by Chris Stuck
He sighed again. “How are you my son?”
Both questions hung in the air. He’d been doing this to me since I was ten, leaving me places or with strangers, saying he’d be right back, and then not showing up for hours. Once, he tried to leave me at his girlfriend’s house when I was eleven. As he left, I beaned him in the face with a rock, splitting both his lips. He put me right on a plane back to Boston and didn’t talk to me for a year.
I gripped the PPK. I hadn’t held a gun in a few years, but I raised it and homed in on his tires as he pulled away. The PPK felt heavy, its trigger tight. It took a bit of finger power to pull it, but when it finally gave, the gun released a puny click.
Pop stopped the car and looked back at me with a smirk. “I knew you were gonna do that.”
I tried to rack the slide to chamber a round, but I couldn’t get it.
“You really are out of practice, aren’t you?” After another moment, he pointed at the side of the gun. “It won’t fire with the safety on, genius.”
I unlocked it, and he sped off. I chased him into the street just to scare him, but he was already in third gear, heading down Sixth. I lowered the gun and reached into my pocket for my antacids. There weren’t any left.
* * *
Most nights, after my probation was up, I hid in my room with a towel under the door, smoking a bud or two I’d pinched from my mother’s stash. I’d been forced to transfer to community college and was still just skating by. Somehow, I found myself back in my mother’s good graces. My instructors were bigots, she said. They’d heard about my troubles and were punishing me for it. I’d look at the newspaper clippings I kept from the trial, studying that boy’s name, Amarpreet, and his face, round and doughy, dark around the eyes. When I couldn’t look at him anymore, I’d sneak out of our Back Bay condo and ride the T around the city. Some nights, I’d ride until they kicked me off. Other nights, I’d get off in Roxbury or Mattapan and wander the pitch-black streets, hoping I’d get shot or robbed or beaten within an inch of my life. It only seemed fair.
The night everything happened, my roommates and I were making one last drug run for the night. We were trying to cop some coke from some Black guys in the projects. As soon as they saw the money, they promptly robbed us, laughing as they pointed a gun in the car. I thought it was a sign we should go home, but my roommates wanted to hit a couple more spots. Every dealer was dry so we drove around, pissed off and drunk, passing around another bottle. One of the twins, Tyler or Tucker, said they felt like beating the shit out of someone. I thought it was just talk.
We’d never gone looking for fights. We weren’t even that tough, but because we had numbers, the feeling gained momentum. Pretty soon, they were assessing people we drove by, looking for someone alone. I said, “Hold on, hold on,” but they told me not to be a pussy. When I saw Amarpreet, I knew they were going to pick him, even before Tucker said, “Towelhead, twelve o’clock.” With a screech, we parked. They jumped out of the car like a SWAT team, stopping the boy under a streetlight. When he looked up, he actually smiled. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, a chubby kid with pointy breasts pushing at the front of a Sox jersey, a tan turban around his head.
From the back seat I thought, Okay, a couple punches, a bloody nose, fine. They’ll get it out of their systems. The kid could go home to his dorm room and cry himself to sleep. But after some pushing and shoving it was clear they weren’t going easy on him. Tucker knocked him down with a brutal right. Amarpreet tried to get up and run, but Tyler promptly dropped him with an identical right. Chase grabbed him by the neck and unraveled the turban from his head like a bandage. They stood him up, the boy crying now, whimpering. They pushed him against a wall. His hair cascaded over his face, black and shiny and stretching to his knees. It freaked them out enough to knock him down again and start kicking.
I didn’t get out of the car. I just watched, the whole time wondering who that kid was. Someone’s good son, an only child, a late arrival? Maybe his parents, older and gentler, were tirelessly devoted to him, blessed to be given a child at all. Maybe they kissed him on the cheek every morning at breakfast, a small ritual they performed all the way up to the morning he left for a far-off school. Even now, he would remember to call them before bed, knowing the time difference would make it morning back home. They’d tell him not to call, to save his money, to buy himself something special, but he still called every night. Not just for them but for him. So he would feel like nothing had changed. He wasn’t a lonely boy in a foreign country. He was there, next to them, at home, like a family. Because that was how most families worked.
