The Amazing Adventures of John Smith, Jr. AKA Houdini

by Peter Johnson

  It was colder than usual that Saturday with periodic snow showers that didn’t stick to the ground. Because of the cold, I was surprised to see about twenty lost souls marching in front of Jackson’s house. They looked like a bunch of homeless people or drunks Gregory had paid to raise a stink. Some of the protesters held up a sign with THE COMMITTEE FOR BUILDING REHABILITATION printed on it. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure out none of these people cared enough to write that. In fact, most of them were pretty quiet, trudging behind each other like convicts in a chain gang. Then Gregory arrived in his Maxima, followed by a van from a local TV station, and things picked up.

  My father, Franklin, Lucky, Jorge, and I watched from across the street by the basketball courts. Gregory’s entrance was very dramatic, as he leaped from his Maxima like Apollo Creed in one of those Rocky movies. He was dressed in a black topcoat and bright red scarf, and he raised his arms over his head, announcing his presence. In one hand, he held a megaphone and began shouting, “Jackson unfair, Jackson unfair.” His crowd of stooges echoed the chant, and the TV people began shooting footage.

  “What a jackass,” Jorge said.

  “Jorge, my dad’s here,” I warned.

  “That’s okay,” my father said, slapping Jorge on the back. “Gregory is a jackass.” That comment made Franklin laugh.

  The demonstration went on for about five minutes, then Jackson and Da Nang appeared on the porch. Although it was freezing, Jackson didn’t wear a jacket, like he wanted to show how tough he was. He placed a kitchen chair on the porch and sat on it, Da Nang at his side. He lit up a pipe, crossed his legs, and stared at everyone.

  “Can’t we do anything?” Lucky said.

  “Gregory’s not breaking any law,” my father said.

  “He broke the Stupid Law when he showed up,” Jorge said.

  “What law is that?” I asked.

  “The law that keeps you from doing stupid or mean things. It’s not written down, but everyone knows it.”

  Franklin laughed again. He crossed the street, and we followed.

  At first Gregory didn’t notice Franklin because he was dressed in street clothes, not his uniform, but then he saw Franklin’s sling and rushed toward him, like he had just spotted his long-lost brother.

  “Franklin, my man,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. I know you love this neighborhood. And you brought my main men, the human leaf blowers.” He thought this comment was extremely funny, and he laughed as he slapped Franklin on the back, which made Franklin wince. “Look, gentlemen,” he said, “a real war hero.”

  “I’m not here to march,” Franklin said.

  “Oh, come on, man, just look at this house.” Gregory had a point. No paint job could save certain sections of dilapidated clapboard, and many of the windows had spiderweb cracks. You could also see rotting plywood on the roof where shingles used to be.

  Gregory continued. “One way to change this neighborhood is to change the way people feel about it, and this house is a cancer.”

  “So you’re saying if Jackson fixes up his house, everything will be cool?” Franklin asked.

  Gregory didn’t know what to say to that, but Jackson, who’d been listening, did.

  “I don’t got no money to fix nothing,” he yelled. “Mr. Two Names knows that.” Then he left his chair and walked toward us, telling Da Nang to sit tight. When he reached Franklin, he leaned over the fence and, much to Gregory’s disappointment, gave Franklin a playful jab in the stomach. “I’m proud of you, boy,” he said. “At least you got to keep your arm.” He and Franklin laughed.

  “This isn’t personal,” Gregory said to Jackson.

  “It isn’t?” Franklin said.

  “Oh, come on, Franklin. You know me better than that.”

  Franklin seemed annoyed. “What you’re saying,” he repeated, “is if Jackson fixes up his house, there’ll be no problems?”

  Gregory hemmed and hawed, then finally said, “I guess so, but the guy has no money.”

  There wasn’t too much talking after that. Franklin asked Jackson not to worry, and he told the TV crew to come tomorrow if they wanted a story.

  “You tell ’em, Franklin,” Gregory said, very much pleased with himself.

