little to the side and his eyes narrowed like he was trying to determine if I was joking. I stood my ground and looked him in the eye. Then a smile broke out on his face, and his head bent down to his chest and he started laughing like the more he thought about it the funnier it was. He looked up at me and his face was lit up with joy like I was handing out hundred dollar bills. He started to speak, "Well..." then broke into laughter again, bent over, his hands on his stomach. He slapped his thigh. He looked up at me again, "Well..." His shoulders jumped up and down into another fit. Then he settled. "...I got some bad news for ya brother: SHE AIN'T HERE!" he yelled.
I dropped the boots and walked straight for him, both hands balled into fists. The old man said it's best to enter with bad intentions. Never step into the ring wondering what's for lunch or daydreaming about some girl. Go in wantin' to break his nose. Imagine it! What will it look like? So I imagined Johnny's face, with blood pouring out of his nose.
Johnny's laugh turned into a smile, then nothing. I stood in front of him, fists up, knees bent. At that point I knew exactly three things about boxing: stance, slip, and left jab. We hadn't covered right hand punches. Tyler and I had played around throwing wild rights, but that was about it. I didn't care. I kept the image of Johnny's bloody nose in my mind. Johnny pulled his hands out of his pockets and walked towards me slow, like a snake who'd just spotted a mouse. Don't let him cross the line! The old man said never let an opponent cross an imaginary line right in front of you. I remembered him making a line with his foot in the basement floor between me and Matty. Let him in too close and you lose. Johnny stopped just outside my imaginary line. If he crosses it, in comes the left jab. Tyler said it was the weakest jab he'd ever seen. But I caught him once last week and it knocked his head back a little. A few minutes later he ran to the bathroom because he said he had something in his eye.
Johnny stood in front of me and even in the dark I could see the outline of his round, muscular shoulders, his thick arms. A Masters of the Universe t-shirt stretched across his chest, the sleeves ripped off, a picture of He-Man holding his sword high above him.
"Which apartment!" My voice was high and crackly.
He laughed again. "Why should I tell you? Go back to the big house on the hill and the old Kraut. Leave us rats alone." He turned and started walking away. I reached out and grabbed his shoulder. He was thick and solid. He spun around and his tree trunk arm swatted my twig arm down. For a moment I couldn't feel my right hand. Then it got all tingly.
He stepped towards me, hands hanging limply at his sides like he was walking up to the counter at the 7-11 to buy a Nehi. "I thought we already did this? You want some more?" My heart started to race and my breathing got a little faster. "Don't blow a gasket, Seagull," he said. I started to think maybe this was a bad idea. That I was going to get killed again. I could hear Danny telling the tale at the market. He'd be leaning on the counter, weight on one leg, there with his hotty girlfriend: Well, Seagull stole a boat and got his ass whooped all in one night. She'd look at me like I was some whimpering puppy behind the market that just got kicked.
The anger started losing to the fear. The back of my mouth tasted like I was sucking on a piece of iron rebar, my throat was dry, and my stomach flopped over. Legs weak and heavy. Run! my body screamed. I could see myself running, feel the air on my face. I could head straight for the dock and dive in the river. I could handle the shadows. And then the old man's voice cut in: Good technique trumps dumb muscle! A tiny bit of logi
c against 148 pounds of burning fear.
But it was too late to bolt anyway. Johnny's body tensed, sunk a little, coiling like a spring. He had the same half-smile and squinty eyes like he had at the cafeteria. That seemed like years ago. Things slowed down again. He had one good punch, and I knew what it was. ...move your head a hair to the left and the right will get nothin' but air.
The right came, a little ball of fist that emerged from the darkness way low on his right side that got bigger and bigger. He's actually leading with his right, just like Matty said, I thought. He's the dumbass.
And then something amazing happened.
I moved my head to the left and Johnny's fist flew past and his weight surged forward and he nearly fell. I wanted to jump in the boat, race back to the old house and tell the old man, Tyler and Matty that I'd just slipped Johnny's right. It actually worked! The whole time we'd been in the basement, standing there barefoot, practicing proper stance and footwork like dancers, the little voice in my head had been saying: Yeah, this is all fine and dandy, but I don't stand a chance against Johnny. But at that moment when Johnny's fist went past, then sort of hung there in the air, everything the old man had taught us became real.