When Chase said, “Junie, don’t you want a piece of this little fucker?” I thought of all that, jealous of that poor kid. I almost got out of the car. A part of me wanted to hurt him, but I decided to stay put. Chase punched him and then looked back at me, laughing. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I’m good.”
* * *
It was well past one o’clock in the morning, and I hadn’t heard anything from Pop. I called my mother, but the line just rang, so I wandered out to the parking lot and stood there, looking around. The rioting had quieted down for the night. Alarms were still going off, but I couldn’t hear the crowds on Wilshire anymore, only an occasional whoop or shout. West Sixth was still empty, except for the Koreans who owned the convenience store across the street. Though there was no danger in sight, a younger Korean man barricaded the store by stacking metal shopping carts in front of the store’s glass windows while an older man held a shotgun and patrolled the street. I watched them for a few minutes and realized they were father and son. Every now and then, the father would walk over and pat the son on the back, saying something encouraging in Korean. I looked over my shoulder, and there was Pop’s billboard on the dealership’s roof, his cartoon face smiling down at me. I aimed the gun at him, imagined a clean bullet hole in his head, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.
I went inside the office and left the PPK on one of the desks. I rummaged through the lockbox till I found the keys for the sturdiest vehicle on the lot, a Chevy Suburban. Outside, I unlocked the gates and pulled the monster out into the street.
I left down Sixth and turned onto Wilshire, passing buildings that had once stood three stories and now were charred rubble. Outside the buildings that still raged, people stood mesmerized by each fire. One man in particular tried to quench twenty-foot flames with a garden hose. Down alleys, I saw guys rocking cars that were lying on their sides. But I couldn’t tell if the guys were trying to put them back on their wheels or flip them onto their roofs. Every block was like that. Glass glittered the pavement, the specks glinting under the lights like a million tiny diamonds.
Traffic lights still worked. Abandoned cars still idled at intersections. I drove aimlessly, hoping I’d find someone to rescue, but no one needed my help. I navigated the streets, venturing deep into Compton and Watts, driving past shadowy figures gathered on porches and in yards. Occasionally, as I’d pass, a rock would hit the side of the truck, and I’d hear them yelling for me to leave. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I turned down dark streets, one after another. I honked the horn to let people know I was there.
* * *
It wasn’t until I went down a residential street near Slauson that I saw them: four Black guys standing in the street next to an eighties Impala. They were leaning against the car, talking as if on their lunch break. Above them, a streetlight shone down in such a way that they looked like actors on a stage. I killed the Suburban’s lights and rolled to a stop a half block away. I put the truck in park across the street from them and ended up sitting there for a few minutes before they noticed me. They wore loose khakis, no shirts, and were passing around a couple forties of Olde English.
When I rolled down my window, one of them pointed me out to the others, and the tallest of the four stared at me, wary. He kept looking around and then squinting at me as if he thought I’d pull a drive-by. Finally, he walked over.
An armor of muscles covered his body. His Jheri curl glimmered in the light. He came up near my window and looked at me for a minute before shouting, “What you doing?”
I didn’t know, but I knew I couldn’t say that. “Just driving around.”
This didn’t please him. “The fuck for? You crazy?” Even from five feet away, I could smell the liquor on his breath. He walked closer. “I asked you a question, white boy.”
I must have smirked, because he was suddenly ready to kill me.
“I’m funny to you?” He looked back at his friends, who’d lost all interest in us.
“You called me ‘white boy.’”
“Yeah, I know. That’s because you’re white.” He checked his friends again, but they were shooting dice on the hood of the car, which upset him. His attitude seemed to be for their benefit. He yelled, “I know you ain’t trying to cop some dope.”
I shook my head.
“What you want, then?”
I wanted to tell him to just hit me, to beat me into a coma, but I couldn’t get the words out.
He spat on the truck and then started back to his friends. That’s when I got out. I closed the door as hard as I could. He turned around, fists up. I needed to make it worth his while, so I took a clumsy swing from too far away. He sidestepped it and threw a punch that hit me on the chin. I saw a flash of white and then found myself on the ground.
“That all you came here for?” He seemed honestly disappointed.
Blood trickled from my mouth.
He kicked me in the side, and now I was lying face up. “You want some more?” He looked back at his friends, but they just shook their heads as though this kind of thing happened all the time. “You’re crazy.” He glanced at his friends. “He’s crazy. Look at him.” He started to walk off, but I grabbed his ankle.
