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File 13 |
| Wednesday, 28 February 2007 | |
It was a good night to hunt old ladies, those fat, aging pigeons slowed by arthritis, tired from loneliness and fear, shuffling home, struggling awkwardly with heavy groceries and a handbag. Heads pulled deep into bulky coats collared in fake raccoon and rabbit, like turtles hunkered deep in their shells, they walked, not wasting precious energy to look left or right. Edge fingered the razor in his pocket, and leaned tighter into the shadow of the alley across from the convenience store. Inside, the woman finished paying the cashier and, loaded with bags, fought to open the door against an angry gust. He waited until she started up the slight hill below the corner before skipping into quickstep, catching up, his sneakers whispering a quick rhythm on the concrete. "S'cuse me," he said, bumping her as if he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going. She was about to say something, but her annoyance softened when she saw his embarrassed, little boy smile.
"NO!" she yelled, as the razor flicked open, slicing the strap of her bag. But he’d already dashed through the traffic, disappeared into the shadows, and was swallowed deep in the distant maze. Three blocks away in an empty lot, he sat down on the bumper of a rusting car hulked in the weeds and trash, and began going through the bag. Twenty-three dollars and forty-two cents. That wasn't money worth spitting on to corner kings like Mash and Fino, or Gabby Goo, or Tinker, but quick or slow, they would die, and he wasn't about dying. He was about --- a rap rhythm jumped into his head and he put words to it, his body moving to the beat, while his hands fished through the bag. “...Cat quick moves... Them little con grooves.... Keep them all confused... You know a snatch takes skill... You gotta know the drill.... Can’t be a loser, a boozer, a down-and-out user ....” A sound made him look up. A man was walking a ratty, little dog along the sidewalk, stopping to let it circle through the weeds. The dog spotted him and trotted over. "Kilo! Kilo! Come here, and stop botherin' that boy!" The old man, limping slightly, walked toward him. "Kilo. That’s a bad ass name," Edge said, scratching the mutt behind his ears. "Yeah, and he don’t weigh much more’n that either,” the man said with a little laugh. The wide brim of his hat shadowed sad eyes, but Edge could see there were some hard lines there. "Come on, you stupid mutt, lemme get a leash on you." The man bent over, stiff and slow, reaching for the dog sniffing Edge’s ankle, grunting with the effort. His sudden move was a quick, hard flurry, pinning Edge’s arms, snapping the cuffs on, tearing the razor out of his pocket. "Hey man! What the... !” Duct tape, slapped against his mouth, wrapped twice around his head, cut him off. The man pulled him close, looked into his eyes. "I can make it a lot rougher," he whispered with a smile, the softness of his words taking Edge by surprise. Like delicate needles they had pierced the shield of his street crust, pricking a small, vulnerable place. And before he could fight it, something like death fluttered once in his stomach. The man dragged him to an old Caprice, pulling a burlap sack over his head, shoving him down on the back floor, cuffing his feet. They left the rutted streets and potholes of the city for the smooth hum of the highway out of town, the floor of the car filling his breath with the smell of oily rags and rusting iron. Something crawled up his leg, and he kicked wildly at it. "Settle down. We got a long ride, Edge.” There was a pause, and the man chuckled. “Edge. Good street name.” He paused. Edge filled the gap with muffled curses, before the man continued. “I been keeping my eye on you. But now, your ass is mine. Yes, indeed. You belong to me.” When the car stopped hours later the air smelled of rotting fish, old oysters, mud and damp weeds, and water slapped and rippled against a shore. The man took the cuffs off his feet and for the next hour led him stumbling, tripping through a maze of soggy marsh and swampy trails. "OK now, up a step here. Careful. Stay with me. It's a long way down." Wooden planking bent at every step. Like long-legged insects scratching to get at his face, weeds brushed against the burlap hood, making him flinch. When they stopped, a door was unlocked, and he was pushed inside. The man pulled the sack off, and he was in a one-room shack with a few feet of space around a bed, a chair a table and a sink. A bare bulb hung from a wire looped around the rafters. The plywood floor sagged slightly under his weight. Somewhere below he heard water rippling against the reeds. “Motherfucker...” Edge spat when the man ripped the