No-No Boy

by John Okada

  They ran for the door, Freddie managing to toss a few more balls in the general direction of the enemy, and Ichiro running blindly with only the desire to get away. There was no further pursuit, but they ran all the way to the car.

  Once again they sat in silence, waiting until they regained their breath and then lighting cigarettes.

  “You’re crazy,” said Ichiro.

  “Agh, he won’t do nothin’.”

  “He might.”

  “Let him. Who gives a damn.” Freddie punched his butt against the dash, letting the burning crumbs fall to the floor of the car.

  “This what you call living it up?”

  “Better’n nothin’. You got somethin’ better to do? Give.”

  “I could be sleeping.”

  Freddie chuckled, then stared blankly ahead. He looked much more haggard than he had in the apartment that day which seemed such a long time ago.

  Ichiro felt deeply sorry for his friend who, in his hatred of the complex jungle of unreasoning that had twisted a life-giving yes into an empty no, blindly sought relief in total, hateful rejection of self and family and society. And this sorrow, painfully and humanely felt, enlarged still more the understanding which he had begun to find through Ken and Mr. Carrick and Emi and, yes, even his mother and father.

  He turned to Freddie, who stared ahead now with the face of a tired, old man. “Freddie.” There was no response. He tried again, a little louder this time: “Freddie.”

  “Yeah. That’s me.”

  “We can go to my place.”

  “What for?”

  “Talk.”

  “We’re talkin’ now.”

  “Okay. What’s bothering you?”

  Freddie looked thoughtful, then defiant. “Nothin’. How come you ask?”

  “Seems to me like you’re out to lick the system single-handed.”

  “I ain’t, but if I am, so what? I’m just livin’.”

  “Take it easy, Freddie.”

  “Aw, can it.” Anger pulled his face taut as he yelled at Ichiro: “I didn’t ask you out to give me no lecture. I get my belly full at home. And that fat pig. Soon’s I line me up a real babe, she’s done. I’m gettin’ sick a her.”

  Ichiro wondered if he should try again to get Freddie to go home with him. He didn’t enjoy being with him, but, now that he was, he felt some reluctance about leaving him alone. “There’s beer and whisky at my place,” he said. “Why don’t we go?”

  “Nuts. We’re gonna do somethin’.”

  “What?”

  “Who gives a damn. Anythin’.”

  Thoroughly disgusted, he replied evenly: “Fine. Have a good time.” He pushed open the door and started to get out.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” shouted Freddie, “we’ll do somethin’.”

  Ichiro sat down. “All right. Name it.”

  “Sure,” Freddie thought for a moment. “Let’s go have a drink. Someplace nice, with people around, but not jumpin’. You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You know, for crissake. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know just the place,” he replied with heavy irony in tone and expression. “The Club Oriental.”

  “Naw, what the hell you—” he started. Then, brightening mischievously: “Why not?”

  “Wait a minute,” he objected hastily. “You’re not taking me seriously?”

  “Free world, ain’t it?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Chicken?”

  “No, no, but there’s no sense in asking for trouble.”

  Freddie was starting the car, his face aglow with devilish excitement. “Ain’t nobody tellin’ this boy to stay on his side of the fence. I got teeth and hair like anybody else.”

  “I thought they were laying for you.”

  “So what? I ain’t scared no more. You and me, we can take ’em.”

  “Oh, no. I’ve got more brains than you think.” Ichiro heard his voice rising with the mounting anger. “What in hell is the matter with you? We’ve got troubles now. What good is it going to do to look for more? You’re in real bad shape if you think—”

  Freddie raised his hand defensively. “Whoa, whoa.” He smiled impishly. “A drink. That’s all we want—a nice, quiet drink. We’re goin’ there and have a peaceful drink, maybe two. No trouble. No fights. Anybody says anythin’, I’m headin’ for the door. Okay?”

  “If you really mean it, sure.”

  “Okay, that’s how it’s gonna be. First sign a trouble, we blow. Check?”

  “Fine.”

  “Double check.” He shoved the lever into low gear and, with tires screeching, abusively whipped the car away from the curb and up the street.

  Wanting to protest, wanting to get away from Freddie and his madness, Ichiro sat silently trying to resign himself to the situation. Freddie was much too erratic to be trusted. Still, there was a hint of logic in his stubborn defiance. It was a free world, but they would have to make peace with their own little world before they could enjoy the freedom of the larger one. Maybe Freddie is on the right track, he told himself; but he found no comfort in his thoughts.

  Freddie drove up the hill past the dingy stores, the decrepit hotels, the gambling joints, looking for an opening big enough for the car and not finding one. He cursed a steady stream of violent oaths all the way around the block. Finally, he turned into the alley, drove up to the door of the club, and parked under a sign reading “Absolutely No Parking.”

  “You’re asking for a ticket,” warned Ichiro.

  “So what? Ain’t my jalopy.” He got out and waited for Ichiro.

  “We aren’t being very sensible. I’d rather not, you know.”

  “Can it. We’re here, ain’t we? Nothin’s goin’ to happen.”

  “I have your word?”