It was a wonderful moment of triumph for a skinny kid who'd never really felt what it was to win. And as I stood there, feet still under me, filled with confidence, stars twinkling above, gentle breeze blowing in from the river, a strange thing happened. The ground beneath me shot up at a 45 degree angle then jerked upwards about three or four feet. The grassy turf hit me on the side of the face and my whole body was moving but I didn't really know which way was up or down. Just grass and dirt in my face, in my eyes, in my mouth. And then someone was poking me with a pin on my right cheek. My hand went there to stop whoever was jabbing me, but I still felt like my body was flying, and the grass was in the way. I wanted to fly straight through the grass. Why had it moved? And then the little pin prick turned into a giant throb of pain on the side of my face and the ground went flat again. I was laying in the grass between the apartments and my mind slowly came back again like turning a radio dial and going from pure static to clear signal.
I jumped up and realized the ground was still not entirely flat, it rolled under my feet and I swayed, fell back on my butt, and sat there for a moment. Johnny was yelling towards the apartments. "...so you can just shut up you old bitch!"
And then a woman's voice, "I'm going to tell your mother, Johnny McCready!"
"If you see her, tell her I said, Hi!" And then a window slammed shut, and the ground went flat again. I put my hands in the dirt and everything was stable again so I stood up. Johnny was coming for me again. "Don't stand up, Seagull, or you're gonna get another one," he yelled. The side of my face throbbed, but my body knew what to do: hands up and knees bent. He walked in like a brawler about to finish off a weaker opponent. His hands were balled into fists and his face was red and sweaty. Black hair hung down into his eyes. He had already won. This was just a formality. Again, my legs decided to run for it and my body was in full agreement. To the river! Escape! But somehow I found the strength to just stand. Logic again: technique trumps muscle.
His hands were low. The old man said see everything at once: soft focus, he called it. See both shoulders. If the left shoulder dips, its a left. His body will tell you what he's gonna do before he does it. He led with the right again. I slipped it again. His fist flew past and for a split second he was unguarded. I caught him with my weak-ass jab to the jaw. He stepped back and shook his head, arms at his side. I stepped up and caught him with a right to the nose. A shot of pain jolted through my right hand and arm. My hands were still up and my feet were under me, but Johnny fell out of view. He was on the ground with both hands to his face.
Blood poured from his nose, down his chin. He-Man's sword was red. His hands were red. It looked like someone had shot him in the face with a red paintball. He got on all fours like a dog and the blood dripped down onto the grass. He put a finger to the side of his nose and blew, then screamed in pain. He blubbered and snorted and coughed. His shoulders jerked up and down and I thought he was crying. Then he rolled over onto his back, looked at me and I realized he was laughing. The blood on his face glistened in the light from an apartment window. He took the bottom of his t-shirt and wiped his mouth.
I was done. I hadn't come to fight. So I put my boots on and started backing up, keeping him in sight the whole time. I ended up on someone's porch: a tiny square of concrete complete with two small, plastic tricycles, a dead plant, and a barbie doll with no head. I stood there wondering what to do. I gingerly touched the side of my aching face. It was swollen. So I just stood there. Stole a boat, got in a fight, arrested for loitering.
"Seeegoll!" It was Johnny. He sounded like he had a bad head cold. "Ober dere," he said, pointing down the row of buildings. "Near da woad." He was sprawled out in the grass like he'd just eaten a picnic lunch and was going to take a nap, both hands behind his head. He'd lit up another cigarette. When he inhaled, his face lit up: dark brown smears.
He wasn't coming for me again. So I started running between the buildings to the other side. It was about a football field long. And near the end I realized there were no swings, no slide. Johnny was lying. We had a swing right in front of our back porch. Then I saw a little blob of blackness on the ground ahead. The sun wasn't up, but the darkness was turning to gray, that moment right before the sun peeked over the horizon. I'd slowed to a jog, the little blob bigger than I realized. When I got near it my right boot caught something solid. I fell, landing onto the hard ground beneath it. I lay there on my back for a moment, clear sky and stars above. My nose nearly touching the smooth object. It made a hollow noise when I tapped on the cool surface. I sat up and moved back so I could see what I'd crashed into. I'd landed on a concrete rectangle surrounded by grass.
