by G. Neri
She turned around and got the joke. “There’s only one Oprah. And now, there’s only one person called Fish.” She seemed pleased with herself.
It was not exactly a good name for a girl, but she was talking to me as if we were just hanging out together after school.
“Hey, you wanna see something?” I asked.
She looked at me kind of funny, wondering what I could possibly want to show her.
I took a DVD I burned out of my backpack and held it in my hands, unsure. “It’s a little movie I made. From all the stuff I been shooting.”
She looked around. “Beats vacuuming, I guess.”
It was just a short video about how school was really just one big ant pile. I intercut all that footage I’d shot at Truman together with the ant stuff from earlier and even threw in Jamison’s mug for effect, all to some Russian marching music I’d found online. I turned off all the treble, cranked the bass, and made it into something bizarre and underwater-like.
Then she said something I’ll never forget: “Whoa.” And the look on her face told me she was kinda blown away by it. She thought it was strange and funny and . . . kinda beautiful.
She asked to see it a couple more times, then sat there staring at the blank screen.
“When you getting your camera back?” she asked.
“Tomorrow, I guess.”
She nodded like she had a plan. “Maybe I could show you something too.”
6
She didn’t say anything more after that, only had a little grin on her face when I saw her in homeroom the next morning. I went to go talk to her before we sat down in our seats, but she turned back to her friends and I knew she had to pretend me and her were still enemies.
It kind of hurt, but I understood.
After school, I collected my camera and found Destiny waiting for me behind the cafeteria by the trash cans. I felt a little funny about what she might be showing me back there, but all she said was, “Follow me, Fish.”
So I did.
We walked through Tower Grove, heading toward Grand Avenue. She made me walk a few feet behind her just in case one of her friends saw us.
“Where we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” she answered.
“Yeah, but—”
She stopped, squinting her eyes at me. “That thing, with you stepping on the ants, being all Godzilla and shit, I get it. It’s like a, how you call it—a metaphor, right? You wanna be in control; that’s what your video is about, yeah?”
I hadn’t thought about it like that. “I guess so.”
“Well, then you’ll fit right in.” She started walking again.
We had been walking for almost half an hour, through parks and streets, even cutting through some alleys. She was looking for somebody, but didn’t say who. We came out into a drugstore parking lot, when she suddenly stopped like she’d just seen a rare bird or something.
She pointed. “There.”
I spotted a group of middle schoolers, still dressed in their school uniforms. Red shirts, tan pants, white shoes. “Tokers,” she said.
I didn’t know what that meant, but she told me I should get my camera out. “You want me to record them?”
These boys looked big for their age—sweaty, husky thirteen-year-olds—full of energy and always pushing each other around like boys do. Most of them were black. But there were a couple of Hispanic wannabes too. They were all trying to act older, arguing and pointing at people from behind a blue Prius.
“Are they some kind of a gang?” I joked.
“Please, girl. Just do that thing you do with your camera. It’ll be better than those ants of yours.”
She nudged me closer and I could hear them arguing:
“Him.”
“Who?”
“Dat guy over there. The white dude with the hat.”
“That old fool? I thought we didn’t do old heads?”
I remember glancing at Destiny and then I whispered, “What are we doing?”
All she said was, “You’ll see. Start filming.”
I shrugged. Recording a bunch of middle schoolers arguing? Yeah, it was kinda funny, I guess. But I expected more. I turned my camera on and zoomed in anyway.
“You’re gonna make this look good, right?” she whispered back, like she didn’t want to scare them off. “I mean, you should see the shit Prince tries to shoot with his dumb phone cam, all shaky and shit. Sometimes, he gets so caught up in it, he don’t even see what he’s shooting, and all you get is the street. You got one of them shaky cam things on there, the one that smoothes it all out if you have to run?”
“Why would we be running?” I asked.
“Oh you know, they just playing games on people—pranks. Sometimes you gotta take off pretty quick, but that’s usually the funniest part. That shit you can put on your Facebook page and get tons of views with. That’s how you make friends.”
“I don’t have a Facebook page.”
She looked at me like I had said I don’t have a TV. And I wasn’t about to say that either.
She whipped out her phone. “We’ll see about that. Keep filming.”
She started tapping away at her phone.
“I thought Facebook was uncool,” I said.
She smirked. “All the better for this kinda thing.”
“But what am I doing?”
“Just follow their lead,” she said. “Do this right and you’ll get on his good side. Got it?”
“Who?”
“What?” she said.
“Who are you talking about?” I said back.
“The Knockout King, who else?”
That was the first I heard of the Knockout King. “What is that, a boxer?” I asked.
That was funny to her. “You’ll see, Fish,” she said. “These guys are cool. This’ll be better than reality TV.”
I watched the boys arguing over the people they were spying on. One said he didn’t like that guy’s shirt; another said the dude reminded him of some guy on TV. Another said that guy looked like a wuss. They might as well be fighting over Yu-Gi-Oh! cards.
Then one of them, a kid taller than me with nappy hair with a comb sticking out of the back, noticed me and my camera and stood up like I was a threat to him. “Whaddaya think you doin’?” he asked, his hand balled up into a fist.