  Freddie yelled: “I give you my word, didn’t I? You want I should cross my heart on a stack a Bibles or somethin’?”

  He started toward the entrance without answering. Hitting the buzzer, they waited for the release to buzz back. Ichiro looked at Freddie, who for the first time, appeared a bit apprehensive. It comforted him to know that he was on the defensive. Perhaps there wouldn’t be any trouble. They both grabbed for the door as the buzzing started, and then they were inside. The place was dim, smoky, and crowded.

  “I guess we picked a bad night,” said Ichiro hopefully.

  Freddie nodded silently. He looked all wound up, his face tense and watchful instead of arrogant.

  “Shall we go?”

  Freddie shook his head, not looking at his companion, but keeping his eyes roving vigilantly over the crowd. “We’re in,” he said finally, pointing to the bar, where a couple was preparing to leave. They hurried to take over the stools.

  Hemmed in, as it were, on both sides and with his back to the people at the tables, Ichiro felt oddly secure. He lifted his glass and said: “Here’s to Kenji.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A friend who asked me to have a drink for him.”

  “Some guy in stir?”

  “No, a friend.”

  “Okay, to your friend, wherever the son of a bitch may be.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.” His voice was low and firm.

  “Jeezuz,” said Freddie startled, “I didn’t mean nothin’. I’m drinkin’ to him, ain’t I? If the guy was a real son of a bitch, I wouldn’t waste the price of a drink on him. If he’s a friend of yours, he’s okay with me, I’m tellin’ you. To him, your friend.” He raised his glass.

  At that moment it occurred to Ichiro that he and Ken had been talking in a very similar vein when they had sat at this very bar. It seemed appropriate. He smiled and raised his glass toward Freddie’s. The glasses never met, for suddenly, Freddie’s shoes banged against the bar as he
shot straight back off the stool.

  Ichiro turned and felt sick at his stomach. Bull, grinning hideously, held Freddie helpless by means of a beefy fist which gripped the victim’s coat collar twisted tightly against his back.

  Freddie struggled. “Let go, you stupid bastard.”

  “Make me, Jap-boy.” Bull looked to the crowd for appreciation.

  “Let him go,” said Ichiro a little nervously.

  “Make me,” said Bull with the meanness in his dark face. “This little shit’s been askin’ for it.”

  “Cut it out, Bull,” said a voice out of the crowd.

  Jim Eng was pushing his way to the disturbance. “All right, all right,” he kept repeating in an agitated squeak.

  Bull shoved Freddie around and pushed him toward the door. Someone grabbed at his arm, saying “Leave him alone.” He shrugged off the hand angrily. “Anybody wants to butt in, I’ll bust his balls for him.”

  The crowd opened up for Bull and Freddie. Ichiro, close behind, was momentarily restrained by a hand pulling at his sleeve. He turned, ready for the worst.

  “Stay out of it, fellow. It won’t do much good.” The one who spoke was a pleasant-looking youth with a black-gloved hand hanging with awkward stiffness at his side.

  “I haven’t got much choice.”

  “Let me buy you a drink. You’re not the brawling kind.”

  The door slammed, and Freddie’s loud protestations were cut off. Ichiro pushed his way out to the alley, where Bull was trying to propel his undersized opponent away from the illumination around the club’s entrance. He ran up to the pair and took hold of Bull’s arm.

  “Let him go,” he pleaded. “We won’t come back.”

  “I’m makin’ damn sure of that. You goddamn Japs think you’re pretty smart, huh? I wasn’t fightin’ my friggin’ war for shits like you.”

  Freddie, sensing his chance, drove an elbow sharply into his aggressor’s stomach. Bull grunted, momentarily relaxing his grip, and Freddie wrenched himself free and sprawled forward.

  Ichiro, seeing Bull lunge to recapture his prey, threw his shoulder against the solid mass of flesh and muscle. They rolled down the alley, clawing at each other and straining muscles to seek a victory in the senseless struggle. When they stopped rolling, Ichiro managed to gain the top position. Straddling the infuriated Bull, he shoved his face against the hate-filled countenance of the one who chose to speak for those who had fought and died.

  “Please,” he screamed, “please, don’t fight.”

  And Bull cursed and strained and heaved with the strength which could not be restrained much longer. Driven by fear, urged by a need to fight this thing which no amount of fighting would ever destroy, Ichiro raised his fist and drove it down. He saw the eyes flinch, the head trying to avert the blow, and then the nauseating gush of blood from nose and mouth.

  “I’ll kill you.” The words, spoken with icy fury, gurgled out through a mouthful of bloody sputum.

  And Ichiro looked into the angry eyes and saw that to quit now would mean to submit to that unrelenting fury. He raised his fist again, sick with what he was having to do. Before he could strike, however, he felt himself being pulled off.

  “That’s enough,” said someone.

  “Break it up,” said another.

  Bull was up on one elbow, his hate-filled eyes intent upon Ichiro. “Okay,” he grunted, a hint of a smile showing cruelly through the streaks of blood.

  “Bull, no more!” a voice said authoritatively.

  “Yeah? Who says?” He wiped a sleeve across his mouth and started to push himself off the ground, his eyes never for a moment wavering from Ichiro’s.

