Luggalor's Lenses

by W. S. Fuller

  It was a society with a highly structured organization and strict codes of conduct. There was room for anyone who showed no fear…only blind, unquestioning loyalty. Being tough let you in, moved you up, and gave you a self-image that said you were somebody, you were appreciated, that you fit...the same self-image that every human being on this planet desperately needs.

  There were many levels of jobs and duties in their society. Lookouts and runners, street dealers and wholesalers. The crack houses had people who ran them and people who guarded them. There were the numbers kids, the prostitutes and the pimps. Turf to be protected, gangs to join, and battles to fight. There were the young kids to get started taking and then dealing, or dealing and then taking, and the mothers to hook who tried to stay clean. Johns and old ladies to rob. And there was always getting high.

  Each job carried its own status, dress code, income...much like mainstream society. The difference was, in this one, the more you moved up, the better you became at what you did...the more you became a target, the better the chance you would die or kill. And if you didn’t move up? If you didn’t have enough courage or cunning, or hadn’t become numb enough to the violence to take part? Just like any other society that doesn’t take care of its less fortunate, its indigent…they sink to the bottom and are victimized by all those above them. They only use, and steal to use, until they are of no use to anyone, and then it’s only a matter of time.

  Jennifer thought of the kids who would make it out. There were many, and she had helped. It was just that there were so many more who wouldn’t. And then she thought again of the violence and the weapons...so many goddamn weapons.

  She left Jarrod depressed, but within a few days after they arrived in Charleston she was again looking forward to her new challenge. It would be a totally different experience, and she was determined to get the most out of it, and to give the best she could to the kids and the school. With her knowledge, skills and experience, she knew she could be a positive influence in this predominantly middle-class school and middle-size town. The rewards of her efforts might be more evident here than at Jarrod, and while she would never duck a tough challenge, she was excited about that.

  “Jennifer, it’s so nice to meet you. We’re so glad to have you here at Central.” That was the greeting it seemed everyone at the teacher’s reception gave her, or at least it was the only one she could remember. Just behind the greetings, handshakes and an occasional stiff hug, she detected a coolness. But she had expected it. She was aware of eyes constantly on her, and had felt self-conscious when Bob Holder, the principal, put so much emphasis on her degree and experience in the “tough Chicago city school system” when he introduced her.

  “Do you go by Jennifer or Jenny,” Jan Bond asked as she approached her in the parking lot after the reception.

  “It really doesn’t matter, but usually Jennifer,” she said.

  “I’m sure it will be nothing compared to your old school, but we are beginning to have our problems here, you know.”

  Jan was the youngest of the faculty members at twenty six, taught ninth grade English, and quickly became Jennifer’s closest friend at Central. Jan’s dedication to the job and her perception and intuition in her dealings with students and the staff had impressed Jennifer. Most of the others are dedicated, but many haven’t developed the ability to think freely and the vision necessary to handle the problems and diverse needs and abilities of the kids. They are too rigid, traditional, provincial, and, in some cases, prejudiced. Maybe it’s their lack of worldliness, their upbringing, their education. Sure, they could be better trained, observe other systems, attend more workshops, and it would help. But that isn’t the only answer. More money, leadership and dedication from the government and the systems are crucial. Teaching must attract the best, most capable people we have. It has to be a profession that offers the rewards and prestige of being an attorney, an architect, an accountant. Are any of these jobs more important? Certainly not now when we are in danger of losing a generation and our edge in many areas of scientific and commercial development is slipping. Education is the start to the answers to all of our problems. And only with the right emphasis and dedication to its hope and promise will you attract the caliber of people needed to fulfill that promise.

  Jennifer got up and walked down the hall to Jan’s room.

  “Hi. Tell me about Horace Wilson. He was in your homeroom last year, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, and I had him in English too.”

  Horace crossed the street to the corner of Alcorn and Waters and stopped in front of Nathan’s grocery. Angel’s Style Salon was next door. He knew this was their corner now, their turf. Ice set it all up, told Andy and Ricky they had enough experience dealin’ bags to have their own corner, to go big time. Said they’d need two lookouts who could also run until their business grew and then they could expand and add runners. Ice OK’d me and Ervin when we met him at the pep rally.

