Romeo's Rules

by James Scott Bell

  But when you’re lying on your back on a cot in a shelter, looking at the water damage on the ceiling, you begin to wonder.

  What I was wondering about right then was if I could go back in time, like in some Stephen King novel, and change everything. Would I do it? What if I could have prevented what happened on that dark Tuesday that changed my life forever, back when I was eighteen and still thinking life was going to work out?

  What if I had gone to talk to my father one hour earlier?

  What if, what if, what if …

  “Hey, new guy.”

  There was a skinny form standing at my now open door. He was about thirty, brown hair in a bowl cut, something you’d see on a four-year-old boy or a medieval friar. His hands shook. He wore a faded red T-shirt with yellow USC Trojans on it. His eyes were dull brown and he was working hard to keep from blinking too much. I made him for a hype with the DTs.

  “Got to talk to you. Can I talk to you?” He had a high, rusty-pipes voice.

  “Maybe another time,” I said.

  He closed the door behind him, giving one glance out to the hallway as if he was afraid someone was watching him. He sat down in the one chair in the room. He had a smell about him. A cross between hard-boiled eggs and Williams Lectric Shave.

  “You look like a guy can handle himself,” my visitor said.

  “I just want to be left alone.”

  “You need money?”

  “Not interested.”

  “Everybody’s interested in money.”

  “Right now I’m interested in sleep.”

  “I want to give you some money.”

  “What for?”

  “Can I trust you?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I’m a stranger. You shouldn’t put your trust in strangers. Now get out of my—”

  “Just help me,” the hype said. “Listen, my name is Lyle. Lyle Thebes. Pleased to meet you.”

  He extended his hand. I ignored it.

  “I can get things for you,” Lyle Thebes said.

  I said nothing.

  “Papers. Anything you need forged. ID. Driver’s license. Tickets to Dodger Stadium, you name it.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Well, if you don’t want money or anything else, just do it because it’s the right thing to do!”

  Now here was a man, a young man, with the shakes, in a homeless shelter, making a moral argument. That interested me.

  I said, “What is the right thing?”

  Lyle Thebes slid his chair a little closer to the cot, which put him practically on top of me. He whispered, “There’s a guy in here who takes my money. I make a little on the street and a little washing dishes. He makes me pay him. He says if I don’t pay him, or if I tell anybody, he’s going to put my eye out.”

  “Why don’t you just tell whoever runs this place?”

  “I told you, if I do, he’s going to hurt me.”

  “They have rules here.”

  “You don’t even know,” he said. “You just got here. This place is worse than the joint.”

  “How long you plan to stay here?” I said.

  “I don’t know when I can get out. I’m here on a sixty.”

  “Diversion program?”

  “Right. Court ordered. Been here a week. Guy started shaking me down a couple days ago.”

  “You said you were going to give me some money,” I said.

  “You’ll help me?”

  “Didn’t say that. But how do you have any money to give for protection?”

  “I’ll give you what I was giving him.”

  I shook my head. “Then you’re no better off. You can just pay this guy until one or the other of you leaves.”

  “But that just isn’t right!”

  No, it wasn’t. But life is filled with things that aren’t right. And part of the art of living is choosing which things to try to make right, or not. I had my own purpose here. It was to stay unseen until I could figure out how to get at Mark David Mayne. I had a lot of correcting of the books to do. The problems of one homeless guy getting a few bucks taken from him wasn’t high on my list of priorities.

  “I can’t help you,” I said.

  Lyle Thebes stood up. “You really stink.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  “No you’re not.”

  He was right. I wasn’t sorry about anything except not getting any sleep. I told the guy to leave and not come back.

  But when I tried to sleep, I couldn’t. Instead I kept thinking about life being a prison, and a conversation I had with Ira once.

  “No man is an island,” Ira said.

  “Every man is an island,” I said.

  “The bell tolls for thee.”

  “The bell just keeps you up at night.”

  “Now this is a clue,” Ira said. “How did you get to be such a cynic?”

  “A realist.”

  “No, not at all. I don’t think you truly have reality in your grasp yet. Something is holding you back. Isn’t it about time you told me what that was?”

  “It’s not that time.”

  “There are things you need to unload, like a dump truck with too much manure. Fertilize, Romeo.”

  “You are almost as smart as I am, Ira.”

  “Wiser, though. Plus, you trust me.”

  “I trust no one. Not completely.”

  “This is not the way to live.”

  “You want to talk life? I’ll tell you what it is. We are all in prison, and life is our prison escape movie. Did you ever see The Great Escape?”

  “Who has never seen The Great Escape? You can’t be a true American without having seen The Great Escape.”

  “That’s life,” I said.

  “Explain,” Ira said.

  “We’re born into prison. Razor wire is put up around you, what’s drummed into you, what’s in your genes, over which you have no say. You didn’t ask to be born or into what circumstance. Now you have to escape. You want to be Charles Bronson or James Coburn. But people try to be cool, like McQueen, and end up under the wire on a motorcycle.”

  “Profound.”