“C’mon.”
He pulled his leg away and looked at me again, puzzled. He crouched down and stuck his face closer to mine. With his hot, beery breath on my skin, it felt as though we were sharing a moment. We could both see all the dumb things we’d ever done, all the dumb things we were ever going to do.
“I’m right here,” I said.
He blinked and swallowed, and I realized just how young he was. He could’ve been my little brother. He could’ve been my little cousin. And in my mind, I said, You understand, don’t you?
His hard look softened as he scanned my face. He seemed to hear me.
Sorry. I’m wrong to make you do this. I just need your help. I looked into his dark eyes and thought I could hear his voice now, gentler this time.
It’s okay, white boy. I can help. But just this once.
I’m really not a bad guy.
Neither am I.
I just did some fucked-up shit.
Hey, I’ve been there. He looked at his friends and then back at me. You sure about this, though? You know it won’t feel good, right?
I know.
Those boys over there will probably join in.
The more the merrier.
All right. He shrugged and took a step back. As long as you’re sure.
Positive. I looked up at him. Thanks, by the way.
He chuckled. Don’t thank me yet. And don’t go thinking this is a fair trade for what you did.
I said I wouldn’t.
Our eyes locked. Our hearts beat as one. Somehow, through it all, we even managed to smile.
Ready whenever you are.
Good. He cocked his fist. You better be.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my editor, Tracy Sherrod, and my agent, Dan Mandel, for believing in and shaping this book. To Amistad, HarperCollins, and Sanford J. Greenburger Associates. To my love, Lisa, especially. To my parents, Doris and Jerry; my brothers, Kerry, Michael, and Darren; and my nephew, Victor. To my best bro forever, Gabriel Louis. To all my other homies, readers, teachers, and mentors: Mat Johnson, Victor Lavalle, Tayari Jones, Matthew Klam, Elizabeth McCracken, Richard Bausch, Alan Cheuse (RIP), Stephen Goodwin, Susan Shreve, William Miller, Keith Clark, Barbara Pierce, Bernie Cabral, Roger Skillings (RIP), Lamar Peterson, Salvatore Scibona, Justin Tussing, Nam Le, Kate and Kevin Clark, Christy Zink, Christine Lee, Andrew Boryga, Andrew C. Gottlieb, Matt Wilemski, J. M. Holmes, Annell Lopez, and Chris Terry. To the organizations that supported me: George Mason University’s MFA program in creative writing and the class of 2001; the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown and the fellows of 2001–2002 and 2006–2007; the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop 2007 and its fellows; and Literary Arts. Finally, to the editors and readers at the American Literary Review, Bennington Review, Callaloo, Meridian, Natural Bridge, StoryQuarterly, and The Pushcart Prize Anthology XLV. Thank you.
Credits and Permissions
“And Then We Were The Norrises,” American Literary Review
“Cowboys,” Callaloo
“Every Time They Call You Nigger,” Meridian
“Give My Love to the Savages,” Bennington Review and The Pushcart Prize Anthology XLV
“This Isn’t Music,” Natural Bridge
“How to Be a Dick in the Twenty-First Century,” StoryQuarterly
About the Author
CHRIS STUCK is a freelance writer and editor living in Portland, Oregon. He earned an MFA in fiction from George Mason University, and has been a fiction fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts; the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop; and the Oregon Literary Fellowship. He is a Pushcart Prize winner, and his work has been published in American Literary Review, Bennington Review, Cagibi, Callaloo, Meridian, StoryQuarterly, and Natural Bridge.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
GIVE MY LOVE TO THE SAVAGES. Copyright © 2021 by Chris Stuck. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
COVER ART: © ARNOLD R. BUTLER
COVER DESIGN: STEPHEN BRAYDA
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
Digital Edition JULY 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-302999-6
Version 05282021
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-302997-2
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
Bay Adelaide Centre, East Tower
22 Adelaide Street West, 41st Floor
Toronto, Ontario, M5H 4E3
www.harpercollins.ca
India
HarperCollins India
A 75, Sector 57
Noida
Uttar Pradesh 201 301
www.harpercollins.co.in
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
Harper
Collins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