tape from his face. The man’s hand lashed out, grabbing his throat in a tightening grip. Edge’s breath became a hoarse whisper; his chest heaving to get air and the room started to dim to a red haze. “Now listen, boy. This ain’t the streets. This is my home. You use that word on me again, we’ll have a lesson on manners. And believe me, you won’t like the homework. You understand me?” The red room became little more than gray fuzzy shapes, his chest straining for air. He nodded. “Good.” The man let him go, and the first gulping gasp he sucked in made him dizzy. He unlocked one handcuff, and attached it to a chain. "Make yourself at home." The man walked to the door." ****!" Edge said, a hoarse, defiant croak.. "And if you need to do that, you'll find toilet paper and a chamber pot under the bed. Chain's long enough for you to get around, but don't bother trying to pull it out of the wall. It's tied to an old oak stump on the outside. Sleep tight." He walked out, turning off the light. "Hey! HEY MAN! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!!" Edge threw his worst curses at the closing door, daring him to come back, but the footsteps faded away. The lapping water and the wind rushing through the reeds were the only sounds that answered. He pulled at the chain over and over again, each time trying a new grip, throwing his body against its anchor in every way he could, but after awhile he wore two stinging blisters in his hand. He kicked the bed until the frame clattered onto the floor, scooting the metal chamber pot out at him. Another kick sent the pot crashing and bouncing off the wall, and he turned it into an angry game, booting it around the room for the next hour, muttering curses until he started repeating himself. Finally exhausted, he kicked the pot one last time, and threw himself on the mattress, awake, alert, and ready to move. "OK boy, outta bed!" The man was standing in the room, the open door behind him revealing a gray morning. Edge threw a curse at him while silently cursing himself for having fallen asleep. The man smiled, pulled up a chair and sat down. "What the hell you want, man? Why you got me out here?" "There's going to be some rules," the man said ignoring him. "Before breakfast you'll have to clean out this cabin and mine, the one down by the end of the dock. And I mean clean." Edge snickered and spat on the floor. “Yo mamma is what I’m going to clean.” Edge readied himself for the blow, but the man just stared hard at him. “Oh, I could hit you boy. You’re waiting for it...” Edge sneered. “... I can see it. I could hit you good. But you know more about hitting than I do. That’s your game. Not mine. So I ain’t playing. Least not for now. Game I’m playing is breakfast. You want it? This cabin and mine. Clean.” He stood up. “Hey man, you heard of Lincoln? The slaves were freed, brother." A hard glint came into the man's eyes, and he leaned forward, taking Edge by surprise. "And one more thing, punk. Don't ever call me brother. I ain't your brother." "Yeah? Well, who are you?" "John Ryan. Your father" "Sheeeiiit! Don't give me that. He's dead." "You were born Jesse Ryan at Saint Lukes hospital at about 7:30 at night...” Jesse sniggered and shook his head. “Got his ass killed at Rahway...” Jesse interrupted. “What the hell else was your Momma going to tell you? She knew I wasn’t coming home.” “Awww man, this is not going down. Uh uh. I KNOW my old man died in some cellblock ***** fight. That’s a fact, jack. And I say good riddance to his ass.” John ignored him. “Fortunately, you were the only kid we had. However things went between me and your mother don’t matter. What mattered was that I was a punk-ass homey like you who was too busy being a stud in the hood and corner dealin’ to be a man, a husband and a father ...” “Jive-ass, mother. Where’d you put my violin? I’ll play something to go along with this soap opera bullshit. Yeah, you must’ve been some kind of bad-ass. You grab my ass off the street and expect me to believe you’re my father? " John ignored him. “Your mother wore a small ring with an amethyst on this finger. That was her birthstone. Gave it to her on our first anniversary. She hocked it for smack by the time you were about three. You got a half moon scar on your left knee from falling in some broken glass while playing in that old lot down the corner from the house..." “Shit. Anybody can find out all that. My father’s DEAD, you sorry-ass-kiddy-freak.” "Bet if you had your razor, you'd be wanting to use it on me right now, wouldn't you? " John asked. "Oh man, that’s no lie. I’d slice and dice you bad. Why'd you bring me here?" "Your life's down the tubes, Jesse. And so's mine. Cancer. Bad living. Big Bad John Ryan's paying for all them years. Got six