  Horace was nervous…real nervous…but excited. He felt the cold steel of the .25 automatic Ice gave him on credit...until he could pay for it from his take. Ice said he had to have it, had to be tough enough to use it if he was going to operate at this level.

  Horace remembered his words. ‘This is serious shit, man, serious money you’re gonna be workin and other gangs might try to move on you.” Horace walked past Angel’s to set up his post on the next block. He was wearing his colors, carrying a piece, getting ready to do it. Be the man...have money, clothes, cars...a tough chick just like Ice. Ducking into an alley he quickly lit the crack pipe. He inhaled deeply, and shuddered slightly with the rush. Stepping back out onto the sidewalk, he leaned against the brick wall, looked toward the corner where Ice would make the drop. He was wired. Never felt better.

  Jennifer was lying in the dark with Jeffrey asleep next to her, thinking about what Jan said about Horace. “A pretty nice kid for most of the year. Kinda quiet, shy, not a good student, but not as bad as some. He never was any real trouble until he started hanging around with Andy and that crew. Rumor has it Andy’s a dealer. In any case they’re as bad as we’ve got here. Up until the Spring he was all right. Played on the football team, most of the kids seemed to like him OK, but he didn’t seem to really fit in anywhere. His mother is a single parent, works two jobs. She seems to really care, but just doesn’t have any time for him. When he started hanging around with those guys he seemed to be more confident, more self-assured right away. Trouble was, his new sense of self-confidence came out as the tough guy, rebel act. He started talking more jive, stopped interacting with anyone but that group. He picked up that crazy walk, or shuffle, that the black bad-asses all have. Became a problem in class...sarcastic, sulking, a chip on his shoulder. Stopped doing his work for a while, but after I told his mother, he was turning in his assignments again, but flunking most of his tests. The only reason he was promoted was because of what he had done the first part of the year.”

  The fog of depression seeped in, and Jennifer wondered why. She had seen so much of this before, and so much worse. At Jarrod it seemed like five out of ten students had serious problems, and drugs were usually a major player. Here it’s probably one in thirty. But maybe that’s it. The influence isn’t as great, the situation shouldn’t seem as desperate, and yet it’s still beginning to happen. And will probably get worse. Drugs are this generation of poor children’s black death, and crack spreads the plague like a wildfire. She decided she would have a talk with Horace the next day.

  Horace watched as the silver Jaguar eased by him and on to the corner where Andy and Ricky were standing. It pulled to a stop. For a moment nothing moved. Then the driver’s side door opened and Ice stepped out. He spoke across the top of the car to Andy, got back in, moved the car around the turn, then slowly down the other block toward where Ervin was. Andy looked around slowly, his eyes resting on Horace for a moment. Then he and Ricky turned and disappeared around the corner, following the direction of the Jaguar. His body tensing, Horace felt
a chill run through his gut. The cockiness, courage, the sense of invincibility that the crack had given him was not strong enough to overcome his sense of alarm. Why the hell’d they leave? Where’d they go? He desperately wanted to go see what was going on, but knew he wasn’t supposed to leave his post. He waited. Nothing. What if they don’t trust me, don’t think I’m tough enough? What if Ice is telling Andy to get someone else? What if Ice knows there’s going to be trouble and they’re leaving me out here to get hit? He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. Horace thought about running across the street, and home. Come on, man, somethin happen. Where the hell are you? You didn say nothin about this.

  Looking up, he saw Andy back on the corner.

  “Yo.” Trying to sound tough, nonchalant, he shrugged his shoulders and gestured with the open palms of his hands. He wanted to show his irritation at being left out of whatever was going on, but knew he needed to stay cool. Andy motioned him to the corner.

  “What’s goin down, man? Where’d you go?”

  “Ice didn wanna pass the stuff here on the corner. We went down the street where we weren’t so out in the open.”

  “How come? Does he think there’s gonna’ to be trouble?”

  “Naw, man, relax. He don’t like to make deliveries and pickups right on the corner where we’ll be doin business. Relax, man.”

  “I’m fine, man. I was just wonderin what the hell was goin down. You didn say nothin about leavin the corner and when Ice left, I was just wonderin.” Horace felt his fear subside, Everything’s cool. Damn, shouldn have got uptight like that.

