Mutt eBook

by McKenzie, Shane

  And the girl… she was one of them too. The kind of girl that only liked thugs—probably. Patrick wished he was the kind of man she wanted, wished he was hard enough to pry her away from that scrawny bald guy she was hugged up on.

  He stepped into the shower and shuddered at the cold water, but just washed himself quickly. His fingernails dug into the soap as more jealousy pumped through his veins.

  “It’s good, mom. Like always.” He chewed the succulent meat, took a long drink of sweet tea.

  “I know,” she said and smiled. “You doing okay, Patrick?”

  He nodded, shoveled another forkful of bulgogi into his mouth.

  “You like it here? Making any friends?”

  “Mom, I’m nineteen. You don’t have to treat me like some scared little kid… I’m fine.”

  She peered at him over her water glass.

  “Well… there’s this girl… ”

  She sat up stra’ighter and smiled. “You talk to her? When can I meet her?”

  “No, I haven’t… She rides the same bus as me, and I see her sometimes, that’s all. I think, I don’t know, I think I’m in love.”

  She spit the water from her mouth in a fine mist into the air, giggled into her hands. “In love? Honey, you have to talk to her first, okay? So thickheaded, just like your dad was.” She thumped his forehead with the tip of her finger.

  Patrick smirked. “I know that… I know, but I can’t help it. She’s so… I don’t know, there’s just something about her.”

  His mom just shook her head, finished the last bite of her food, and stood from the table. She leaned over and kissed the top of his head, then roughed his hair. “I love you, honey. But you crazy.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” He wiped his mouth with his hand, leaned back in his chair. An old photograph of his mom and dad hung from the wall just inside of the living room, both of them smiling, a baby Patrick between them. His dad looked strong, confident, and Patrick wished he could be more like him.

  His mom scrubbed her dish with a yellow sponge and spoke without looking at him. “Next time you see her, you talk to her. Very handsome boy, you shouldn’t be nervous. Then, you bring her here, and I cook. Then she’ll never leave.”

  They both laughed and Patrick handed her his dish, gave her a tight squeeze, then escaped back to his bedroom. He lay on his back, his iPod blasting Tupac’s “Picture me Rollin.’ ” into his ear.

  If she’s there tomorrow, he thought, I’ll say something.

  Patrick’s throat closed up when she came walking up to the bus stop. She had come around the corner, eyes on her cell phone as usual, and as she approached, her gaze lifted, landed on Patrick for a moment, but he got no smile today.

  His skin tingled as he reminded himself of the promise he’d made, that he wouldn’t pussy out this time, that he would walk up to her and say something.

  But when he saw the shorts that accentuated her round ass, saw the dark brown birthmark on the back of her thigh, he knew he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. Her hair was down today, curly and wet, as if she’d just recently come out of the shower. Just imagining her standing naked with water rushing over her body, soapsuds sliding over her light brown flesh, caused his pants to tighten.

  She clicked her nails against her cell phone’s face as she walked, barely looked up at all. Once she got to the bus stop, a good ten feet away from Patrick, she adjusted her bra strap, sending a slight ripple over the cleavage showing over the spaghetti strap shirt. Her gold necklace rode the curves of her breasts.

  Patrick screamed at himself inside of his head. Just fucking go over there and say something. Introduce yourself. Something… anything!

  But he just stood there, just like always.

  “The fuck you lookin’ at, puto?” Her head was still tilted toward her phone, but her eyes were pointed right at Patrick.

  He had no idea he’d been staring, and he shuffled his feet, cleared his throat. “Nuth… nothing. My bad… ”

  She made an L with her fore and middle fingers and thumb, laid it flat against the brown bandana hanging from her pocket. From where Patrick stood, he saw the small black crown tattoo above her thumb, and a long curved scar that ran over the top of her hand.

  “I, I’m sorry. I don’t want no trouble. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, for real.” Patrick waved his hands and averted his eyes to the concrete between his shoes.