months, give or take. I want to use them right. It's not that I owe you something..." "You don't owe me ****!" "...It's that I owe something to myself.” He stood up and reached for the chain around Jesse's wrist. “Anyway, you don't have much choice in the matter." "What you doin?" "You've got cleaning to do before breakfast, remember?" But as the chain dropped clear of his wrist Jesse charged, knocking him over the table, and was out the door pounding down the rickety dock toward the swampy shore. When the dock ended, he jumped down into the sea of reeds where he tried to keep his footing in the deep mud as he plunged ahead. He stopped and held his breath, listening. Only the whisper of a slight breeze through the reeds stirred the air. By the time the sun started to set he knew he was lost. A small patch of hard ground near the base of a scrubby tree kept him off the mud, but the unending sea of swamp flats stretched from horizon to horizon. Something slithered under a muddy log, and he jumped. But it was the mosquitoes and the black flies that turned annoyed curses into whimpers as ravaging clouds attacked every centimeter of his skin. He curled into a ball trying to protect himself, but it didn’t help. He thrashed around, stumbling in widening circles, desperate for any shelter above or below ground. Soon, his eyelids, face and arms were swollen and sore with red welts and scratches from his nails. At night the swamp came awake slowly with its sounds. A rustle in the weeds, the shriek of a hawk, the flutter of duck wings, the scuttle of crabs stalked each halting step. And when the gusting wind suddenly breathed through the dry marsh grass, he froze, coiled and ready for what might crawl up his leg, or leap out at him. He swore to kill this man slowly, torture him with a hundred thousand cuts, terrify him, hurt him so bad it would make him cry. Then, through the reeds, he saw the flicker of a lantern bobbing and dipping out beyond the shore. In minutes John poled a boat into the shallows, and Jesse, splashing and falling in a wild, lurching run through the mud, grabbed on to it and threw himself in the bottom. John, standing on the back seat, stared down at him. “Mothuh....” Jesse started, but John cut him off. “Uh, uh, uh. Watch it boy. I’ll throw you back.” Jesse turned his head away from him and began pounding the bottom of the boat with his fist. John smiled, and pushed the pole into the muck, forcing the boat into deeper water. At the dock he led Jesse to a shower behind the cabin and when he'd finished gave him some ointment that took away most of the sting. "Get some sleep, if you can,” he said. “Rags, bucket, broom, and the rest of the cleaning stuff is in the shed between the cabins. You finish using them properly tomorrow morning, I'll feed you some breakfast." When the smell of coffee woke Jesse the next morning he walked down to the end of the dock where there was another small cabin. The salt sweetness of frying bacon mixed with the coffee. Through the window, he could see John moving about inside and walked in. "Wrong, Jesse. Wrong. You will knock first. Try it again." "How 'bout some coffee man?" "When you finish cleaning." Jesse cursed and slammed the door shut. Nobody was going to jam the Edge like this. In the shed he found a piece of pipe and moved quietly back down the dock to wait outside the door to John's cabin. He could hear coffee being poured, fork against plate, knife on butter dish, then on the toast, and the noisy slurping from a mug. A gull screamed, diving past his head for something in the shallows, and he flinched. Cursing, he backed away from the door and waited. He’d done old ladies’ bags and stayed away from head-banging, but this mother deserved it. When the door opened, and John stepped out he had his back to him. Jesse could hear his heart loud in his ears. He started to move. “Don’t do it, boy,” John said, his back a waiting target before he turned slowly to face Jesse. “You’d rather break my head than work for your breakfast?” “I break your head, I have all the breakfast I want.” John shook his head slowly. “Jesse, comes a time everybody got to make some choices. You’re at one of those times. So am I. ” “Say what?” John looked at the pipe in his hand. “You chose to pick up that pipe and wait here for me. Now I got a choice. I could take that pipe away, and whup the livin’ crap out of you....” “Sheeeit.” Jesse grinned and tightened his grip on the pipe. “Oh yeah...” John continued. “I could do that. Or I could wait for you to make your choice, the wise choice, to drop that pipe. Then you could choose to get to work so’s you can get some breakfast.” Five seconds passed between them as John’s eyes held Jesse’s defiance calmly. Then Jesse turned and threw