"—and she has missed already three days of work, and I do not know how ill she has fallen—"
"Or maybe she will be too ill to send you the dreams."
"—and I cannot let the daughter of André die and...."
"And what, Goran?"
"And last night I let her finish the dream."
"You let?"
"I had to—for Pasha. Did you see it? It was beautiful. Color everywhere. Happiness. Contentment. Everyone wearing Pashasmiles. The sun shone as if for the first time in a thousand years."
"Stop it, Goran! I do not what to hear lies. I do not want to talk about the dreams of Reformers."
"Do you want to live like this? Do you not want more?"
"No,” she says firmly, then she softens. “Not if it is without you."
Goran stops pacing. He goes to her and wraps his arms around her and she buries her face in his chest and she cries. Goran presses his cheek into her hair. He closes his eyes and lets the colors from the dream fill him. He holds her tighter and kisses her and tears begin to roll down his cheeks and they hold their embrace until they have each given to the other all the unspoken love that is possible, until each has felt the heartbeat of the other and been comforted.
Goran kisses her head again. “But what if, Dariia my love, we can have both?"
* * * *
The next day at work, there are again only three. Niki and Raisa keep looking at Goran, who has not spoken. A ray of sun noses in through a corner of a window, erasing the tungsten shadows and casting the room in uncommon brightness.
"Goran, have you heard from Pasha?” Niki asks.
Goran slices an apple. “You mean in real life or in a dream?"
"He means,” Raisa says, “do you know if she's all right?"
"I expect her to be better soon."
"So, you've spoken with her?"
"No."
Raisa and Niki wait.
"I let her dream come to me.” Goran looks around to make sure no one is watching. “For days and days I resisted; I fought as hard as I could. But the dream was too strong, she was too strong, André was too strong. It dug at me, seeping into the edges of my sleep until it filled my head with color. I tried to push it away, to make it stop, but I could not. Damn her! I hit at her with dream hands and kicked at her with dream feet and I spat out curses with my dream tongue, and still she came. I felt her weakening and I thought I could push her away, but she persisted. And then she missed work, she missed her quota, and it was because of me. I was killing her, and I could not kill the daughter of André, the daughter of the man who once made me believe that life could be more, could be better."
Goran pauses. Raisa touches his arm.
"So two nights ago I let her in."
"And?” Raisa asks.
"And,” Goran says, returning to his apple, “maybe now I can get a good night's sleep."
Raisa and Niki nod slowly and they all go back to eating in silence. The young man from the other day walks by the table.
"Hey, young face,” Goran says.
He turns.
"What is your name?"
"Ilya."
"Well, Ilya, we have an extra seat, at least for a couple more days. Care to join us?"
Ilya looks at his friends at the other table, who look at Goran. Everyone's eyes meet for a second. Ilya's eyes question Goran's friends. Raisa nods and Niki shrugs.
Ilya sits and unpacks his lunch in an uncomfortable silence. Goran watches with amusement as he arranges his food on his napkin.
"No meat for you?” Goran says.
"Not today,” says Ilya.
Goran nods. “For me neither,” he says, “but I am hoping that tomorrow will be different."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Jack Rabbit by Jamie Dee Galey
(art)
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* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chicken by John Mantooth
I learned about defiance, real defiance, on a school bus. I was seventeen. That was the year I started drinking, the year my mother took my car keys away from me after I came home drunk. She waited until I was sleeping one off and hid them, knowing I wasn't about to give them to her, nor was I going to stop drinking. Not then. Becoming sober was still decades of misery away.
So I rode the cheese wagon, mornings and afternoons, sitting in the back with a couple of delinquent ninth-graders who looked up to me because I told them the sordid details of my life, embellishing most of them to the point of absurdity. But the more I embellished, the more the two boys, Davy and Ty-Ty, wanted to hear. I told them that I was on the bus because some drug dealer associated with the Mafia took my car when I told him to fuck off.