  “Go on back down the street, man, we’re gonna’ be doin some business real soon. We gotta have protection.”

  Horace walked back past Angel’s. He wanted another blow but didn’t want Andy and Ricky to see him and think he was shook. Hands stuffed in his pockets, head down, trying to decide whether to reach for the pipe, he looked up and caught a glimpse of a car barely moving toward him, the oversized, chrome rims turning so slowly the pattern of the spokes was visible. Two cold, glaring faces stared into his eyes as it passed. His breath caught in his throat....the vice of instant, overwhelming fear squeezed his chest. Quickly casting his eyes down, he kept walking, faster. He heard a door open...but didn’t turn.

  “Horace, Christ, Jesus” Andy screamed, and then Horace heard the sharp crack of the shot.

  Turning now, he stared for an instant at the barrel of the gun pointed at him, then dove for the doorway. He flinched at the next shots and the ricochet off the brick.

  Andy screamed again. “I’m hit, help me.”

  “Waste him,” boomed a deep voice he didn’t recognize.

  Pressing his back tight into the corner, he jerked the gun from his waist and released the safety. The instant he saw movement he stepped out and to the side, pushed the gun in front with both hands, and pulled the trigger as fast as he could, again and again. Explosions, screams. His eyes shut, he kept firing, and then he was running as fast as he could. Waiting for the pain. Not hit yet.

  Jennifer had her plan, was ready to confront Horace. She had plenty of experience talking to kids in trouble, and figured many of them had been a lot farther gone than he was. He had a mother who cared about him, probably some values, and Jennifer was confident no one was any better than she was at getting right in a student’s face and making them understand...challenging them. She was anxious, but confident. This was the true test of what she was about as a teacher.

  Horace was one of the first students to arrive in homeroom, which seemed odd to Jennifer, as he was usually late or right on the bell. She walked to his desk. “I’d like to see you after school today. Please wait here after sixth period.”

  The expression on his face…the wild, terrified eyes, shocked her.

  “What for, Mrs. Baker. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, Horace, I just want to talk to you.”

  The announcements had come over the P.A. and the pledge of allegiance was at “one nation under God” when Jennifer noticed Bob Holder, the school’s principal, standing in the hallway outside her door, motioning for her. She waited until the pledge was completed, then walked through the door. There were two men she didn’t recognize standing next to Bob, and then she saw the two policemen in back of them.

  “Jennifer, there’s been some trouble. This is Detective Massey and Captain Smith. Is Horace Wilson in there?”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “We think Horace Wilson killed a boy last night,” Massey said in a deep drawl. “Probably a drug deal. We’ve got to go in and get him and he might be armed. Can you let the rest of the kids go and talk to him until we can get to him?”

  The detective’s words paralyzed her for a moment. But for only a moment, then she saw the pistol in Massey’s hand and the handcuffs in Smith’s.

  “You are not going into my classroom with that gun. You can be goddamned sure of that. I’ll bring Horace out here, but first you better tell me a little more about this because I don’t for one second believe you.”

  Shock showed on the men’s faces at her reaction. But they also recovered quickly. Smith’s voice was hard. “Look, mam, we’ve got a dangerous situation here. We’re going in to get him and we’d like you to cooperate. It would be the best thing for everyone, but we’re going in one way or the other. We’ve got an eye-witness that says it was him.”

  “Wait here,” she said.

  Jennifer walked into the classroom, trying to steady herself. She went to the board and scrawled “don’t forget the assembly at noon” to divert their attention and give her mind an extra few seconds to work. She looked up at the large, round clock above the board...8:25. Time for the bell. The minute hand perfectly bisected the 5 and its dot. Ring now, God, please. She waited. She wanted to look into the hall but knew she shouldn’t, and realized she must do something that very instant to keep them from coming in. The shrill clang sent a rush of relief over her, but she still moved quickly. Stepping to Horace’s desk, she was keenly aware of how fast the room was emptying. Her eyes fixed on his as he braced his hands to rise. Once she was standing over him she spoke firmly, but with a reassuring softness, and slowly, to give the other kids more time to leave. “Horace, there are some men here to see you. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise you everything will be all right. You must do exactly as I tell you. OK?”

