Trapped with a Way Out

by Jeffery Martinez

  Walter muttered, "We should give every idiot a gun."

  Puzzled, Joel chewed the statement over, "So they can kill each other?" He hadn't been confident in the guess, so when Walter failed to agree, he shrugged.

  "You saw where he keeps his gun."

  Joel didn't appear to remember. So Walter began to walk. They left the scene as though the battle between children had not occurred. It communicated to the relieved grandfather, that this fight was irrelevant to the groups' relations and dealings – as though taking it seriously would have been ridiculous, absolute nonsense.

  Walter explained his reasoning, "The boy keeps it down the front of his trousers. Stupidity wouldn't be able to procreate half as successfully, if every idiot was given a gun and not told how to switch on the safety."

  Joel's heavy, resounding laugh boomed into the fast approaching night. Vincent kept up with them quietly, while the two men who had directed their guns at a child led the way out of the alley.

  The men by the door watched as the Angel of Death, and those who had come with him, disappeared beyond the alley. A lot more could have happened. …A lot more. These thoughts were the Russian's, his only thoughts, all he could manage, after retrieving his grandson. And after watching the violent spectacle of the red-eyed child tossing around his grandson's playmate. Tearing him from the ground, deaf to the pleading voice, the admittance of defeat, "I give! I give! Stop- stop you win! F*. You win!" And then the poor boy would be shoved or thrown into the asphalt, only to be caught again, shrieking.

  Now the frightened and battered boy remained curled over his knees amongst the spilled garbage, blood smeared across his brow, implied blood coming from his nose and/or mouth beneath cupped hands. The available men went to lend the bleeding boy some aid momentarily; others went to the groggy boy who was waking up on the dented trashcan; the Russian assessed his shaken grandson. He gripped the boy's shoulder, making him jolt and gape up at him with nauseous apprehension. "Nicolai. Who was the boy you were fighting?"

  "I-" Nick shivered and looked over at Huxley, stupidly hearty and loyal Jim Huxley, whom he could barely recognize amidst the strewn garbage and smeared blood. After a pause, Nick blinked and swallowed, mentally compiling some functional scraps of thought. He looked up and away from his grandfather anxiously, and mumbled, "I don't know, Sir. We j-just kinda c-came across him, and…" Nick's toes curled and his chin dug into his chest, as his shame tightened his nerves. Bile burned his nose, and he swallowed again. "I'm sorry."

  A man called back from the boy he was attending to, "I think- I heard that he was Joel Savage's nephew. A sister's son." He mimed the gigantic body with his hands, as though the Russian didn't know who Joel Savage was.

  Cringing subtly, the man squeezed his grandson's shoulder, gave him a narrow stare, and then turned back into the building.

  Vincent was excited in a way that makes you nauseous and spoils the fun before it gets started. Because you start doubting the fun to be had, and it's that doubt and your longing for that prospective fun that stretches your insides and makes you want to vomit rainbows.

  Luckily his uncle was here today. He usually wasn't home in the morning, but today Uncle was exactly where Vincent needed him to be. Walter was reading a newspaper and sipping black tea. Vincent stepped up to him shyly, acting like a child half his age. So the adult looked away from his newspaper to make the boy's job easier.

  Vincent wet his lips. "Uncle?" There was a pause, and Vincent fidgeted from side to side, looking at his feet. "Um, today I have school."

  Another pause.

  "I'm aware of that."

  This made Vincent look up and smile. But soon enough he was smiling at the floor bashfully, rolling his ankle. "Um- I don't really know where the school is."

  Walter leaned into his hand, elbow on the table, as he watched the nervous child mumble. "Did it sprout wings and fly away?"

  Vincent gave him a laughably stupid expression.

  Walter brushed back loose strands of hair and then returned to his newspaper. But he was folding it. While his uncle cleared the table, Vincent positively glowed with delight. The boy had a spring in his step as he followed his uncle about the house. Though the man had been fine with letting his nephew prance his way to school without his lunch, without even his backpack, when Vincent followed him out the front door, Walter had enough mercy in his heart to give the child the necessary reminder. Then they set off, as though going on a casual stroll.