“Shut up, C-Jay. She’s with me,” said Destiny without even looking up from her phone.
He seemed confused. “Why you bring a white girl here?”
Now she looked up. “That’s TKO business and none of yours. Just pretend she ain’t here.”
C-Jay scowled and went back to his group. Pretty soon they were arguing again, but C-Jay kept an eye out on me.
“What’s TKO?” I asked.
“It’s our little club we started at the Rec Center. We sometimes take boxing lessons there.”
When she saw me looking puzzled, she added, “TKO. Technical Knock Out. Boom!” She threw a jab at me and laughed when I flinched. “You should try it some time; you got the size.”
“I don’t fight.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how I heard it.” Then I remembered our little bout at school.
Destiny started going on about the Tokers, how they were always trying to impress the King. I asked her why she called them Tokers. They didn’t seem like potheads to me.
“Toker. TKO member. They get high on the hit too, I guess,” she joked, raising her fist. “And in between, they sit around bored with the munchies.”
Still, I had no idea why a bunch of middle schoolers were scoping out people walking down the street on a Friday afternoon. I didn’t see any water balloons or anything. I remember wondering what were they going to do—jump out and scare them?
When they zeroed in on someone, I quickly learned. Through my viewfinder, I followed their pointed fingers to their target. He was some kitchen worker at the pizza place across the street taking a smoking break. He was older, looked like he’d been d
oing that job for a long time. When he lit his cigarette, I noticed flour on his hands and face, probably from rolling pizza dough.
I panned back and the boys were all huddled together. Finally, C-Jay stood up and began walking across the road. He had this kind of looping walk, and he still had his baby fat which made him look like a giant baby. I thought he was going to steal that guy’s wallet or something. I zoomed in closer. Then suddenly he was running full speed at the guy and—
I didn’t see it coming. I almost dropped the camera when he raised his fist. “He’s gonna hit that guy . . .” I thought.
Destiny grabbed my camera and brought it back to my eye.
“You’re gonna miss the best part—”
I zoomed in right as C-Jay’s fist sailed through the air and I could hear the smack! from here. A puff of flour lingered in the air and the guy just dropped like a mannequin that fell to pieces. When I heard that clunk of his head bouncing off the sidewalk, I almost puked.
“Knockout!” the boys yelled as they raced across the street. Destiny pushed me along right beside them, and I went on autopilot as I captured them doing their end zone dance and high-fiving each other. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some passersby quickly move away like nothing happened.
I felt dizzy and out of focus, like I’d been hit.
“Yo, white girl,” one of ‘em said. I guess that’d be me. “Take our picture for the Knockout King!” They posed by the body like it was some game trophy and I recorded them. My stomach tightened; I wanted to leave. Finally, satisfied they’d completed their mission, the boys walked off, leaving me staring at a smoking cigarette butt on the ground next to my feet.
“Get a close-up,” Destiny whispered in my ear and next thing I knew, the camera pushed in on the man’s face. He was still breathing. Barely.
There was something strange about looking at him so close up. It was like when you pass a car wreck and you don’t want to stare, but you can’t turn away either. You’re caught staring even if you don’t want to. And I guess I was staring for too long because I didn’t notice Destiny tugging on my arm.
“Hey, Fish, you got your shot, now let’s get outta here.” Destiny playfully slapped me in the back of the head. “He’ll be OK; he’s just napping. Come on.”
She pulled me along, but I kept glancing back over my shoulder as we caught up to the others. Some lady was kneeling next to the man, pleading into her cell phone, her face full of panic.
Nobody came after us.
It was a beautiful fall day—the bright white sun, a flawless blue sky. But all I could see in my mind was the red blood dripping from the man’s mouth.
Destiny beamed, all teeth, warming her face in the sun. She has that dark hazelnut skin that glows when the light hits it. The long shadows of the boys danced ahead of us on the sidewalk.
“That was crazy, right?” she asked. I could feel her eyes on me even if I kept mine glued to my viewfinder.
“Yeah,” I sputtered, out of breath. I’d forgotten to breathe after seeing that man’s face. The oxygen flooded back into my head, little spots floating in my eyes.
“You OK?” she laughed.
I wasn’t sure. All my senses were hyperawake. Goose bumps on my forearms, the hair rising on the back of my neck. Everything felt brighter, more sharp. I even noticed my hand hurt from holding the camera too tight.
“You probably got some good shit, right, Fish? Man, C-Jay sure connected with that one! I didn’t think he’d come through, but that boy got pop!” she yelled at the crew of middle schoolers.
I turned my camera back on them. They were so happy now, jumping around and reliving the moment. Before they’d been regular boys, bored and arguing with each other. But now...
“That was crazy,” I said out loud again, to no one.
7
Walking home that day was the first time I ever really noticed the Eyez.