  Horace’s eyes darted toward the door, then to the window, then back to Jennifer. A look of fear, then a look of pleading masked his face, then he started to cry. He stood slowly, Jennifer encircled his shoulders with her arm, felt him tremble, and led him toward the door.

  The instant they entered the hall Massey, pistol out and pointing upward, pulled Horace from her, spun him around, and pinned him to the wall, the side of his face distorting as the detective pressed it hard against a metal locker.

  Jennifer slammed her hands against Massey’s shoulder, pushed with all her might and wedged her body between them. “Take it easy, goddamn you. He’s not going to cause any trouble.”

  There was a momentary standoff between them, neither set of eyes willing to budge. Then Massey backed off. Smith snapped the cuffs around Horace’s wrists and they moved him quickly down the hall and through the side door.

  It was only then that Jennifer was aware of how many kids were in the hall, how quiet it was. Her icy glare darted from one group to another, quickly sending them on their way. Suddenly her knees were weak, and she slid slowly down the locker until she was sitting on the floor. Her head tilted back and stopped against the cold metal. She was conscious of her mind not wanting to focus, or clear, or think. An enormous crush of sorrow overtook her

  The promise of so many of the human’s young…so often wasted. Each of them desperately needs attention, someone to look up to, to feel appreciated, to feel they belong to a community. Often they choose the wrong community. And when one of the caring humans tries to help…tries very hard to help…it is too many times too late for the c
hances to be good. There has been too much neglect and too many bad decisions. I, Luggalor.

  2000

  HUALLAGA VALLEY, PERU

  As he quickly stripped leaves from the shrubs, glistening sweat pooled on Bernardo’s copper skin, forming droplets that hung from his nose and chin before falling to the ground. He had been bent over, moving from plant to plant, for ten hours, and his back, shoulders, neck and legs ached. His two sons and three daughters mirrored his movements in other parts of the field, but they were young, and he knew they did not get as sore as soon. Bernardo looked forward to quitting today more than most days. It was Saturday, and his family will not work on Sunday. They will go to church and rest. It was important that they get as many of the leaves as possible into the sun so they will have time to dry. Then they could be bundled Monday morning before the truck comes in the afternoon to pick them up. He is sure he will exceed his quota, and this made him feel good. Also, it had been three months since his youngest son was born, and tonight he can once again have his wife. Bernardo always looks forward to this after a long day of working so hard, and misses having her before and after she has the babies.

  Bernardo, his children, wife and newest son filed into the small church along with the other campesinos. Many came up to look and smile at the baby cradled in his wife’s arms. Bernardo beamed; he was proud of his family. They genuflected, slid into the pew and sat down. This was the first day for Father Cordoba, the new priest, and Bernardo was anxious to hear what he would say.

  When the priest started talking about temptation, sin and the forgiveness of God, Bernardo’s thoughts turned to Father Moldaro. He disappeared without a word two weeks ago. The mayor and the director of the campesino’s association said he was called to another parish for an emergency, but no one thinks the church had anything to do with his leaving Culera. Father Moldaro had begun to say it was evil to grow the coca leaves and poppy plants. He said they were like Satan, that they killed many people in our country, and in the United States. The association could have taken him away, or the Narcotraffikers. The association does not like anyone talking against the leaves and will give a campesino’s land to someone else if he grows other crops. The Narcotraffikers come with guns if they hear of meetings to discuss planting fruits, and those who go against them disappear, or are found dead. Or maybe it was the guerrilla fighters --Sendero Luminosa. Two weeks ago they killed the district governor, mayor, and judge in Pureno while they made all the campesino’s watch. Father Moldaro preached all the time against violence...maybe it was them. Why did he say the things he said anyway? I know nothing of America and the other priests say it is a man’s sacred duty to care for his family. If I grow papaya and melons I will earn one thousand dollars in a year and my wife will have to ride the bus six hours to town and then usually no one will buy. There is too much fruit that grows wild here. And it will be very dangerous for me. When I grow the coca I will earn five thousand dollars each year, it is picked up in front of my house, and the Narcotraffikers give me extra money if I make my quota. They built the church and the school and the television antenna.