  Nothing could have made the boy prouder.

  Nick thought of his father as he scowled angrily at an empty chair, Huxley and Ben sitting on their desks while he leaned against his own. His fingers tapped restlessly, and he looked from one boy to another, chewing his lip. "I hate school."

  The boys agreed, glancing menacingly about the room. Most of the faces were unfamiliar. They were new to the middle school, but fortunately they were acquainted with some eighth graders who would show them 'the ropes' at lunch. For now, they chatted while they sized up the guys and searched for the best looking girls. No one stood out, male or female.

  …How disappointing.

  Nick's cousin, stupid Yakov, had promised that the school would be overflowing with drop-dead gorgeous girls. Half of the girls here didn't even have boobs (95% of them were twelve, but he didn't take age into account). And the one who had something he could stare at was dressed like a flippin' five year-old. Nothing in this world could make Hello Kitty sexy.

  Names were taped to the desks, and it was by Lady Luck's favor alone that the trio had been allowed to stick together. Some laughter drew their attention, and they watched, growing half amused as some delinquent wannabes (by the looks of it) were already picking on some fool who couldn't even defend his own desk from accumulating a pile of junk: papers, Doritos bags, wrappers, etc. A skinny kid with expensive looking glasses was staring at his bullies, and the trio mocked the boy's spinelessness until he walked over to his own clean desk and sat down.

  The trio quieted for a moment, and then stepped over to their unfortunate neighbor's desk to check out the commotion. Nick jerked his chin in greeting as the two boys noticed them, "Sup."

  The boys nodded approvingly at the chin jerk. It had been sufficiently cool.

  Nick glanced at the desk, and then kicked one of its legs with his sneaker. "What's all this crap?"

  The boys smiled in unison. One answered, "Oh, you know. A loser from our old school. We saw his name on the desk, and thought, oh- Jesus Christ, him again?"

  The other boy laughed, "We just got through with him, but now we've got another two years of the winey little worm." Nick sniffed at the term, listening without much of an expression. "He's just so creepy and gross and annoying. SUPER creepy, I mean. Like- Nobody can get along with him. He's like retarded or something –but, but not actually retarded. If I knew what to call it, I wouldn't use the word retarded," the boy smiled sheepishly, having caught himself in time. "He's just… annoyingly dumb, and it sucks to have to do group work with him."

  "I got a friggen F because of him. No joke. A real F – my dad went ballistic! He took my PS2 away for a month! And I'd just bought a new game with two months' worth of allowance! You know how much that sucks? I friggen' hate this guy."

  The trio cracked their necks or slouched casually, not quite able to gage what sort of guys they were dealing with. Both of the boys looked like they'd never had a real, bloody fight in their lives. They might be the type to have a scuffle to raise their status in school, to claim they'd been in a fight, but nothing more. None of their dads were professional criminals.

  The trio went back to their own desks, having lost interest. But they looked up when they heard laughter break out from the two boys. One pointed in the direction of the desk, and Nick, Huxley, and Ben noticed the uncombed, somewhat messy-looking boy in a generic black sweatshirt and dark jeans staring at the pile of junk. They couldn't see his face, but something about him snagged their thoughts, draining them for a moment, roughening the
ir skin with a chill – their unconscious minds, their animal instinct knew something they weren't quite picking up on. Then the boy noticed their stares and looked at them.

  His crimson eyes, grotesquely pale skin, and recognizably sharp features snuffed the life right out of the trio.

  Their hearts were dead for a period of 5 seconds, while Vincent watched them, equally stunned. Vincent was the first to look away; embarrassed not only by his incomplete memories of their last meeting, but of the humiliating circumstances he was currently dealing with. He started gathering up the trash, but hesitated when he found a banana peel.

  Someone else peeled it off his desk for him, and with big eyes, Vincent met Nick's nervous frown. Neither breathed for a moment.

  Vincent swallowed, but the boys didn't notice. To them, this was freaken Hannibal Lector, Satan/Lucifer, Death incarnate, and they just wanted to be on his good side, so when he went on his killing spree and swamped the school with gore and floating organs, they would be spared… in theory. "Thanks," Vincent nearly whispered, but then he smiled. It was a nervous smile, similar to Nick's nervous frown.