  To be honest, I was a bit disappointed in Franklin’s response. I had wanted him to scream at Gregory or drop-kick him in the face. But it was time to go, so we left just as the Gregory brigade resumed its marching and chanting. We were about to turn the corner onto our street when I noticed Angel, half hiding behind a tree. When he saw me, he tried to disappear behind the trunk but he was too fat, and I wondered what he was up to now.

  Instead of going home, Franklin said he wanted everyone to come back to the house. He was as pumped up as I’d seen him since his return. He said he had a plan to fix Jackson’s house, but that it would cost money. That was fine with me, I said, as long as it didn’t involve shaving every strand of hair off Mr. Gregory Gregory. My father and Franklin didn’t know what to make of my comment, but Lucky, Jorge, and I had a good laugh.

  ONE BIG HAPPY FAMILY

  At first Jorge wasn’t too crazy about helping Jackson. After all, he hadn’t been inside Jackson’s house with Lucky and me, or talked to him, so he hadn’t seen Jackson’s normal side. He asked Franklin, “Why bother?” and Franklin said, “Sometimes you have to make a statement.” Jorge looked confused by that response, but he shut up anyway.

  As much as Lucky, Jorge, and I needed the money we made raking leaves, we volunteered to throw fifty bucks into the kitty, and my father contributed a hundred more. But Franklin wouldn’t let anyone pay. I guess he had a lot of cash saved because he certainly couldn’t spend it while dodging bullets in Iraq.

  We all piled into my father’s station wagon and drove to Home Depot, where we purchased the tools and materials we needed. At 12:30 the next day, a truck was supposed to arrive at Old Man Jackson’s and drop off everything. Franklin bought Lucky, Jorge, and me brand-new work belts that had special places for shiny screwdrivers, hammers, nails, and a utility knife. He also bought some plywood, shingles, paint, primer, and spackle. He said if it got too cold over the next few weekends, we could work on the inside. I had told him about the damaged walls. All night I played with my new tools, slipping my hammer in and out of its holster like a six-shooter.

  The next day at one o’clock my father, Franklin, Lucky, Jorge, and I armed ourselves and marched like the Seven Dwarfs down to Jackson’s house. Fortunately, it was a good ten degrees warmer than it had been yesterday.

  “This is so cool,” Jorge said, weighed down by his tool belt.

  Lucky said, “I have a feeling Gregory won’t be helping us with our leaf business next year.”

  “We don’t need that goofball,” Jorge said.

  My father laughed, and Franklin said, “Don’t worry, Gregory will somehow spin this his way.”

  Gregory didn’t look very happy when a war hero with one good arm and a work crew arrived to fix up Jackson’s house. Lucky was still limping, and Franklin confessed he wouldn’t be able to do much, but he was aware how his picture would look in tomorrow’s paper. So was Gregory. At first he seemed kind of stunned as the cameraman shot footage, and a hot, blond reporter interviewed Franklin. Then he told his stooges to go home and he hung around, leaning on his Maxima and watching us work. Jackson finally came out, saying, “Bless you. Bless you all,” and, like the rest of us, he took orders from my father, who could fix most anything.

  My father, Jorge, and I started by tearing off and replacing rotting clapboards while Franklin and Lucky scraped chipped paint off the sections that weren’t ruined. Then my father and I climbed onto the roof and ripped off damaged shingles and plywood with crowbars. At one point, I took a breather and that’s when I noticed Angel peering again from behind that same tree, that is, until he joined Gregory. What a pair, I thought.

  “Go home, Angel,” Jorge said.

  “Let him alone, Jorge,” Jackson said, surprising us. �
�You want to help, Fatso?” he added, smiling at Angel.

  Angel hopped the fence and grabbed a hammer. “Just don’t call me that, okay?”

  “You got it,” Jackson said.

  I didn’t feel too comfortable with Angel swinging a hammer behind my back, but we didn’t need him for that, anyway. What we needed were two strong guys to saw and lift sheets of plywood up to my father and me. Angel was one of them. The other was Jorge.

  “I ain’t working with him,” Jorge said.

  “Take a hike,” Angel said.

  “No, you take a hike,” Jorge said back.

