Halfway

by Tom Macher

  Morning Meditation Group. Mantras and affirmations from approved literature. Planning, to-do lists, critiques of, comments on. House Pride, more cleaning. Always cleaning. Each version a different level: Work Detail, Kitchen Clean-up Group, Morning Checks, Checks, Majors. Each a process of cleaning and then checking. Often by Saturday, there’d be nothing left, except Checker was, by rule, petty, callous, stubborn: the parking lot was cracked, weeds poked through these cracks and needed pulling; pebbles and loose gravel in the potholes needed sweeping, which led to more loosening, leading to more sweeping; pine straw needed bagging, the bags removal; in the gully up and down West, trash thrown from cars needed picking up; the dumpster needed scouring; the front porch—or, if the front porch was clean, a neighbor’s front porch—needed whitewashing; here is a toothbrush, detail the parking lines; here is some 409 and a rag, grab the crack dog from the crack house, scrub him.

  Apartments, TV, sleep, unapproved literature, basketball, volleyball, cards, and weight lifting were off-limits from eight to three. While some guys went to their shitty jobs, I went to the local high school. The bored, unemployed, or devious signed out on job search. Others sat on the back slab, smoking and trading hard-luck bullshit. Old-timers, usually. They knew what was beyond the Property. They’d go as far as the mailbox, where, hands on hips, they hemmed and hawed about Gerald Ford, quote, waiting for the mailman. What beautiful bullshit. No one got mail. Who’d write? Our sisters? Please. Lord knows what her letter would say. Dear Johnny Raincoat: I’m wondering if you’ll ever repay that twenty dollars you stole from my purse. I know it was you! I’d like to buy my son a new action figure. I think of you often. Love, Sandy.

  * * *

  ONE NIGHT, Program pulled Dallas John from a chair and slammed him against the board. This was Thursday night after Staffing. The wall shook, dry-erase markers fell to the floor. He wrapped his thick hands around Dallas John’s throat and began choking him. This is what it’s like, he said. It’s exactly what it’s like.

  Guys leaned forward, mouths agape.

  Dallas John’s eyes were coming unglued. Program’s eyes were coming unglued. It seemed their eyes might pop from their faces. Program began a slow, painful wheezing. He released Dallas John and pawed about the board, grabbed at and knocked chairs across the room. His body slackened. He fell over. He was having a heart attack.

  Word came he wouldn’t make it, and the following days involved much staring at the wild field. Cigarettes still got smoked and stories told, though we lied less now, our bullshit lacked gusto. Guys prepped for the worst, they quit jobs and school, no-showed meetings and therapy. If Program was going to die, we saw no sense in continuing.

  Meanwhile, his doctors inserted a catheter into his groin, cut open his chest. They had other ideas, made suggestions. Maybe stay off the Property a few weeks, take it easy, stop wearing jeans and constrictive clothing, eat better, exercise, quit smoking. He’d always warned against self-diagnosis and advocated following professional advice whenever possible, and so he traded his Camels for wooden splinters and chewing gum, bought sandals, triple-XL T-shirts, baggy shorts. And he quit doing group.

  Weeds blossomed in the parking lot and dust collected under lampshades, along blinds, and behind washing machines. Hours decreased. Confos dried up. The Sheriff stopped writing tickets. Care and concern reached all-time lows.

  Through it all, Program remained watchful, hands clasped over the porch railing or the bed of his truck. A bored smile on his face, he’d paw his mouth and yawn. None of us were fooled. He was like one of those injured wildcats who’ll climb into a tree and wait for you to feel safe so that he might pounce down and wrap his jaws around your stupid head. Brothers who normally clamored about him now kept their distance, circling his truck, eyeing him warily.

  Come here, he’d say. I just want to talk.

  But we stopped just short of ten feet.

  This social worker showed up. A normie might’ve thought she’d investigate the attack on behalf of patient rights, but this was before all that, and we knew better. She had a number of tattoos to suggest she’d been around, and pulled old-school, tough-love shit—I’m talking she’d wait until it rained to kick a brother out. It’s a for-the-better-of-the-group, hit-bottom-now, motherfucker, kind of thinking that’s mostly out of fashion now.

  She put us on Super Flats.