  “Or you try to do some good, like James Garner, and you end up in a crashed plane. Or maybe you’re the brains of the operation, like Richard Attenborough, and you get machine gunned to death.”

  “These are not the only options.”

  “They are. The only ones. Escape, killed, or back in the cooler with a baseball. Most people never escape.”

  “And which one are you, Romeo?”

  IN THE MORNING I was told to report to the front office. In a little cubicle was a tiny thing in oversized glasses, looking like she was just out of middle school.

  “My name is Allie Bradbury,” she said. Her voice shook slightly when she said it. She had straight, auburn hair. She wore a tasteful but nondescript blouse of sky-blue and black slacks. An attempt at business casual without looking too much like business or casual. Her desk had a laptop and a phone, a couple of books, and picture of a cat in a red frame. She opened the laptop and asked me to sit.

  “I need to ask you some questions,” she said. “Is that all right?”

  “Allie, I don’t know if I’m in the right state to answer a lot of questions,” I said.

  “Are you physically in any pain?”

  “Can we just skip this?”

  “It’s one of the conditions for staying with us,” she said.

  “My own condition being what it is, I will answer.”

  She looked relieved, looked at her laptop screen and said, “What is your name?”

  “Phil.”

  “Is that short for Phillip?”

  “No, just Phil. My mother had ADD.”

  Allie looked at me.

  “Kidding,” I said. “Just put me down as one of those guys who has one name. Like Cher. I’m Phil.”

  Under her big glasses, Allie blinked a couple of times. Hard blinks, like when you’re confused or it’s raining on
your face.

  I said, “I’m sorry, Allie. I don’t want to make this any more difficult on you than it needs to be. Just ask me the minimum amount of questions that you need to in order for me to stay here. I’m not going to make any trouble for anybody. I’m here just to get on my feet.”

  She nodded. She hadn’t smiled yet. I didn’t think she was the smiling type. “Date of birth and Social Security number?”

  “I don’t have a Social Security number.”

  “What?”

  “I opted out of Social Security.”

  “Opted out?”

  “I don’t like Ponzi schemes. Don’t worry, I’m not a criminal. I’m not on the run.” Although that was partly a lie, I didn’t want to upset her or the apple cart I was attempting to build.

  She turned to her computer screen and appeared to be searching for a question to ask. “Can you describe any job skills?”

  “I used to fight a little.”

  She looked at me like I’d fired a gun at the ceiling.

  I said, “I mean professionally. I’d make a good bouncer. Do you know of any openings?”

  “Um …”

  “It’s okay. Any other questions?”

  “I have some medical questions,” she said.

  “I’ll make it short,” I said. “No HIV, no AIDS, no STDs, no mental. I have my own teeth. I’m not taking medication. I haven’t been hospitalized in the last ten years.”

  She was trying to keep up on the keyboard.

  “I don’t plan to be here that long,” I said. “I’m going to try to get some dough and rent a room. Are we done?”

  “Um, not really.”

  “How about one more question? I’ll let you choose.”

  “There are more than that.”

  “In your world, maybe. Not in mine.”

  That seemed to freeze her for a long moment. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard but didn’t move up and down. They trembled.

  Nice going, Romeo.

  “Allie?”

  She looked at me.

  “Are you paid staff or an intern?” I asked.

  “Um, intern.”

  “Where are you going to school?”

  Allie absently ran her left index finger over the cover on one of the books. “Azusa Pacific.”

  “Azusa. Everything from A to Z in the USA.”

  She said nothing.

  “That’s how they named the town,” I said.

  She cocked her head the way an interested but confused inquirer assess a new fact. I cocked my own so I could read the title of the book she was touching. It was Human Behavior and the Social Environment: Individuals and Families.

  “Quality education is a good thing,” I said.

  “What? Oh.” She pulled her hand back self-consciously.

  “I want you to know something. I think you’re doing noble work. You have a heart to help people. I’m sorry I made this difficult for you. You go ahead and ask me all the questions you want.”

  “Really?” Her relief was palpable.

  “Yes,” I said. “Really.

  So she did. We worked our way through about fifteen more questions. When it was over, Allie said, “Thank you.” She really meant it.

  “No,” I said. “Thank you. It’s people like you who keep this world livable. Carry on, Allie Bradbury. Your good deeds are being recorded somewhere.”

  That, at least, was my hope.

  I WENT BACK to my shoe box to figure out what to do next. I thought about panhandling for bus fare and getting to Ira’s to talk to him. But then I thought he was probably being watched. Some people would want to know if I would show up there.

  His temple. He went to Temple Beth Shalom.

  I went back downstairs and knocked on the door of the office. A woman came to the door and said through a speaker, “Yes?”

  “I need to look up a phone number,” I said.

  The woman frowned. She was middle aged with hard, humorless eyes. I wished she was Allie.

  “Phone number for what?” the woman said.

  I gave her the name of Ira’s temple. She told me to wait.

  I leaned against the door and looked back into the recreation area. A couple of old guys, one white and one black, were playing chess. Now why can’t we solve world problems this way? Best chess players from each country. But then I realized that would mean Russia and India would rule the world.