  “This motherfucker,” she said and laughed, then went back to whatever she was doing on her phone.

  Patrick wondered if she was texting some of her homeboys to come and beat his ass, and the thought chilled him to the bone. He could never face those guys—he knew that—no matter how good with his hands his dad always told him he was. The gym was one thing, but a fight in the streets was something else.

  She didn’t say another word to him the entire time they waited for the bus, and when it finally arrived, he almost let it pass, thought about just walking to Harry’s instead, but when she strutted her way onto the bus, then shot him a backwards glance, he saw that smile again, and he couldn’t help but follow.

  She made her way to the back, and Patrick nearly followed her, then thought better of it and took the seat in the front. He didn’t know if the smile was genuine or some kind of warning, and he wasn’t in the mood to find out.

  The bus made its rounds, and eventually, the girl arrived at her stop and got off. Another group of Mexican men were waiting for her this time, different than before. One of them had an all-white pit-bull on a brown leash, and the dog snapped at passersby.

  Patrick forced himself to look into his lap instead of at the thugs, trying to avoid any more problems with these people. But he couldn’t help but find it sexy when she flashed him her gang sign, showed off her tattoo. Something about it stirred him, and he wanted her all the more.

  When he got to Harry’s, the man was holding up hand pads while a muscular white guy was throwing punches. The man would throw a three-punch combination, rocking the red pads backwards, then Harry would swing, the man would dodge it, and they would do it all over again. Harry gave Patrick a slight nod, and Patrick did it back, then headed to the closet to retrieve his mop and bucket and get to cleaning the restroom.

  He slid the soppy mop over the tile, soaking up sweat and piss, spraying the lemon-scented cleaner to cover up the stench. In the first stall, the walls were tagged, black Sharpie messages of random racist comments, a few cartoon cocks. But the three-pronged crown dominated the wall, Los Locos written beneath it. The second stall was no different, and Patrick didn’t even attempt to wash it off. His first day on the job, he’d scrubbed at it, but got nowhere, and since Harry never mentioned it, Patrick decided to just leave it alone.

  As he wiped the toilet seats off, the restroom door swung in, and there were heavy footsteps, then a pause, a steady splashing of piss, followed by a satisfied moan.

  “Ya in there, Patty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When you’re done in here, come see me in my office, okay?”

  Patrick frowned. “Am I… did I do some—”

  “No, ya ain’t in trouble. Just wanta talk to ya, all right?”

  “Yes, sir. I still need to clean up the women’s restroom, though.”

  “Ah, let the broads sit in their own piss for another day, won’t hurt ’em none.” He chuckled, then there was a zip and the urinal flushed. “But you wash yer hands, and come see me.”

  “Yeah, okay. I mean… yes, sir.”

  “You call me sir again, and I’ll whip yer ass myself. It’s Harry, that’s the name on the fuckin’ building, that’s what you call me, yeah?”

  “Okay… okay, sorry.”

  Patrick finished up wiping the toilets, washed his hands, wheeled the mop bucket back to the closet. He was on his way to Harry’s office, but the man stood on the mats where he’d been with the
white guy earlier, red pads on his hands. The smile on his face was like a deep trench lined with teeth, and he nodded Patrick over.

  “Sir? I mean… uh, Harry, what are you doin.’ ”

  “Seen you hittin’ the bag yesterday… not bad. Turning your hip just like you’re supposed to, snapping your hands back. Impressive. Who taught you?”

  Patrick looked back toward the office. “My… my dad. I thought you said we needed to talk in your office?”

  “This is my office, boy. Now get yer Ko-Reen ass over here and wrap yer hands up.”

  Patrick furrowed his brow, shook his head. “No… Thanks, but no. I’m fine.”

  “Look now, I charge a pretty penny for these lessons here, and I ain’t chargin’ you shit. Now come over here and let me show you some things.”

  A sigh seeped from his lips, and Patrick shrugged and headed toward the center of the room. Hand wraps and gloves lay on the mat, and Patrick got to twisting the bandages over his hands.