It's a big plane that kids could play on, I thought. Then from a few feet back I saw the eye: black and white, and the row of white teeth, the gill slits and the dorsal fin. I jumped back, rolled off the concrete slab into the grass. I closed my eyes and tried to block out the image. I wanted to beat it with a sledge hammer. I knew it was fiberglass. Just something for the kids to play on.
I lay there in the grass for a moment. This is where Tyler and I used to play. I crawled back to the shark with my eyes closed, reached out for it. How could I be afraid? So I got real close and opened my eyes. I could see the teeth were just little painted triangles. Someone had painted over part of the teeth at one end. The eye had been painted over, too. There were scratches and pen marks all over it. It was a toy.
And then a memory came: the grass was dark green and cut short like a golf course. The sun was bright and the swing seats were black and hot against our legs. Tyler said, "Stop swinging. Now we're going to fly in our jet plane." And we sat on the shark. And then Momma was yelling for us to come in. She wore jeans and a t-shirt and her hair was in a pony tail. She went back into the apartment on the corner. My apartment.
I ran up to the sliding glass door. The little concrete porch was bare. No toys. No barbecue. I tried opening it, but it was locked. Around the corner there was a window about three feet up. I took a deep breath, pushed up and it opened. There was no bug screen and the inside looked bare. No one lived there. So I climbed in through the window and landed on shag carpet. It smelled worse than the old coats in the old man's closet, worse than the basement in the corner where there were boxes of old stuff no one had touched in thirty years. It was dark, but there was a little light coming through the windows. I slid open the big glass doors, bits of glass and dirt caught in the tracks grinded and squeaked under the rollers. Clean air off the river wafted in, the thin curtain lifted up, then floated down again. Cigarette butts, beer bottles, and crushed aluminum cans covered the floor. A couch in one end of the living room sat at an angle, two legs missing on one side and a huge, dark stain in the center. The apartment was smaller than I imagined. Just a living room connected to a tiny kitch
en, a small dining table and two rooms.
In the kitchen broken glass crunched under my boots. Standing behind the sink I could see out into the grassy section where the swings used to be--and the shark. She could watch us from here. And then suddenly a movie started playing in my head: sunlight shone in through the sliding glass doors, reflecting off the shiny faucet. Everything was fresh and clean and smelled like new paint, wood, sheetrock. The counter was spotless and the caulk around the metal sink was white. I was standing on a chair at the sink, warm water running onto my palm, and she said, "This is warm. Can you feel that?" Then she turned on the cold, "...and this is cool." She gave me a hug. I couldn't see her face but could feel her warmth.
And just like that the lights went out and the caulk was gone except for one strip near the back that had turned brown and hard. I stood there and closed my eyes and waited for another memory, but nothing came.
The small room was tiny. A blanket was laid out along the wall with a sofa cushion at one end for a pillow. An ashtray and a few empty beer cans were lined up neatly near the cushion. A novel in the corner: Evergreen, by Belva Plain. The cover had a picture of a pretty woman with huge red hair. I picked it up and read the blurb on the back: When two very different men fall in love with her, Anna is destined to be forever torn in love and loyalty. I put it back on the pillow, headed for the door, then stopped. The closet. I pulled on the closet door handle and the whole thing just fell down onto the makeshift bed. I sat down inside the closet, my back to the wall, tucked my legs inside. The closet carpet was a lighter color, soft and springy, especially near the wall.
A big square of orange light lit up the wall on my right. The sun was coming up. Suddenly I could see everything a little clearer. A purple sock, a tiny glass bottle of God knows what, a syringe sticking into the carpet near the foot of the bed. I just sat there like a monk, quiet. For the first time in a long time I didn't have to be anywhere. Didn't have to get somewhere. Wasn't searching. The wallpaper was peeling off everywhere. I pulled on a piece about four inches wide where the closet door was supposed to attach. It fell off like I was unwrapping a present. Underneath were small, pencil sized holes in the wall, stains, sections where I could see the white, chalky sheetrock. Down near the bottom was a child's drawing. In the middle was a circle on a triangle, on either side was a straight line with a circle on top. One line was taller than the other. The middle figure had long hair that curled out. All had dots for eyes and half-circle smiles. A yellow circle smiled down on them, yellow light ray lines reaching out in all directions.