  The smile confused the trio, unable to find it exactly terrifying. Nick's friends began to help clear off the desk, and then Huxley left to get a paper towel. The boys responsible for the mess observed in confused silence as these 'legit' delinquents somehow thought they needed to clean off a loser's desk. Their opinions of Nick, Ben and Huxley plummeted by the millisecond.

  Nick watched Vincent pick up the last of the empty bags of chips, and held out a trash bin so he could throw it away. Nick was still holding the bin when he lost track of what he was doing. He nodded at Vincent unconsciously and leaned forward to re-read the nametag that had just surfaced from the garbage.

  VINCENTIMIR RAMOS.

  Not SAVAGE, like he'd been told… or had heard others tell his grandfather. Freckled, blue-eyed Ben snuffled behind him and then nudged Nick, to snap him out of his daze. Huxley threw a thumb back at his desk, avoiding Vincent as he tried to communicate his searing desire to get away from this homicidal maniac who'd given him a concussion four months ago. So Nick returned to his desk, thinking too heavily to look back or hear Vincent's grateful, yet awkward, "Thanks- Thanks a lot."

  Nick said nothing when he sat down, and wasn't asked to say much for a while as class started, and the teacher took command.

  …

  "Hey," one of the boys who had messed up Vincent's desk caught the delinquent trio's attention at lunch, while the trio had been on their way to meet up with their 8th grade 'buds.'

  "Yeah?" Nick squinted at the cool stares. There were about six kids gathered, an 'ugly' (twelve year-old) girl or two (hey look – Hello Kitty-girl, she was at least a 7 [out of 10]), and the rest were guys. They'd probably all gone to the same school, or something. They looked like a tight little gang.

  The same boy spoke, shaking his head, "Why the hell did you help the Freak?" He said "freak" like it was a name. And he said "hell" like he was the toughest badass Nick had ever come up against. It was pathetic, but unavoidably annoying at the same time.

  Nick's brow furrowed. Ben clucked his tongue before speaking, "What's your guys' deal? I mean," Ben juggled for words with his empty hands. "Whhhat, exaaaactly… How come you're able to just do that sort of shit to him?"

  There was no comprehension in their faces. A chubby boy sniggered, however, and sauntered over, though he kept some distance. In an exaggerated way, he let the trio now he was assessing their strength and finding them inadequate. Like he knew anything about… anything, Nick thought.

  The chubby boy snorted, "You got a problem with it? You want to be his friend or something? You three can be his friends, that's not any of our business – but I think even you'll get sick of him after a while."

  Huxley snorted, out of anger, "The hell! You know he could beat the Jesus right out of you?"

  …

  Needless to say, they were driven off by a hyena-like barrage of jeers and ridicule.

  The trio scowled, soured, and then grew resentful as the humor turned into outright mockery and contempt. They decided to go meet up with their 8th grade friends before coming back to put the group in their place… once they'd gotten reinforcements… maybe.

  There was a cinderblock retaining wall that rose from two to fifteen feet along the descending path to the track and field. Rather than take the path, the trio strolled beneath the shade of the trees, painfully delinquent-like, with hands shoved into their sweatshirts and their hoods up in the residual summer heat. Their buddies were gathered together, 'chilling' at the edge of the retaining wall's fifteen foot drop, lookin' pretty cool – in the trio's opinion. One boy was pelting a blue porta potty with small rocks. Others were watching him or talking. When the trio, specifically Nick, was noticed, they were welcomed and slapped/punched affectionately on the back. Nick's cousin was there, and he started to explain what they usually did before, during, and after school to amuse themselves. And the cousin mentioned where they could get cigarettes from a liquor store that was only a fifteen minute walk from the school. "They don't care. As long as you have money. The guy's real cool about it."

  Then the trio spotted a tall, lean girl who could have passed for seventeen, and their bad-boy hearts melted into timid, self-conscious puddles at their feet. When she smirked at them through her piercings and bright red fringe of side-bangs, smiling in a severe, nearly hostile way, and offered them some Marlboros, they of course had to take them. And let her light them, pinched between their anxious lips.