  “Yer daddy a fighter?”

  Patrick paused, then continued wrapping. “No. Not professionally or anything. Just thought it was good to know how to do it.”

  “Smart man. And I see he taught you damn good, but there’s a few things you can work on.”

  Patrick slipped on the first glove, and Harry bent down and helped him with the second. When they were back on their feet, Harry said: “Now square up.”

  Patrick did, left foot in front, right foot in back, shoulder-length apart, both bouncing on their toes. The mitt shot out and caught Patrick in the middle of the forehead, rocking his head back. The hit caught him off guard and he bit his tongue, a hint of blood coating his taste buds.

  “What the… what was that for?”

  “Just what I thought, boy. You can punch like a son of a bitch, but yer shit for defense.”

  Anger welled up inside of him, and Patrick shot forward, unleashing a flurry of punches, but Harry dodged the first two, then caught the last one with his mitt. He laughed. “Come on, now. Y’know you can do better’n that.”

  Launching himself forward, Patrick swung: left, right, left. When Harry blocked these punches with his mitts, he drove Patrick back, stomping forward, a wide grin on his face the whole time. Then thrust his left mitt forward, and Patrick dodged to the left, but the right mitt slapped him hard across the side of the head. He stumbled, shook the stars twinkling in his peripherals.

  “You see? I only wanta help, boy. Now square up again.”

  Patrick clenched his teeth, panted, but did as Harry told him.

  “Now, remember that first jab I hit you with? I want you to jab at me the same way. Go ahead, now.”

  Patrick did, and Harry deflected it with a flick of his wrist. “Again.”

  Another deflection, and another. Harry barely moved, but Patrick’s jabs slid right off. “Doesn’t take much, does it?” And without warning, Harry jabbed his left hand forward, and Patrick slapped it away. “Good.” They did this for a few minutes, then Harry threw a hard right, fast, and when Patrick tried to dodge right, he caught another slap to the head.

  “Now, when you dodge, you have to dodge opposite of my punch, see? Get on the other side of me so I’m helpless. You dodge right when I throw right, got my left hand just waitin’ for ya.”

  Harry threw the same right, and Patrick turned his hips and dodged left, jabbed and hit Harry in the side of the face.

  “Oh, shit! Harry… sorry—”

  “Please, boy. Ain’t nothin’. Now you see what I’m talkin’ about?” He threw left and Patrick dodged right, threw another punch that landed.

  “That’s good. Now you get in a fight, you won’t be completely hopeless, yeah?” He chuckled. “It’s just a start, but we can work on it. Once a week, huh?”

  Patrick smiled. “Yeah… yeah, okay. Thanks.”

  Harry put the mitts up. “Now come at me.”

  Patrick rushed forward, threw a jab, jab, hook combination that rocked Harry’s mitts back. Harry stomped forward, threw some quick jabs that Patrick dodged, parried.

  “Whether yer throwin’ or defendin’, always be movin’ forward. Don’t ever be backin’ away from yer opponent, got me? You want to get inside on ’em.”

  They went at it for a while, Patrick feeling like his lungs were about to explode while Harry had hardly broken a sweat.

  “Lookin’ good, Patty. Real good. Just remember what I told ya, all right? I want you to keep hittin’ that bag, at least an hour a day, got me? We’ll do it again next week.”

  Patrick wiped the sweat from his forehead with his left arm, nodded and smiled.

  “You know, fer a yellow-bellied Asian kid, you did all right, boy.” Harry chuckled, tossed the mitts on a plastic shelf, and patted Patrick on the back.

  “For a fat old man, you did okay too,” Patrick said.

  They both laughed, Harry harder than Patrick, and he motioned for Patrick to follow him to his actual office. The old man opened a drawer, pulled out some bills, and handed them to Patrick.