  This dissing went on for a few more seconds until Jackson told them to shut up or he’d have Da Nang eat them. Everyone laughed, and as I looked around, all I could think of was a big, red Super Duty 450 Ford truck I’d seen advertised on TV. On its side panel I imagined JOHN SMITH AND SONS: HOME IMPROVEMENT. Maybe I could sell that idea to Franklin.

  Now I know what you’re thinking. There’s Mr. Gregory Gregory with the cameras rolling, watching this little drama play itself out, and what a perfect ending it would be if he tore off his topcoat, hopped the fence, and helped us. For a moment, I thought he might. He was fingering the top button of his coat, deliberating, but instead he smiled, slid into his Maxima, and drove away.

  But Franklin was right. The next day in the paper, right beside a picture of us hard at work, was a short article where Gregory proclaimed he had seen the light. Of course, the way to rebuild the neighborhood wasn’t to “search and destroy” but to fix it up, and he promised to start a fund for home improvements. He even said he’d do some of the work himself. I couldn’t see him and Jackson working side by side, but it didn’t matter, anyway, because he never showed up.

  “You have to give it to that Gregory,” my father said, “he doesn’t miss a beat.”

  As far as Angel goes, I can’t say we became best friends, but something changed. Although he still said stupid things, he didn’t seem so nasty, almost like he was trying to make jokes and act the way Lucky, Jorge, and I do when we tease each other, hoping we’d all hang together again. During the next few weekends, he’d join us at Jackson’s and we got to know him in a different way. That happens when you work with someone.

  “He’s just tricking us,” Jorge said, though I think Jorge was wrong.

  I also think my mother had something to do with Angel’s change. Right around that time, I had noticed her going into work on her days off, and when I asked her about it she said she was helping Angel’s mother to make improvements to the inside, even doing some painting.

  “For free?”

  “Yes, for free.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because, like everyone else, she’s struggling, and if she goes bankrupt I won’t have a job.”

  “At least the second reason makes sense.”

  “Well, I hope the first one does too, or I’ve done a bad job with you. You want to come with me?”

  I told her I had made plans with Lucky, which was true, but that I’d walk her to the cleaners. When we arrived, I was surprised to find Angel there. He was trying to cut and tack wood paneling onto an old counter, something he wouldn’t have known how to do before working at Jackson’s. I asked him if he needed help, and he tossed me a hammer, telling me to nail while he held the paneling flush against the counter.

  “Just don’t hit my thumb, Weenie Boy,” he said.

  I was surprised and angered by his comment, but when I looked up, he was smiling, so I let it slide and stayed there until the job was done.

  Who would’ve ever thought a few months ago that on a late Wednesday afternoon, Angel, me, and our mothers would’ve ended up working together like one big happy family.

  Very, very weird.

  TEN OTHER GUESSES ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED TO ANGEL AT OLD MAN JACKSON’S

  1. Jackson drilled a hole into the back of Angel’s skull and let Da Nang suck out the mean part of his brain. (Jorge.)

  2. Angel woke with the hand from Jackson’s severed arm choking him, and promised to stop being a lunatic if Jackson put it back into the saxophone case. (Me.)

  3. Jackson whacked Angel over the head fifty times with the same slab of rotted meat that poisoned Da Nang. (Me again.)

  4. Angel was abducted by aliens after he left Jackson’s, but they couldn’t stand his smell, so they turned him into a good zombie and sent him home. (Lucky.)

  5. Jackson cut off Angel’s privates, so he became one of those ostriches. (“They’re called eunuchs, Jorge,” I said, “and you already used the ‘privates’ thing.” “Take a hike,” he said back.)

  6. Fiona Rodriguez appeared to him while he was sleeping and her saintlike smile tamed him. (Lucky.)

  7. Angel finally started popping the right meds. (Jorge.)

  8. Jackson’s witchy girlfriend came back from the dead and spanked Angel with her broom. (Me.)

  9. Jackson tied Angel to the kitchen chair, then took off his head and set it on the table, where it lectured Angel about being decent. (Lucky.)

  10. Jackson threw Angel into a cold shower, then washed his clothes and made him coffee, and talked to him the way he used to talk to Franklin, and somehow convinced him not to be a jerk anymore. (“That’s so freaking sappy,” Jorge said.)