Some graffiti artist had painted strange eyes all around the neighborhood. Some were small, gazing at you from a fire hydrant or mailbox. Others were big, staring at you from the side of a building or on a tree. They kinda blended in, so I’d never paid them any mind. But today, they seemed to be watching me. Every block that I passed, those eyez were popping out to me. Did someone just put them up or did I just never notice them before? It was kind of creepy. I walked faster, kept my eyes on the ground. But even there, I saw a pair staring at me from a crosswalk.
Destiny wanted to come over to my place, but I said something lame like an artist needs to work alone. The truth was, watching the footage on my computer made my mind reel. Getting caught up in the action was one thing. Seeing it on your computer was another. Did I really want to make this video?
I’d skipped my 4:30 dinner with Mom routine and said I had a lot of homework to do. Somehow I let it slip that I was out videotaping with Destiny and she got all excited that I might have a real friend.
Maybe Mom was right because as soon as I went into my room, Destiny texted me. Nobody ever texted me, except Mom when she was checking in. Destiny kept poking me every twenty minutes or so, asking if she could come by. It had been a long time since anybody that wasn’t related to me showed an interest.
It felt good.
Eventually, she sent me the password and a link to a Facebook page she’d created for me. It was called Fish Films and was described as “Life Underwater.”
Destiny was the only one who friended me. Suddenly, I didn’t mind her calling me Fish. It was her special name for me, which meant we had some sort of connection and that she would bring me into her crew. I guess that made us friends.
It said so on my Facebook page.
I minimized the browser and stared at the frozen image of C-Jay’s fist flying through the air about to knock this guy out. This was something different, that’s for sure. I thought about a quote I read in that book Mrs. Lee gave me where some artist summed up his artistic mission in life: “Capture something different and people will remember you.”
People would remember me for this.
It’d take a lot of work with this rough footage of my first Knockout Game. Maybe I could make that my style—out of control mayhem put to some mad rap or punk—raw and on edge. Still, I didn’t want her seeing anything until it was memorable. Even if it took all night.
I texted back: “All gud things cum 2 those who w8.”
It was Friday, so I could stay up all night working on this video. I loaded up on Mom’s coffee and dove in.
Next thing I knew, the front door was opening. My head was resting on the keyboard. I remembered I was editing, but what was Mom doing home? Did she forget something? Then I noticed a little sliver of daylight creeping across my bed.
Morning.
Shit, was I late for school? I jumped up—then remembered it was Saturday. Whoa. That had never happened before. I guess I had been in the zone. I squinted at my video editor and saw that I had compiled a two-minute video. Outside, Mom shuffled about. It was only a matter of time till she knocked. And then, she’d get all curious. . . .
I somehow caught a second wind and quickly uploaded the video to my Facebook page for Destiny to look at. She was my only friend, so no one else would see it. She could check out this version and then I’d tweak it later. I remembered doing all kinds of crazy stuff with the footage. Mostly playing with that shot of the fist rushing at the guy, over and over, using different filters and speeds and colors. It was almost like a hallucination. I guess staying up all night made me hallucinate, but now I was crashing big time. I sent her a message, even as my eyes began to droop. I hoped she’d like it.
Mom and I usually had breakfast together before she went to bed, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open a second longer. My face barely hit the pillow before I was asleep.
My head was buzzing. I dreamt I was being chased by bees.
It was my phone.
I leaned over and checked the ID. Only three people ever appeared on that screen.
Destiny. She texted:
“Get up! Check yur FB page.”
I stumbled out of bed over to my computer and tapped the space bar. My Facebook page was still up, but there was no difference.
Then it refreshed. There was a message from Destiny.
And forty-six friend requests.
WTF?
I read Destiny’s message: “I shared your vid. That was fucking amazing, Fish. You’re good, bitch! I got like 50 comments already and I’m sure people will be friending you too. The King LOVED it. He wants to meet with you later today. We’re going out for Chinese, so meet us at the Chung King Palace at 4. Damn girl, you a hit!”
I read the comments on her share. They said things like: “OMFG TKO 4ever!”
“Damn, boy got bang!”
“Knockout King krew rulz!”
Stuff like that.
I loved the ones that talked about how fucking great the video was. Someone said it made them cry it was so funny and so fucking awesome at the same time. Nobody had ever said anything like that about something I’d made.
Watching my movie again was a trip. I had slowed things down, added this weird music and sound effects (you can find pretty much anything online) then speeded it up before key moments—an adrenaline rush. It was like being on drugs. Or at least what I imagine that to feel like.
As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, a strange feeling came over me. I felt warm inside, a little fire burning in my stomach.
The only time I could remember feeling like that was about two years ago when I made a drawing for my dad for his fiftieth birthday. He had been in a bad mood all day, angry at himself for getting old, I guess. But when he unwrapped my present; he kept staring at it until his eyes started getting all misty. The drawing showed me, Mom, and him fishing on Lake Maumelle. That was our last good vacation together. He had it framed.
It was a good feeling knowing you could make a person feel something—good or bad, happy or sad. That wasn’t art. It was power.
8
When I walked into the Chung King Palace, I spotted the crew right away. They were all gathered around watching something on a smart phone, entranced by some spell that had come over them. Then all of sudden, they cried out at the same time: “KNOCKOUT!”