I told them that I had a sweet deal lined up with a guy who was going to sell me a brand new Dodge Viper. I'd be getting it in a couple of weeks. I told them about my brother Steve, who worked in the pits at Talladega, and how he always got me pussy when I went to visit him. I told them that nobody could tell me what to do, and I meant nobody.
"What about Champ?” Davy asked. I looked up at our bus driver. We called him Champ, and I always assumed it was because he used to box, but perhaps I was wrong. Either way, his big forearms, thick black mustache, and scarred face always gave the impression that he was not one to be crossed. I'd only seen one kid try it since I'd been riding, and he was dealt with swiftly and soundly. Champ threw the bus into park, slung off his seatbelt, and stormed back to the boy's seat. The boy cringed into his seat, petrified.
"Sure, he can tell me all he wants, but I'm not going to do it.” And then, for effect, I added, “I'm not scared of that old man,” while in truth I was terrified by the prospect of crossing him.
Champ had one rule on the bus: stay in your seat. So it didn't surprise me when Davy called me on my big mouth.
"Stand up then,” he said. “Stand up and we'll see how tough you are."
I smirked at the idea. “Why should I? I don't want to stand up. You and Ty-Ty can pull that pussy stuff, but I'm not bothering with it."
Davy snorted like he had blown my cover, but Ty-Ty just kept staring at me, his eyes full of something. Wonder? Disdain? It was hard to tell. It hadn't taken me long to figure out that something wasn't right with him.
I knew that I was in danger of losing my audience. I had to act. I jumped up out of my seat and across the aisle at Davy. Grabbing him by his shirt collar, I pulled him face-to-face with me. “You little shit. You ever mock me again and I'll kick your ass all over this bus."
"Okay,” he said. “Okay."
I slid back into my seat and looked up at Champ. He hadn't seen. He was coming up on a stop and his attention was focused on the road rather than the rearview mirror. That's when I noticed that Ty-Ty was still staring at me with that stupid look of his ... except now maybe I knew what it was. It was a snarl. A clear look of defiance. Maybe in my arrogance I had only assumed that he, like Davy, looked up to me. Now, he seemed much more menacing, and I found myself not wanting to meet his eyes. “Screw both of you,” I said, and turned to look at the window.
For the rest of the ride home that day, I ignored them, though I continued to feel Ty-Ty's eyes on me. They were like searchlights, covering my skin, making me feel naked and exposed.
* * * *
The next day, I had found my bluster again, after berating myself for letting some ninth-grader get to me. I went straight to the back that afternoon (Ty-Ty and Davy didn't ride mornings) and settled into my seat. When Davy and Ty-Ty got on, I looked right at Ty-Ty, staring him down hard. Without changing his expression, he stared back, seemingly looking right through my eyes and into the back of my skull where I hid my true self, the one that was afraid. Again I looked away.
I worked hard over the next few days to regain my role as hero to them. I told stories about flying private jets, screwing teachers, telling the principal he could go fuck himself. Some of the stories were loosely based on reality, but most were total fabrication
s, sprung from my mind to my mouth in hot seconds of inspiration.
"Either of you ever play chicken?” I asked one afternoon.
"Chicken?” Davy asked.
"Yeah, dumbass, chicken."
"How do you play?” Davy asked, sitting up.
"First of all, you need to have a car,” I said. “So you two dipshits won't be able to play for a few years. But it's real simple. I used to play it all the time before my car got stolen. All you do is drive right at somebody—and fast. No matter what, you keep going. The first car to veer off the road is the chicken."
"You used to play?” Davy asked.
"All the time."
"You never had a wreck?"
"Hell no. Wrecks are for chickens. I never chickened out. See, the game involves a very simple philosophy: make up your mind before you start that no matter what, you won't chicken out. The other guy always will, even if it's the last minute. Never fails.” I had never played chicken in my life. I'd only seen it in a movie.
Ty-Ty, who generally said little—how could he, with that scowl plastered to his face—spoke up. “What if the other person makes the same decision?"
"Huh?"
"What if the other person playing decides to keep going no matter what, too?"
"Won't happen,” I said.
"It might,” he said. “If I was playing with you it would. We'd collide with each other ... unless you chickened out."