the pipe into the water with a disgusted shrug. But suddenly he wheeled back on John, a challenging finger pointed at his face. “I don’t want none of this father crap, you hear?” He yelled at him. “That mother’s long dead and I’m glad he’s gone.” “Yeah, I’ll bet you are. And you’re right.” “I knew it. All that bullshit you put out...” “It wasn’t bullshit, boy. You’re right about him being dead, though. The father you had is dead. Long gone. Buried him somewhere in Rahway, like you said. Never comin’ back. He was tougher’n you, though. Hard as a rock. Nothing touched him. Not even a son being born...” “I told you to cut that crap, man.” “...never even thought about that boy for many years. Just kept on being Mr. tough guy, getting harder and harder, while that boy ran the streets with guys like Tinker and Mash and Gabby Goo...” “Anybody can find out ‘bout my homeboys...” “But not everyone knows how you ran off on your sixth birthday. First grade? Remember?” “Don’t know nothin’ about that.” “Teacher always threw little birthday parties. Mrs. Kafeel, that was her. Only the kids used to call her what, Jesse?” Jesse’s look hardened. “Come on,” John went on. “What did they call her? You remember.” Jesse glared. John insisted, stepping closer to his face. “Come on Jesse, you remember. I know you do. WHAT WAS HER NAME?” “Cop-a-feel. Mrs. Cop-a-feel.” Jesse finally muttered. “That’s right. Mrs. Cop-a-feel. And Moms and Dads would show up at her little birthday parties. But your Mom didn’t. And I didn’t. So you ran.” He turned and walked a few steps to the edge of the dock, and went on. “Neighbor found you that night hiding in some dumpster, didn’t they?” He turned back to Jesse. “Didn’t they?” Jesse glared at him silently. “Yeah, he’s dead,” John said. “I killed him. He ain’t never comin’ back. I ain’t him.” “You’d better believe it, *******. My father’s dead, and that’s the way it is!” Something like an old memory flickered in his mind and quickly disappeared. “That’s the way it is. ” He spun away, stalking off, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Later, John found him slouched against a piling behind the shack. "So. You decided not to have breakfast this morning?" Jesse scowled, and continued staring at the marsh. "Fair enough. Understand that in order to get lunch I got something else for you to do." "I ain't hungry." "Suit yourself." He walked to the shed and pulled out some tools and a can of paint. He returned to the cabin, and began scraping off the peeling paint from the weather worn siding. A half-hour later Jesse sauntered down the dock, plunked himself on a coil of bleached rope, and leaned back against a piling. "Where is this place?" "Far enough away so you can't walk back to where I snatched you from. And next time you try, I'll let the mosquitoes, snakes and rats finish you for dinner. Now don't bother me with stupid questions, boy. I got work to do. When you're ready to earn your lunch you let me know." Jesse watched him work. There was a persistent rhythm to the way he scraped the paint and sanded the wood, a focused intensity that he grudgingly respected. John worked without saying a word, scraping and sanding until noon when he put down his tools, walked to his cabin, and came out with a sandwich, a cold beer and a jar of pickles. He sat down on a wooden bench in the shadow of the building and began to eat. "I don't believe you, man." "Oh? What's so hard to believe?" "That you gonna starve me." "Then you're making a very large mistake, Edge. A very big mistake, Mr. tough-ass Edge. Far as I'm concerned you were dead on the streets anyhow. Just a question of time. Rather see you starve here, than catch a bullet or OD. It's up to you... Brother." He burped and sucked at the rest of his beer. Jesse stared down at the water and cursed him. Without looking up he finally asked: "So what is it?" "What's what?" "What's the job?" He took Jesse to a small muddy clearing just off the dock where a larger boat than the one in the water rested upside down on some planking. "All these barnacles and junk on the bottom have to be scraped off. Need it clean as a baby's ass before it can get painted. Finish half the hull by dinner and you can have fried chicken, corn bread, and greens. And I mean clean as a baby's ass." He handed him a metal scraper and walked away. The foul crust of shells and seaweed fought the scraper inch by inch. On his first attempt he slipped, cutting his knuckles on the shells. Every fifteen minutes he stopped to gain better leverage, ease his muscles, catch his breath, and let fly with another string of curses. “That’s a good one, Jesse” John interrupted once. “Try again. I know you can come up with better stuff than that.” Jesse fell silent, refusing to play his