  “I know it ain’t much, and I’m sorry I can’t give ya more hours, but you know yer welcome to use the gym any time. And I figure I throw in some free lessons, and you ain’t got a bad gig, huh?”

  “No, not bad at all. Thanks, Harry.” He pocketed the money. “Really.”

  Harry beamed up at him. “All right, now git the hell outta here. This ain’t no hand holdin’ session. Sure a boy yer age got young pussy to chase. Come back this weekend for work, and any time besides that to use the gym or shoot the shit, all right?”

  Patrick smiled again, and headed out of the gym. Outside, a thick Mexican man stood with his back propped against the brick wall. A skinny black man walked up to him, and as they slapped hands, Patrick caught a glimpse of money and something wrapped in plastic pass between the two of them.

  He tried to glance the other way, but the Mexican caught him looking.

  “What up, homeboy? See somethin’ you like?”

  “No, man. Didn’t see nothin.’ “

  “Then walk the fuck away, motherfucker.” The man spoke with a slight accent, and before Patrick had turned his eyes, he caught the crown tattoo on the man’s hand. Without looking at him again, Patrick walked toward the bus stop.

  Patrick stepped into the nail shop, the bell above the door jingling to announce his arrival. The sharp scent of acrylic nails wrinkled his nose, and he smiled at the receptionist who said something over her shoulder in Korean, followed by more Korean chatter from the other ladies there. Patrick knew they were talking about him, and he hated when they did that. He didn’t understand a word of it.

  He spotted his mother sitting at a table across from an obese black woman who held a cell phone with her free hand and stared at the screen. His mom looked up, a white surgical mask strapped to her face, but he could tell by the squint of her eyes that she was smiling.

  The black woman looked up, smiled, her eyes gliding over Patrick from head to toe. A gold tooth gleamed from between her lips, but Patrick quickly looked away from her and concentrated on his mother.

  “I got paid today. I was gonna run to the store, just wonderin’ if you need anything.”

  The Korean women around him began their chatter again, all smiling and nodding. His mom stretched her neck to look at them, nodded, her eyes bouncing from the women to Patrick and back again as she said something in Korean.

  “Mom… well?” His skin flushed and he wanted nothing more than to leave the shop.

  “No, honey. That’s your money, you go spend it how you want. But you very sweet for asking.”

  “Okay… well I’ll see you at home, okay?”

  “All right. Love you.”

  Patrick knew there would be another burst of babbling, but he said: “Love you too.”

  As he stepped away from his mom, he caught the black woman starin
g at him again, her eyes soft, half-covered with purple lids. She winked, but Patrick turned and hurried out of the shop before she had a chance to say anything, fast-paced Korean sentences slicing through the air behind him.

  When he stepped outside, the fresh air was a relief from the lacquer-thick odor of the shop, and even though there was a hint of cigarette smoke, it was welcomed. He walked across the street to the small grocery store, bought some milk, bread, eggs, Fruity Pebbles, smoked turkey, and a few protein bars. As he was checking out, he tossed in a package of Reese’s peanut butter cups, then leaned against the store outside and ate the candy, trying to think of the latest hip hop albums he could grab for his iPod with the money he had left over.

  “Whassup?”

  Patrick heard the girl’s voice, but ignored it. Whoever it was, she wasn’t talking to him, so he finished his candy, and as he chewed it, letting the peanut butter melt over his tongue, he walked toward the trash can and threw away the wrapper. When he turned, the girl was there, his girl, and she was looking right at him.

  “You didn’t hear me? I’m talkin’ to you, fool.” She smiled, but the guy standing next to her didn’t.

  Patrick still didn’t answer, just stood there like an idiot, trying to swallow the rest of the candy without choking on it as his eyes danced between the beauty and the tattooed beast.

  The man jerked his head back at Patrick, almost as if in greeting, but his eyes remained hard, his mouth a perfect arch surrounded by black hair. Patrick didn’t know what to do in response, so he nodded back, hoping he didn’t just accept some kind of challenge or anything like that.