I shot a scowl back at him. “I wouldn't chicken out."
His snarl widened. “Neither would I."
The next words that came out of my mouth, I learned over time to truly regret. But along with regret, I have learned over the years that some mistakes are irreversible.
"Ty-Ty,” I said, “you wouldn't even play chicken on this bus."
He shrugged his shoulders. “I would too. But you got to tell me how to play."
Before I had a chance to say anything, Davy started in. “Ty-Ty, I bet you won't stand up."
Ty-Ty furrowed his brow. “I ain't scared."
I laughed. “Sure looks like it to me."
Ty-Ty shot up from his seat.
He stepped past Davy and into the aisle.
Seconds later, Champ was hollering, “Get back in your seat! Get back in your seat!” Ty-Ty gave no indication that he heard. The bus ground to a stop. Champ slung his seatbelt off and stomped to the back. “You got a hearing problem, son?"
Ty-Ty just stared at him, snarl stretching his face.
"I'm going to give you two options, son. Number one, you sit down. Number two, I sit you down."
Ty-Ty said nothing. He only stared.
Champ got really mad then. His face turned red and he seemed to grow larger. He towered over Ty-Ty, burning with anger, but Ty-Ty did not even flinch. That's when Champ began to look a little confused. He glanced at me and asked, “What's wrong with this boy?"
I shrugged. He glared at me hard. I sat up and said, “I don't know."
He looked at Davy. “This boy related to you?"
"Yes, sir. He's my cousin."
"What the hell's wrong with him?"
Davy studied the seat.
Champ turned his attention back to Ty-Ty. “One more chance, son."
Ty-Ty remained silent.
Champ picked him up and thrust him down into the seat. Ty-Ty popped right back up. Champ stared at Ty-Ty like a man might stare at a disaster. His face registered disbelief, and I could see that beyond that there was fear. It seemed strange to me that a man like Champ could be afraid of a boy like Ty-Ty. Scrawny and short, Ty-Ty looked like a straw compared to Champ, but in that instant I saw that size didn't matter at all. It was a façade, a fool's way of judging the world, a mistake of the undetermined.
"You want to do this the hard way? Be stubborn? Son, you don't know stubborn.” He nearly ran back up the aisle, leaving Ty-Ty, scrawny little Ty-Ty, still standing beside his seat, still snarling, still staring at the world through defiant eyes.
Champ snatched up the CB and put a call in to the school. He explained the situation and a voice said Ty-Ty's parents would be contacted.
"You tell them to get over here and pick up their son. He's not welcome to ride my bus anymore."
So we waited. Champ stepped off the bus and lit a cigarette, maybe to affect nonchalance, maybe because he was a damned addict like most of the male figures I ever knew growing up. A few kids told Ty-Ty to sit down so they could go home, but nobody really seemed to have their heart in it. Ty-Ty was too scary standing there like a blind man in a room full of wolves, braver than he had any right to be.
Finally, Davy said, “Your dad is going to be so fucking pissed.” “Dad can kiss my ass, just like Champ."
A few kids ooohed and aaahed over this, but most of them just looked out the window, perhaps wishing for Champ to get back on to keep this strange, stubborn boy away from them.
I closed my eyes, still trying to be cool, still trying to appear unbothered.
A few minutes later, I became aware of Ty-Ty's voice. “See, I told you I wouldn't chicken out. Me and you, we would crash in a game of chicken."
I opened my eyes and saw that he was looking right at me, grinning. It was the first time I had ever seen him grin, and it came off as more of a leer than a true smile. I had to play it cool. “I'd still beat you. You did all right with Champ, but you'd chicken out in a car."
The grin disappeared. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to study me, inch by inch. I felt my scalp tingle, my skin crawl. I was afraid of him, not because he was strong or imposing, but because he hated me, and, worse, he hated himself. I looked away, to the window. Outside, an old Ford pulled up alongside Champ. A man got out. He was wiry and wore big shit-kicking boots and a belt buckle the size of a saucer. He pulled his sunglasses off and squinted at Champ. The two exchanged a few words, Champ obviously struggling to keep himself under control. He gestured at the bus, and Ty-Ty's father stuck his two lips together firmly and nodded slowly. Champ led him onto the bus.