  Maybe Jorge was right, but that’s what I’ve decided to believe.

  “TAKE A PILL OR SOMETHING”

  After that first day working at Jackson’s, everyone went home feeling pretty good about themselves. Franklin and I probably could have ridden that high for days, except my father found out on Monday he’d been laid off. His boss said he was hoping it wouldn’t be long, but I could see the shock on my father’s face. It was as if someone had cut off his legs, and I realized there had probably never been a day since he married my mother when he didn’t pack a lunch, fill a thermos with coffee, and go to work. Also, everything seemed worse because it was close to Christmas. I had a laid-off father, a brother who seemed sad and strange at times, and my mother was still working at the cleaners. I had always assumed people would take care of me, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  “It could be worse,” Jorge said.

  He, Lucky, and I were chilling at Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “He’s right,” Lucky said. “My father hasn’t worked much in a year.”

  “But he wasn’t fired,” Jorge said, laughing. “He’s just a lazy drunk.”

  Lucky could have pointed out that at least he knew who his father was, but to his credit, he didn’t. I think he realized this was one of Jorge’s hyped-up days, and when he got like that, he didn’t filter much.

  “So you’re saying Franklin’s depressed?” Jorge asked.

  “I’m just saying he’s having problems.” I hadn’t told them about the crying.

  “I don’t blame him,” Lucky said. “Imagine the crazy stuff he saw there.”

  “I don’t know,” Jorge said. “I saw this movie about a guy coming back from Iraq. He killed some kid there by mistake, and when he came home, he went crazy and eventually hung himself.”

  Lucky whacked Jorge alongside his head. “Damn, Jorge,” he said. “What are you, crazy? Take a pill or something.”

  Jorge finally got it. “Dude,” he said to me, “Franklin would never do that. You know how I run off at the mouth.”

  “Forget it,” I said, but the thought had crossed my mind.

  When I got home my father was watching television and Franklin was out.

  “Where’s Franklin?” I asked.

  “He went somewhere with Carlos.” Franklin had been working out with Carlos at the YMCA, and although he couldn’t lift weights yet, he rode the exercise bike or jogged around the indoor track.

  I went to my room and did my homework, then fell asleep on my bed, waking up around dinnertime. Franklin was talking to my parents in the living room. He seemed happy and relaxed, like the Franklin I used to know.

  “Get dressed up,” he said. “I’m taking everyone out to eat tonight.” So
we all went to Friday’s and had a good time.

  Things were pretty quiet for those few weeks before Christmas. We still worked at Jackson’s on weekends, which kept my father busy until the unemployment checks started to come in. And during the week, Franklin tinkered with him around the house. Sometimes Franklin still looked sad, but he seemed to have more energy, like he was on a mission—one he let me be part of on Christmas Eve.

  JOHN SMITH AND SONS

  December 24 was very cold, with a windchill of about zero. Franklin had told me to set aside the day, that he was going to take me to breakfast and then to get my father’s Christmas present. I asked him what it was but he wouldn’t tell me. When we left the house, he bypassed our car and started walking down the street.

  “Aren’t we going to drive?” I asked.

  “No. After breakfast we’re going to take the bus.” He seemed strangely happy.

  I shook my head and said, “Well, I hope it’s on time.”

  While we were eating at a local deli, I asked again if the Marines were going to send him back to Iraq.

  “I don’t want to talk about that today.”

  “But can they force you to go?”

  “But I want to,” he said. He was sitting across from me in a booth, fiddling with his scrambled eggs. He wore a light-green crewneck sweater over a white button-down dress shirt, so he looked more like a teacher than a soldier.

  “Why would you want to go back there?” I asked.

  “Because I don’t want to let the other guys down.”

  “But you were wounded.”

  He sighed. “It’s not that simple. I’m looking at alternatives, and things have changed since Dad got laid off. I think I may be able to go back briefly in a noncombat situation, then come home and help out here. I told them about Dad.”

  “What would you do here?”

  He stopped eating and folded his hands in front of his plate. “You aren’t going to let this go, are you?”