  One Step Closer

  I went to high school with brothers J-Dog and Mike O. J-Dog was getting out soon. That’s what I remember. He gave not fuck one. We’d see him sometimes moonwalking through the cafeteria, hat turned backward, shirt untucked, and shades on. Of course, I’m speaking metaphorically—we weren’t allowed to wear sunglasses.

  As for Mike, he was never getting out. At least if you asked him. Oh no, he’d say. Not happening. And maybe he knew. Of all the brothers, his story was the most pathetic, or so he’d say: his parents died when he was a baby, leaving him to grandparents who also died, who left him to an uncle who was a fuck who went to jail and left him to the authorities, who left him to an orphanage which found him a foster family who turned him over to another foster family after which came many more facilities until he graduated to youth authority, detention centers, work farms, the correctional cycle, all very so on and so forth, so by the time he arrived at the House, he’d been inside, in one form or another, his entire life.

  No one knew where’d he come from this time or when exactly he’d gotten in. He just appeared one night, slumped next to the Coke machine, a small bag of new socks and underwear at his feet, a pitiful, wanting smile on his face, eyes all Bambi and needful, will you be my friend, please be my friend, can we be friends now?

  Like most orphans, he’d developed an instinct for survival that was hard to quantify. He was funny, thoughtful, optimistic, everyone’s little brother. He’d look at you with his warm Mike O. eyes and suck you right into whatever fantasy he’d only recently dreamed up. He would’ve made a fine hustler or gigolo, fund-raiser or lobbyist, he had the skill set, he knew what you wanted to hear. If he’d grown old, he might’ve married well, lived off an inheritance somewhere ordinary, been country-rich, with riding lawn mower, trampoline, an F350 dually and Winnebago, but he possessed a darkness behind his warmth, and it was clear to all—whatever plagued Mike O. would never be fixed.

  He was fifteen years old, by far our youngest, had the dreamboat baby blues, chipped front teeth, thick forearms, wide shoulders, an incredibly thin waist. For all his twisting and pulling, he had true humility: he wanted to be a bodybuilder when he grew up, and pumped iron incessantly. Look at my waist, he’d say. Seriously. Look how thin it is. Tell me, Tommy. Just tell me. Don’t be shy. Am I beautiful?

  Girls at school adored him. They’d follow us in the cafeteria or jump from behind bushes and trees as we walked to school or wait at that well-worn American divider that is Main (and it was a classic Main, with a water tower, high school football stadium, banks, barbershops, nail salons, downtown athletic club, and auto parts store) until we emerged from the bleakness of West, and they’d slide from their cars with hard candy, chocolates, baked goods, tongue kisses and wet, generous pussies, leggy, beefy-assed, and big-eyed, all. He damn near created an epidemic, what with his sashaying about. Area sales of eye shadow, rouge, lip gloss, and candy-flavored condoms increased tenfold that spring. High heels were out of stock in perpetuity. Even at the outlet mall. Newspapers reported teenage girls wrestling in aisles over hot-pink miniskirts, gouging eyes, pulling hair. They stuffed their bras with toilet paper, socks, and cut-up diapers, cropped their jeans into shorts so impossibly high their ass cheeks wiggled free, slathered their legs with oils and crusted their thighs with cayenne, rosemary, and espresso, quit wearing panties, rolled lollipops over their tongues suggestively, deep-throated drumsticks, bananas, any kind of produce. Nearby grocers noted shortages of squash, cucumbers, zucchini. Ears of glistening sweet corn littered the school parking lot. Regional farmers couldn’t keep up, they closed roadside stands,
had signs hanging—sold out, gone fishing, retired—and we’d see these farmers potbellied and bloated, waddling from casinos, a hooker under each arm, a cigar dangling from their lips.

  Next to Mike, I was invisible. I’d show up first period, set my coffee down, lay my head on the desk, and fall asleep. Drool string from mouth to ear, I walked the hallways half-asleep, the raucousness a sweet lullaby, lockers slapping, girls and girly noises, boys shoving boys into boys and over trash cans and such. I leaned against my locker and dreamed of other places, all better than here.

  Dudes slapped my back or desk. Wake up, bitch! You’re snoring.

  Girls pointed and sneered. Um, you have some crusted-up shit, like, around your mouth?

  Yes, I know, I’d tell them. Thanks. Don’t worry. It’s just drool.