  They learned very quickly that Satan – otherwise known as Vincent – was not the domineering or sinister Hannibal they had been expecting. Even Huxley lost his fear of Vincent, though plenty of apprehension remained. It was enough to limit their retaliation, but that led to a prolonged system of unpredictable slighting remarks, teasing, then pelting Vincent with bits of paper. It led up to one moment when they took Vincent's backpack and emptied it out on the wet parking lot asphalt.

  Vincent scrambled to gather up his loose papers, the bag itself which had been thrown at him, and his books. Doing so, however, revealed something the boys had not been expecting. Huxley snapped up the black leather wallet and, looking it over, whistled in surprise, "I think it's real leather." He laughed, still amazed by the find, not looking at Vincent. The others were just as engrossed, and waited for Huxley to check the contents.

  His uncle had given him fifty dollars for groceries. He now had somewhere around thirty-seven dollars. But Vincent was so astounded by what was happening, he could not accept the fact that he might actually get 'robbed.' No one had ever wanted something that belonged to him before, since his possessions were infected with his germs, or whatever it was the kids claimed – it had been infected with 'Vincent.' But here was something that retained value, despite the fact that it had come in contact with him.

  Vincent protested, "That's not even mine. It's my uncle's. It's to buy food, or…" His voice died down and then stopped as he received three hard, unimpressed stares. Then the boys cheerfully laughed about their find, and discussed what to do with it, as the wallet was nearly tossed at Vincent. But then one claimed that he wanted it, since it seemed to be made of some "quality leather." And then they left Vincent on the wet asphalt.

  When questioned by his uncle about why he'd let this happen, rather than protect his belongings, Vincent could offer no explanation. Vincent expected to be punished, but he received nothing. No further remark. And in the morning, his uncle walked him to school.

  A complaint was left with the principal, and the attendants were told to look out for bullying. Classes had out of place reminders by teachers that bullying is wrong, and should be reported. Some irrelevant reports were made, none of which pertained to Vincent. So Vincent didn't benefit much from the heightened 'security.' But as Vincent remained non-combative, the delinquents' wounded prides mended and they no longer sought him out so doggedly. A month into the school year, Vincent's name reached the uppe
r ranks of the middle school's delinquents. And finally, he was… almost recognized.

  "Oh! Red-eyed kid?" That's all the cigarette-smoking 8th grade boy had heard, and he now sprinted, eagerly, over to Nick, Nick's older cousin (Yakov), and two other boys he didn't really know that well. "Is he, like, uh- about my height?" Grinning, the 8th grader measured out the red-eyed kid in comparison to his own height. Watching their blank stares, his smile slowly grew stale as he spoke with less and less enthusiasm. "Really, really pale white? A lot of black hair? …Kinda quiet? Um… am I thinking about someone else? …Guys?"

  Cousin Yakov pretended to be engrossed in watching a boy pelt a blue porta potty with small rocks (Jesus, the kid really had it in for that porta potty). But then he shrugged, and slowly, as casually as he could, turned back to his 8th grade classmate. "Maybe. How do you know him?"

  "Oh," the 8th grader brightened, beaming as he shoved his hands into his sweatshirt pocket, wearing his hood up like a lot of the other boys, and the one girl, who occupied the tree-obscured area at the edge of the retaining wall. It was 76 degrees outside - once again too warm for the season, and once again too warm to have hoods on. "My cousin knows him," the 8th grader went on to remind everyone, for the umpteenth time, that his brother was a bigshot in high school, making a thousand dollars a week selling… stuff.

  Um. People were really, freakin' scared of this guy's cousin. So… it sure as hell didn't make any sense that the no-longer-intimidating, 7th grade freak was friends with a 17 year old.

  Yakov shrugged, yawning into his hand, "Nah, prob' not him." He yawned again, and looked at his younger cousin.

  "Oh," the 8th grader deflated, and then tapped his cigarette dully. He took a puff, and wandered towards the edge of the retaining wall to sit next to the red-haired girl. He gave her a cigarette, and then a light.