  Ichiro watched, not wanting to fight, and making no effort to run from the hands which held him only loosely. There was a sudden clatter of footsteps, and he saw Bull, not quite in a sitting position, raise both arms defensively as he fell backward.

  In that instant, Freddie plunged his heel into the stomach of the fallen opponent. Bull gasped with pain, swore mightily, and seemed almost to throw himself upright. Startled by the speedy recovery, Freddie stood stock still for a moment. Not until Bull had taken steps toward him did he make a frantic dash for the car.

  Bull, clutching at his mid-section with one arm, managed half a dozen steps before stumbling to his knees. He cursed continually, the hateful sounds painfully strained. Again, he rose to his feet and progressed erratically toward the car, which Freddie was furiously trying to start. Just as it roared to life, Bull pulled open the door. He reached in and grabbed at Freddie, who squirmed away and countered by swinging a wrench, which caught Bull on the side of the head.

  The car jumped forward, throwing Bull roughly aside. The motor coughed. There was a hectic jiggling of the gas pedal, and the car screeched through the alley. A pedestrian, about to cross the alleyway, jumped out of the way with comic haste.

  “Crazy damn fool,” said a voice behind Ichiro.

  Ichiro watched the car plunge out across the street. The next instant there was a muffled thud. The car which Freddie drove seemed to jump straight into the air and hang suspended for a deathly, clear second. Then it flipped over and slammed noisily against the wall of the building on the other side of the street. Not until then did he notice the smashed front end of another car jutting into view.

  Someone was running to the overturned car. There was an excited shout and another and, soon, people were eagerly crowding toward the wreck from all directions. He stood there alone for a long while, feeling utterly exhausted, knowing, somehow, that Freddie would have to fight no longer.

  Over by the club’s entrance, Bull was sitting with his back against a trash can; his head hung between his knees.

  He went up to him and said: “Bull.”

  “Get me a drink,” he moaned without stirring.

  “Sure.”

  “Damn.”

  “What?”

  “That son of a bitch. I hope it killed him.”

  The club door was open. Inside, the juke box was playing for one couple at a table and a solitary figure at the bar who was too drunk to move. He went behind the bar and grabbed a bottle.

  A Japanese youth, probably about Taro’s age, came running in. Flushed with excitement, he exclaimed to Ichiro: “What a mess! Didja see it? Poor guy musta been halfway out when the car smacked the building. Just about cut him in two. Ugh!” He hastened into the phone booth.

  Ichiro took a drink out of the bottle and made his way back out to where Bull was still sitting.

  “Here.”

  Bull moaned, but made no move to accept the bottle.

  He took hold of his hair, pulled him straight, and shoved the bottle against the bloody mouth. Bull drank, coughed, and drank some more. Then grabbing the bottle away from Ichiro, he let his head drop once more.

  “They say he’s dead,” said Ichiro gently.

  “So what?”

  “Nothing. Just that . . . that . . . I’m sorry.”

  Bull swung his face upward, his eyes wide with horror, the mouth twisted with rage yet trembling at the same time. The throaty roar was mixed with streaks of agonized screaming verging on the hysterical. “Yeah? Yeah? I ain’t. I ain’t sorry one friggin’ bit. That little bastard’s seen it comin’ a good long while. I ain’t sorry. You hear? I ain’t sorry. Damn right I ain’t. I hope he goes to hell. I hope he . . .”

  The words refused to come out any longer. Mouth agape, lips trembling, Bull managed only to move his jaws sporadically. Suddenly, he clamped them shut. His cheeks swelled to bursting, and the eyes, the frightened, lonely eyes, peered through a dull film of tears and begged for the solace that was not to be had.

  “Aggggggghh,” he screamed and, with the brute strength that could only smash, hurled the whisky bottle across the alley. Then he started to cry, not like a man in grief or a soldier in pain, but like a bab
y in loud, gasping, beseeching howls.

  A siren moaned, shrieked, then moaned to a stop with a screeching of brakes. A door slammed. Official voices yelled at the crowd. The murmur of the curious filtered through the alley.

  Ichiro put a hand on Bull’s shoulder, sharing the empty sorrow in the hulking body, feeling the terrible loneliness of the distressed wails, and saying nothing. He gave the shoulder a tender squeeze, patted the head once tenderly, and began to walk slowly down the alley away from the brightness of the club and the morbidity of the crowd. He wanted to think about Ken and Freddie and Mr. Carrick and the man who had bought the drinks for him and Emi, about the Negro who stood up for Gary, and about Bull, who was an infant crying in the darkness. A glimmer of hope—was that it? It was there, someplace. He couldn’t see it to put it into words, but the feeling was pretty strong.

  He walked along, thinking, searching, thinking and probing, and, in the darkness of the alley of the community that was a tiny bit of America, he chased that faint and elusive insinuation of promise as it continued to take shape in mind and in heart.

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  * http://ddr.densho.org/ddr-densho-72-4-master-ce4cc2edc9.

  * https://www.supremecourt.gov/opinions/17pdf/17-965_h315.pdf.