The Wanderers

by Richard Price

  A block away Richie sensed something was wrong. He saw too many people standing around the camp. At first he thought they were cops who were always coming around when there was a good fire going, but it was too light yet for a fire. They weren't cops. He raced up to the clearing.

  It was the Wongs.

  The Wanderers were standing around not knowing what to do or say. Perry ran up to Richie whispering hysterically. "It's the fuckin' Wongs!"

  "What's goin' on?"

  "I don't know! They ain't sayin' anything!"

  The Wongs stood there as if posing for a group photograph, faces expressionless, eyes slits. They didn't move a muscle. If one of them gave out with a judo shout the Wanderers would have cleared the place in ten seconds flat. Richie looked around. His troops were standing in little clusters, staring and nervously rubbing their arms. Finally Teddy Wong, the leader of the clan, decided that enough of the Wanderers had shown up and very softly said "We came up here to warn you guys about me niggers." '

  "We thought the fight was off!" Perry's voice cracked. Entranced, Richie stared at the dragon tattoo on Teddy's forearm.

  "It is. They're just after one guy. Who's Gennaro?"

  Richie swallowed his jaw. He ran up to Teddy. "How come? Whad I do? Whad I do?"

  Teddy stared at him contemptuously. The other Wongs sneered at such a breakdown in composure. "Come off it, man. I saw what you wrote on the sidewalk in front of school and by the bus stop."

  "What! What! I didn't write nothin'!"

  Teddy turned to leave. The others filed out after him. Richie wanted to run up and cry on Teddy's tattoo and beg forgiveness; he was more afraid of the Wongs than of Clinton Stitch and the niggers. The last Wong to leave turned to face Gennaro. "That was stupid, man ... really stupid." They walked in formation toward the train station.

  Panic in the camp. Richie's shirt was soaked with sweat and his underwear stuck to his prick where a little pee had seeped out. Everyone crowded around him. He just kept repeating, "I didn't do nothin'! I didn't do nothin'." His voice broke and the steak and cooked fruit started coming up. Suddenly he jerked around. The others danced away as he puked. Buddy Borsalino ran to get his father's car. The other guys helped Richie into the back seat, careful not to get too close—he smelled pretty bad. They drove to the school and saw in at least seven different sidewalk squares in white paint:

  NIGERS STINK

  RICHIE GENNARO

  He had no idea who wrote it. He had no enemies to speak of. He hadn't had a fight in months. At the bus station the same story—this time on the walls. They went back to the camp.

  "Hey, lissen, man, if you gotta fight then we're fightin' too."

  "Yeah, we gotta stick together."

  "I didn't do it, I didn't do it." His voice had settled into a tired whine. He wanted to go to sleep.

  "Don't worry, man, we won't letcha down."

  That night, Richie had a nightmare:

  He was naked, getting the shit pounded out of him by gigantic muscular blacks wearing sunglasses, his head slowly sinking into Big Playground concrete. Voodoo drums. He began choking in the pungence of elevator piss. He was being cooked in it—in a big black kettle, with a blazing fire underneath. Clinton Stitch, head of the Pips, stirred the pee around him with a huge ladle that had a skull on the end. Then he was stretched out on a rack getting judo-chopped by the Wongs. Teddy Wong was standing there dressed in an embroidered ceremonial gown and a black silk skull cap. He had a two-foot stringy black mustache and wore eyeliner. His hands were hidden, folded in the sleeves of his garment. Suddenly they appeared with two-inch fingernails painted black He clapped twice and two bald fat Chinks appeared dragging C, nude, hands tied behind her back. She was yanked by the hair and forced to kneel in front of Teddy who parted his gown. His huge prick stood straight out with tremendous fire-breathing dragons tattooed on both sides. C was commanded to suck it, which she did greedily, stopping momentarily to gasp for breath and moan, "I love it, I love it!"

  Richie awoke with the biggest hard-on of his life, which he promptly pounded into mother-of-pearl-colored drops that flew around the room like scatter pellets.

  The Wanderers arrived at school grim-faced. Richie cursed himself for not at least painting over his name last night. As Richie slaved over "who" and "whom" in the dread Warriner's English Grammar and Composition, a fat sophomore came into the English class with a call slip from Mr. Mulligan's office for Richie. He had forgotten about disciplinary action.