game. It was just after sunset when John walked to the clearing. "Not bad," he said. "But not good enough." "Say what? Aww man, cut me a break...." John shook his head. "You never cut those old ladies a break when you went for their pocketbooks. You only finished half of what you were supposed to do. Spent more time cursing than working. If you want, I'll give you a lantern and you can keep going till it's done. I'll save dinner for you till midnight." "You're kidding?" John ignored him, turned, and walked back up on the dock. Something snapped inside Jesse. He threw the scraper on the ground, jumped over the boat's hull, hit the dock at full speed and came at John with a growl that turned into a scream of hate. John sidestepped his upraised fist and pushed him off the dock. He hit the water in a flailing, sputtering panic. "Can't swim! Can't swim! Help me!" "Then go ahead and drown!" John yelled back at him. "But if you live and you're hungry enough, the lantern will be outside the cabin." He walked away just as Jesse realized the water only came up to his chest. Ten minutes after midnight Jesse waited for John to answer his knock on the door. When it opened, John asked: "You done?" Jesse nodded. "OK. Dinner's on the table." Jesse hesitated. “What’s the matter boy? Still ain’t hungry?” John asked. "Ain't you going to check it out?" he asked, looking toward the boat. “You want me to?” Jesse nodded grudgingly. In the clearing, John ran his hand over the smooth wood. "Pretty good," John conceded. "Smoother'n any baby's ass you ever seen, man." "Yeah," John smiled. "Yes, indeed." He walked toward the dock, turning back to Jesse. "OK, you earned dinner. But, you'll have to earn breakfast," "Man, you are a mothuh...” John stopped him with a raised hand. “You son of a *****,” Jesse finished. "Yes. Yes, I am " There was a stumbling rhythm to the next three weeks as Jesse reluctantly paid for his meals. He cursed and mumbled, cleaned, scraped, painted, swept and mopped, and at night, despite the swamp noises, he fell exhausted on the hard bed in his spotless cabin. One late afternoon, they took the boat into a cove looking for a good crabbing spot. “How about if I suppose something,” Jesse said while rowing. John turned to look at him, then turned back to stare at the shore and the horizon, now turning pink. “Suppose what?” “Just suppose now... like you said...you’re my father, you know...” “I ain’t Jesse. He’s dead. That’s what you said.” “Just suppose only...I mean if you were...why’d you come back? Why’d you do this?” “Well, just supposin’ now... If I were, like you said... Then maybe it’s because... it’s a hobby," he said with a broad smile. "And I got nothing better than to aggravate myself with you." "You really dyin’?” John nodded. “I don’t think about it too much.” “Man, it’s your life! How can you say that?” “I had my shot. This is what’s left. Now, I’m just trying to make up for all the bad I laid down. Least I can do after wasting all that time.” “But you...” Jesse started to protest. John stopped him. “That’s it, boy. There’s nothing more to say about it. I deal with it the best way I can. Just like you got to do for yourself. Now, hand me some of them fish pieces and hold up. This looks like a decent spot.” They baited four traps and threw them over, the buoys bobbing in the wake as John switched with Jesse at the oars. In the distance, against the swamp shore, Jesse could see the dock and the cabins. They’d been painted fresh. A new roof was on the shed. The loose and rotting boards on the dock had been replaced. In the muddy clearing, the boat he’d scraped clean, displayed the first bright red coat he’d painted two days ago. “Boat’s ready for a second coat,” he said. John’s rhythm at the oars broke for a moment as his attention swung full on the boy. Then, with a quick nod and a small smile, he resumed pulling them closer to shore. Two days later Jesse had the second coat on the boat, and between the two of them, they’d lugged it off the sawhorses, and hefted it into the shallows where it bobbed like a brash red invitation in the sunlight dancing off the slate waters. They packed a lunch and went fishing for flounder the next morning. At dusk John pulled in the lines and rowed to a bare spot on one of the shores. The bow bumped against the sand, where Jesse could see a trail through the grass. John reached into his pocket and handed him a small roll of bills. "What's this? What's going on?" Jesse asked. "You're out of here. Just follow that trail. It'll eventually take you back to the main road. You can pick up a bus there. Get you to the city." "But..." "No 'buts'. I don't have much time left. I've done what I wanted to do. Now you're on your own. Get out of here." Jesse hesitated. "It's