  The woman opened the door, handed me a piece of paper. I thanked her and asked if I could use a phone. She said there was a pay phone in the corridor. I told her I didn’t have any money. She said she couldn’t let me use the office phone, it was policy. I asked if she could bend the policy. She said no, she could not break the policy. I said I only wanted it bent. She closed the door.

  I went to the guys in the rec room, the chess players. I stood at the side and looked at the board for a minute. The white guy was concentrating hard. I said, “Gents, may I borrow some quarters, if I promise to pay you back?”

  “Shh,” the white guy said, keeping his eyes on the board.

  The black guy said, “Need quarters?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What for?”

  “Phone call.”

  “Quiet,” white guy said.

  “I got ’im,” black guy said, winking at me.

  “In your dreams,” white guy said.

  “Up a rook and a bishop,” the black guy said.

  “Do you no good.”

  “Play on, little man.”

  I said, “If one of you will advance me your silver, I’ll show you mate in five.”

  “For who?” black guy said.

  “For him,” I said, pointing to the white guy.

  “No way!” the black guy said.

  “Tell you what,” I said, “if I’m wrong, I owe you a buck.”

  “You’re on!”

  “Hey,” white guy said, “I’m playing here.”

  “Let the man show you.”

  “I’ll give you a buck, too,” I said.

  The white guy threw up his hands. “Guaranteed five?”

  “Or four if he makes the wrong move,” I said.

  “I’m not going make any wrong move,” black guy said.

  “Okay,” I said. “E1–E4.”

  White guy frowned, then moved his Queen’s pawn one square. Black guy looked at the move, thought about it, moved his knight. He slapped it on the square to communicate his confidence.

  I moved the white guy’s rook.

  Black guy didn’t move so fast. He was starting to see.

  White guy broke out in a big smile.

  It took one more move until the black guy saw I had him.

  “Man, where’d you learn to play like that?” he said.

  “Misspent youth,” I said. “Can I have my change now?”

  “You got ’em.” Black guy fished out some silver. Three quarters and two dimes.

  I finally made it to the pay phone. I clinked in two quarters and waited and dialed the number of the temple. A recording told me I needed a quad more. I gave it to the phone company.

  After a moment, the temple phone rang. A pleasant-voiced woman answered.

  “I’m trying to get in touch with Ira Rosen, I’m staying with him and I don’t have his number.”

  Pause.

  “My name’s Mike Romeo. He may have mentioned me.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “I’m staying with him at his place on Los Feliz, and I need to get hold of him right away.”

  “Perhaps I can get him a message.”

  “It’s really more important than that, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can give you his personal phone number.”

  “Then would you do me a great favor and call him now? Call him right now and tell him Mike Romeo needs to talk to him and give him the number I’m going to give you. Will you write this down?”

  “I suppose that will be all right.”

  “It w
ill be.” I gave her the number. “And please call right away.”

  “I’ll try.”

  I hung up and leaned against the wall.

  “Move away from the phone.”

  It was a very large man—wide, beefy, bearded

  I said, “Would you mind waiting a few minutes? I’m expecting a call.”

  To describe his face at that point would be to summarize all the classic paintings of insane rage that have come down to us throughout the history of art, from Caravaggio’s Medusa to Bellows’s depiction of Firpo knocking Dempsey out of the ring.

  I kept a jocular tone in my voice. “I’m only asking for a few minutes, my good fellow. Allow me to buy you some popcorn later on before the evening movie.” According to the daily handout, they were going to screen Singin’ in the Rain later that night.

  “Back off!” the big fellow said.

  “Not the answer I was looking for.”

  “You don’t move, I’m going to put your eye out.”

  “Oh, you’re the guy. That’s not a very hospitable spirit. As long as we are all living in this community, why don’t we try to give a little here and there, and let everybody keep their own eyes?”

  He made a jabbing instrument out of his index finger and poked my chest. He had a very strong finger.

  “Listen, old bean, no violence,” I said. “Surely there must be an exchange we can make that is mutually beneficial.”

  “I don’t like the way you talk!”

  “You know, you have a point. I can sometimes wax loquacious, even garrulous. Let’s discuss that over a hot rum punch, huh? But later.”

  The man mountain put up two ham hands and shoved me back. Then he picked up the phone.

  He was about to put in a quarter. I shot out my hand and took the quarter from between his thumb and index finger.

  “I’ll flip you for it,” I said.

  The insane face came back. He growled. He lunged. I stepped left, grabbed his shirt, pulled him over my right leg. He did a one-eighty and landed on his back.

  “Heads,” I said. “I win.”

  I hung up the phone.

  I noticed a few other inmates had gathered around to watch. As Ham Hands was getting to his feet, Lyle Thebes, the hype who’d come to my room the night before, started saying, “Kill him! Kill him!”

  “Okay, everybody,” I said. “Nothing to see here.”

  Ham Hands squealed. And charged me. I gave him the reverse of the same move and he went butt over belly again. I slammed him a bit harder on the descent, hoping he’d stay down.