  Mr. Mulligan, or "Biff," was a huge hurricane of a man. He was dean of discipline, football coach, and top ballbreaker of the school. Richie walked on rubber legs to the basement office.

  "You Gennaro?" Richie noticed the two cops. Big and solemn with guns as huge as horsecocks. "Answer me!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "So you're the sick sonovabitch who did that!"

  "I didn't do that, sir! I didn't!"

  "You're lying."

  "No I ain't, sir."

  The cops looked bored, their thumbs tucked into their gun belts. Richie's disciplinary record lay in its beige folder on Biff's desk.

  "You ... are ... one ... arrogant sonovabitch. Wipe that smirk off your face before I wipe it off with the back of my hand!" Richie wondered where Biff saw a smirk since he was almost in tears. "You're in big trouble, boy."

  "I didn't do it!" His lower jaw started to tremble, a sign that he was going to cry. Biff saw this and eased up a bit.

  "Can you prove you didn't do it?"

  Richie thought. "For one thing ... I know nigger has two g's."

  One of the cops cracked up but quickly regained composure. Even Biff started to smile.

  "Another thing I know is that I'm gonna get killed this afternoon."

  "Awright, get outta here, go back to your class. This isn't over yet, Gennaro."

  As he closed the office door he heard one of the cops laughing and Biff saying, "Ah, the kid didn't do it. I'll get the custodian to tar it over."

  In the cafeteria the Wanderers, feeling puny and defenseless, sat hunched over a corner table. Everyone knew about the vandalism now, and it seemed like the whole school was staring and snickering. Every few minutes a black kid would walk past the table with an evil grin. Richie threw his tuna sandwich in the garbage and buried his head in his arms.

  At three o'clock the Wanderers met in front of the principal's office and left the building together. It seemed like every black kid in the school was waiting for them. They formed a large ring open at one end, the end the Wanderers walked into. Except for Richie the rest of the gang was hustled away and told not to come back or their ass was grass. Richie's gang was left across the street helplessly craning their necks to see what was happening over the woolly heads of the crowd.

  Richie was alone. Clinton Stitch emerged from the crowd and faced him. "Hi, Clinton." He smiled nervously. There was laughter from the crowd. A chorus of "Hi, Clinton's" in falsetto. He felt like a faggot and angry at himself, some strength returning to his body and soul. Clinton was so muscular that his arms and chest looked like round stones were sewn under his skin. "I didn't do it!" More laughter. "I didn't do it." More laughter. He became furious. "Hey, fuck you guys, man. Hah? I didn't do it!"

  Clinton spoke. "Don't worry, man, you ain't gonna have to fight everybody. Just me."

  "I ain't fightin' you, man."

  "Then I'm just gonna kill you standin' there ... man."

  The kids in the crowd were gleefully giving each other taps and fighting for a front-row spot. Clinton started for Richie but was distracted by the sound of screeching brakes as five beat-up Buicks came to screaming halts in front of the school, and ten guys scrambled from each car shouting and yelling, swinging tire chains, aerials, and baseball bats, scattering the crowd. Clinton punched Richie in the gut. "I'll get you later, motherfucker!" and vanished. Richie was sitting, dazed, his hands folded over his stomach. Tutti Frutti, one of the Lester Avenue boys, grabbed Richie by the front of his shirt. "Lissen 'er
e ... if any a those black cocksuckers ever lay a hand on you again you call us, awright? Awright?"

  "Yes, sir." He felt like a little kid. The only faces Richie saw now were white. The Lester Avenue boys stood around laughing. Three or four of the slower black kids were getting the shit pounded out of them on the broad lawn. In the distance he saw a black kid chased toward the parkway by a crazy guinea who was whooping and hollering, swirling a baseball bat over his head.

  "Where the hell were you? I was gonna call your father to go look for you."

  "I had a meetin'." Richie pushed past his mother and went into the kitchen.

  "Don't gimme none a that. I was gonna call the cops in ten minutes."

  "Lay off, Ma."

  "I thought maybe God forbid some a those niggers..."

  "Will you lemme alone? Jesus Christ!" He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of orange soda, and took a long swig.