over, boy." Jesse flung the money into the bottom of the boat. "That's crap, man! You just grab me off the street, tell me you're my father, haul my ass back here and..." "And what?" "And play with me. You just played with me didn’t you? Like a cat with a mouse!" "This was no game, boy.” “Hell it wasn’t.” “I don’t have time, son. This thing’s starting to eat away inside me. I can feel it, and it isn’t going to be good.” “So what am I supposed to do? Just hello, goodbye, I ‘m your father, now get your ass back to the hood? ****.” “That’s a choice,” John said. “Not the right one. But I think you’ll know what you got to do. Listen, boy, I’m not going to die quick like one of your homeys capped on a street corner. It’ll be messy and hard, and I won’t be putting that on anybody.” Jesse stared at his feet and shook his head. “Jesse, that's the real world out there. You got to live in it, not here in this swamp." Jesse jumped up, grabbed an oar, pushed the boat clear of the sand and began rowing back toward the dock. John stayed silent and tried to ignore the look on Jesse’s face. After dinner that night they sat on the dock to watch the sunset and drink coffee but unlike other nights when they joked and chided each other, tonight they said hardly anything. "You son of a *****," Jesse finally said. "You’re right about that. You still angry enough to kill?" Jesse looked at him, then turned away. "I’m angry, but not that angry. I don't know why." "Those may be the best words you ever said." "What the hell you talkin' about?" "I don't know why, you said." "So?" "Not knowing why about things is the kind of question you can carry around with you the rest of your life. It’ll help you look for answers" " ****. Don't need no damn questions and no damn answers." "Yeah, you do." "Damn! I wish I'd never seen you." "I know." John went to his cabin and Jesse sat in the dark. He thought about going back to the city. He should’ve been thinking about them fat little pigeons hobbling along at night in the cold with their fat little handbags. He tossed a piece of wood into the calm water, and laughed at himself. **** man, he thought, you lost it. Lost what? The edge. That’s what. You ain’t no homeboy no more. You let this **** get to you. Now you’re just another nigger from the hood, that’s all. But even as the thought came to him, he knew he wouldn’t be just another of anything. Somewhere out here he’d lost something, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He’d also found something, and didn’t know what that was, either. John had messed him up, and now he was both scared and glad in a strange way. He stood and walked to his cabin, laughing again as a familiar rap and rhythm came into his head. “...Can’t be a loser, a boozer, a down-and-out user....” That night his mind jumped from one crazy idea and picture to the next, driving him into a troubled sleep. Later, a change in the sounds of the night brought him awake. Had he heard footsteps on the dock? Somebody moving through the reeds? He opened the door slowly and looked out. He didn't see anything, but for a moment he wondered if he shouldn't wake up John. Deciding it must have been his imagination, he returned to bed. The Edge was on edge, he thought with a smile, remembering how much he'd once hated this place. He'd have to tell John about that in the morning. An hour later, on a Greyhound Bus humming down the interstate that sliced through the swamplands, the man Jesse knew as John stared at the dark shapes of the horizon gliding past. In the distance, the occasional porch light pierced the night, each a forlorn star, hopeful, persistent, bringing to him a great sadness. He pulled his battered briefcase from under the seat, opened it, and withdrew a thick file. At the top, on the tag, were Jesse’s name and the number 13. He began making some concluding notes on the last page. Jesse would be fine. Thirteen boys. Three more. 16 boys for the sixteen years he should’ve been with his son instead of in Attica for dealing while his boy ran with the hood, dying on the street two days before he got out. Three more for whom he would be a father they’d never known, just long enough to touch a pressure point or two. From his wallet he took out a tattered school picture of a young boy with a bright, impish smile. It ain’t much son, he thought. Just a little payback. Only way I can look at myself each morning. He put the picture away, finished with Jesse’s file, slipped it back into the briefcase, pulled out File 14 and began to read. Jameel Washington... Age 15...Detroit .... Street name, Rash.....Father: Louis... Killed by rival gang three days after Jameel was born.... Copyright 2007 david namerow {moscomment} |
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