"Come on, Tyler,” his father said. I was surprised by the calmness in his voice, but then I noticed his eyes, so set, so dead level, that I knew he wouldn't hesitate to beat the shit out of Ty-Ty later, or now if necessary.
Ty-Ty didn't move. But I noticed something then. He still had the scowl of defiance on his face, but he didn't look at his father.
"Boy, you got about four seconds to get your ass off this bus, or I'll throw you off."
Ty-Ty, still playing chicken, didn't move. His father didn't even wait half of the four seconds before he was rushing down the aisle, shit-kickers and all. He slapped Ty-Ty once before picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder. Ty-Ty kept his body stiff all the way back down the aisle. His father slipped on the steps, righted himself, and was gone.
Champ returned to his seat to crank the bus. In the rearview mirror, I saw the look of fear on his face.
* * * *
Ty-Ty was suspended from school for a couple of weeks and from the bus for over a month. During this time, I got my car back, got drunk, and wrecked it into a ditch at three in the morning. Mom didn't have to take the keys this time. The car was gone. I got lucky; at least that's what most people kept telling me. I had to get six stitches above my right eye and three more on my left cheek. The wounds healed and I thought the scars made me look tough. I went back to the bus and bragged to Davy, who sat across the aisle from me, by himself without Ty-Ty.
Ty-Ty came back quietly. Champ grunted something at him the first day back. It might have been, “That'll teach you,” or maybe, “Son of a bitch,” or even, “Oh Lord, here we go again."
And if he said the last, he was absolutely right. Three days later, Ty-Ty stood up to open a window. Champ, who must have been waiting for that moment, roared at him to get back in his seat. Ty-Ty froze.
The bus stopped so fast that Ty-Ty fell over. He hit his head pretty hard on the floor, but popped back up like a jack-in-the-box. His ear was bleeding. He waited for Champ to get there, lips turn
ed in a crooked parody of a smile.
Champ picked him up and started to the door. “Your dad told me I was to leave you on the side of the road next time. And you know what else? You're done on this bus. Two suspensions equals no more bus-riding!” He took two of the steps before tossing Ty-Ty to the ground. Ty-Ty hit the ground and sprang back up. But it was too late. Champ had already slammed the door in his face.
Champ pulled off as fast as the old bus would go. I turned and watched Ty-Ty grow smaller as the bus left him behind.
* * * *
I felt like Champ had won, and, despite my own inert pseudorebellion, I was glad that order had been restored. Champ was supposed to be able to handle problems. The idea that he couldn't scared me. The idea that Champ had been scared frightened me even more.
I fell into the old routine of lying about my toughness. I beat up a college guy last weekend when he caught me with his girlfriend. I played poker with some of the men down at the City Bar, and won so much money they accused me of counting cards. They kicked me out on my ass and threatened to shoot me if I ever came back. Was I scared? Hell no, I wasn't scared. Most people talk a bigger game than they act, I informed my hapless listeners (Davy had been joined by a couple of eighth-graders who listened with absolute, unquestioning awe). Last weekend, I had sex with Marci Crawford and Beth Smitherman on the same day. Beth squealed like a stuck pig. Marci was the silent type until I made her come; then her lungs opened up like a marching band at half-time.
The boys listened to me while Champ drove the bus, grunting at us when we got too loud, scowling at us beneath his mustache, pointing fingers that worked like magic, causing us to scurry back to our seats. And I thought about Ty-Ty. About the magic of authority that Champ held over us, suckled us with like infants; how we liked swaying listlessly beneath the yoke of his fingers, his scowls, and his inaudible grunts. How I felt like things were right in the world again. How I couldn't imagine what had caused Ty-Ty to become the scrawny, defiant ninth-grader that he was.
"You ever see Ty-Ty?” I asked Davy one day when my other admirers had already gotten off the bus.
"I see him every day,” he said. “He lives with us now. His father's dead."
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 18