  Whatever, they’d shriek. Group home!

  They’d said I could play baseball. Said. No rules against it. Could. Vic brought me to see the coach. We’d hastily scribbled my sophomore year stats on a piece of scratch paper. They weren’t great, I admit. I wasn’t great. Just eager. But, Vic told the coach, he is from California. And tall. Has real quick hands, I hear. He offered a few raunchy winks. Maybe he figures it out.

  Great, the coach said. We play Tuesday and Friday nights.

  Group was Tuesday night. Mandatory.

  Oh, no, Vic said. That won’t do. Tuesday he’s got responsibilities. Is there something we can work out? I mean, he’s trying to play college ball, Vic. Missing a year like this—well, it’d be a setback.

  Coach leaned back, lifted the ratty scratch paper, and squinted at my stats. He searched about his chest and head and desk before finding a pair of reading glasses. He held the paper to a lamp and turned it several times. Is this here, he asked, a seven or a nine?

  Uh, Vic said. Yeah. I believe it’s a four, Coach.

  Yah-huh, Coach said. I see. Well. He can work out with us. If he wants. But I can’t have no part-timers. Can’t have a guy showing up only sometimes. Wouldn’t be fair to my guys. He pushed back from his desk. There’s always legion ball in the summer.

  * * *

  I THOUGHT PEOPLE felt sorry for me. And maybe they did. Teachers let me sleep. When their pacing or scratching the chalkboard woke me, they’d offer an apologetic glance and I’d get up without a word, stumble to the bathroom, choke down cigarettes until I felt jumpy and vague.

  No one said dick.

  After school, I worked out with the team: batting practice, bullpens, shagging flies. I was a curiosity, I guess. Guys showed interest. They’d see me in the bathroom and pause. What’s it like? they’d ask. And I’d lie: Not bad. After practice, they gave me rides, offering quiet sideways glances at me as we passed one crackhead or another, or back on Property, car idling, eyes downcast, not wanting to see the line of old-timers leaned against the porch railing with their coffee and cigarettes and phlegm, another question in their throat, so full with it they choked.

  Eventually, Coach pulled me aside. Listen, he said. I’m a man of my word. You can still work out with us, but you got to do it on that other field. He pointed toward a weedy field. It was empty. Too many mouths to feed, he said.

  I thought I could get away with anything. I skipped whole periods, smoking. What can you say? I’d ask. How you fixing to punish me? Nothing could be worse than this. People knew me as that guy pacing and fretting about the john, or brooding, a foot on the sink, a half dozen butts crushed into the windowsill. What are you doing? guys on the team asked. What the hell you thinking? You can’t touch the already touched, I said. Or Mike joined me. These were the best days. We’d share unrealistics, pretend life was something else, as if, after school, I wouldn’t be on the bastard field and tonight we’d be normal, in six weeks we’d take spring break in Texas or Florida, bang pussy, maybe even have ordinary high school relationships, look forward to prom, dread meeting Daddy, whatever kids do.

  I kept going to that far field. There was so little for me—just a batting tee and tire. Sometimes a guy who’d fucked up got sent over in penance, and we’d throw long toss or soft toss.

  Oh, don’t worry about me, I’d tell them. I’ll be balling come motherfucking summer. Hey, watch this. Watch my hands. They’re like lightning. Want to play patty-cake, how about down-down baby? Do you like ninja slap?

  I kept going. Afternoons all sprint, walk, sprint, walk. Jogging. Pick up a ball, set it on a tee, pick up the ball, set it on the tee, step-hit-hands. I stretched a lot. Every muscle. Run poles. Stretch again. Where else would I go? At home, they were doing Standing Honesty Groups that lasted four hours because some guy couldn’t cop to eating fifteen Pop-Tarts. They were playing spades, maybe smoking on the back slab, sweating balls and telling stories, or doing dyads, or sitting outside Program’s office while Program called their mom, or waiting for Vic to take them to Baton Rouge to the regional headquarters of McDonald’s for orientation and uniform.

  Across the street from the field was the library, and one day, in a clump of trees on its south side, I saw girls. A lot of them. All lined up, like outside a concert hall. They were all reaching into their halter tops or skirts and removing their panties and bras, balling them up, hurling them through the air. I sprinted to right center to get closer.

  Mike O. was propped against an elm, a blade of grass in his teeth, twirling, I believe, an eye patch, while this long line of beauties waited patiently to serenade him.

  They told us junkies take junkies down, that we actively seek witness, someone to hold our hand, tell us it’s okay, and when someone wants to relapse, he’ll find someone else to fall, too. This wasn’t hard and fast, they admitted, and true to form, we saw plenty disappear when no one was looking, only to resurface months later cocaine-thin in a checkout line at Piggly Wiggly, buying Brillo pads and baking soda, the tools of the crackhead’s trade. And while being in that grass was off-limits for Mike O., even by witnessing, I was complicit. They called this a Negative Contract, and it was the biggest no-no in the House. Bigger even than using, NCs got us Flats or booted. It didn’t matter how we got one. If someone sought us out, if they said, Hey, Tommy, I fucked a girl in the bathroom at Shoney’s last night, I don’t know her name, didn’t wear a condom, she was drunk, I met her in the video poker room at the Redman truck stop, I bought her the booze, I’m not even sure she’s eighteen, and you know what, I liked it, we were required to call group. In group, we’d say, I called this group out of concern for Brother X, and we’d rat that fucker out to brothers and staff. If we didn’t, if we just said, Hey, you know, that’s cool, don’t worry, it don’t mean nothing but a roll in the hay, or It happens, pray about it, or any of the things we say when someone tells us things, we entered into a covenant with that person, a Negative Contract, a secret, and as the saying went—what they told us—secrets keep you sick.

  But Mike O. just had this thing about him. He struck every one of my codependent nerves. And he knew it. He waved kind of playfully.

  I tipped my cap, jogged to home plate, sprinted back to center. By now he’d stood up and taken one of the girls by the hand and was leading her into the woods. I sprinted to home, trotted to left, sprinted to right center, beelined for second, and sprinted back to right center, but he’d disappeared.

  * * *

  SCHOOL SUSPENDED ME for assorted minor offenses. The first time in-house. Sit in the cafeteria a few days, no biggie. I leaned back, flipped pencils at the ceiling, clodhoppers next to my smokes and lighter on the table, two middle fingers or crotch-grabbing if you looked at me. Didn’t tell Program. Or the brothers. Only Mike. And we had contracts now.

  I didn’t change.

  The next time I got suspended, school called Vic, said, Come pick his ass up. Vic came, told me what he always did: Baseball players don’t smoke. I told him I knew that already. He said, Program’s not going to like this. Same for the brothers back at the House: Motherfucker, are you crazy?

  I went to see my Big Brother, Ray, that psychopath. A criminal archetype who posse
ssed the kind of bad that will never be good and knew it, he used to strut about with this psychotic grin that said, I know what you’re thinking, I thought it already, have my response, your response to my response, and my response to that, too. He’d done time for the usual possession, intent, burglary, B&E, aiding, abetting, and contributing, placing body fluid on an officer of the law, etc., but also the more complicated and sinister assault, robbery, hostage taking. He faced a great number of years—the state minimum in Oklahoma, where he came from—for kidnapping if he didn’t complete the House, but he was beyond hip, slick, and cool and didn’t care. Even our hardest old-timers, real criminals who’d gone federal, admired him. He spent a long time in the House, much of it Ranking Brother, worked his way up Big Brother Group from Rec BBG to Kitchen BBG to Checker BBG to Chief BBG, and had, it seemed, reached an understanding with Program where he could do his own thing, more or less, just don’t use, don’t bring any of my guys down with you. Staff let him buy a car. Fucking with us was a familiar joke to them, like they’d make a gambling junkie get a job emptying ashtrays on a riverboat, or allow someone like Ray use of a car. We’ve given you plenty of rope, they’d laugh, to shove up your own asshole.

  Late one night, my first week in the House, I’d watched Ray saunter back on Property well after curfew, a bootable offense, but he didn’t even hesitate, just strutted up to me. What the fuck, he asked, are you looking at? He wagged his finger playfully. Don’t ask, he said, what you can’t handle knowing.

  I found him now on the back slab with his posse. He had a stick in his hand and was beating it against the concrete. What the fuck do you want?

  When I told him, he just laughed. Fool, he said. You think they’ll kick you out, but they won’t.