  "Animal! We all gotta drink from your lips now, hah?" She slapped him on the back of the head.

  He stared at her balefully, belched, and walked out the door with the soda.

  "Now where you goin'?" She followed him into the hallway.

  "Over to C's."

  "You ain't back by six you ain't got no dinner ... I don't care." She shrugged.

  "Good."

  "Oh, Richie!" C pulled him in from the foyer.

  "Hey, what's happenin'?"

  "I passed my math."

  He offered her a shot of orange soda.

  "I'll take some." Dougie came running in and snatched the bottle from his hand. Richie watched almost four inches of the stuff disappear in one gulp. Dougie's white shirt hung out of his pants, and his Holy Rosary School clip-on tie was hanging from one collar. His narrow, freckled imp face was covered with chocolate, and when he finished drinking, his thin lips glistened red. "Whadya starin' at?" Dougie said.

  "When you gonna get braces?" Richie asked. Dougie had front teeth like Bugs Bunny.

  "Fuck you!" Dougie screamed. "If I had a dog with a face like yours I'd shave its ass and teach it to walk backwards!" Dougie was so pissed he had spit on his chin. Richie was serene. "If you had braces you wouldn't spray spit on people."

  "Richie!" C admonished.

  Dougie rushed at Richie, trying to kick him in the balls, but Richie caught his foot and waltzed him around the room in a mad hopping dance. Dougie could only scream in impotent anger. Richie let go, and Dougie fell on his back. "I hope the niggers kicked your ass!" Dougie hissed.

  "What!" Richie grabbed his sticklike arm. "What'd you say?"

  Dougie got scared and clammed up.

  "Richie, let go! You're hurting him." C tried to pull him away, but Richie ignored her.

  "How'd you know about the niggers? I'll break your fuckin' arm, Dougie!"

  Dougie struggled to get loose. Richie saw the white paint on Dougie's fingers. He smiled and twisted Dougie's arm behind his back, whispering in his ear, "Whadya do it for, Dougie?"

  "Leggoleggoleggo, oooh, Denise!"

  "Come across and I'll let you go."

  "Duh-neese!"

  "Richie, stop!"

  "Who else did it, Dougie?"

  "Duh-neese!"

  Richie jerked Dougie's twisted arm another two inches.

  "IdiditwithScottie, leggoleggoleggo, puh-leeze!"

  Richie let go. "Scottie Hite?" Dougie got up, rubbing his arm. "Scottie Hite!" Richie repeated. Dougie made a motion for Richie, thought better of it, punched his sister in the tit, and ran into the bathroom locking the door.

  After dinner, the Wanderers met in Big Playground.

  "How you feelin', man?"

  "O.K." Richie rubbed his stomach. "Lissen, I found out who did it."

  "Antone?"

  "Nah."

  "Terror?"

  "Nah, you'll never guess ... Dougie Rizzo."

  "Dougie?"

  "Yeah, an' his friend that kid Scottie."

  "Scottie Hite?"

  "Yeah."

  "Jeez, they're like ... ten!"

  "You wanna kick their asses?"

  "Nah ... I got a better idea."

  That night Richie and Perry walked through Bronx Park to the cave near French Charlie's field. Six bicycles were strewn in front in a daisy pattern. Painted on the outside of the cave were a skull and crossbones with the legend:

  WARNING! WHOEVER ENTERS THIS CAVE WILL DIE A DEATH AT THE HANDS OF THE ZORROS

  RANDY GLEN

  CARY GENIE

  STEVE PHIL

  Richie stuck his head into the dakrness. "Hey, Randy!" his voice echoed off the walls. Randy Gennaro emerged. He had his brother's sleepy bug-eyes and pouting lips, but instead of Richie's curly waterfall hairdo he sported a six-inch-high pompadour.

  "Hey, Richie!"

  "Hey, babe, what's goin' on?"

  "We're havin' a meetin'."

  "Lissen, we gotta job for the Zorros."

  "Hey!" Randy shouted back into the cave. "C'mere, guys." The other five Zorros came out. They all sat powwow style in the damp evening grass. The Zorros were a bunch of sixth graders from Holy Rosary School. They rode their bikes like a motorcycle gang around Bronx Park and Big Playground.

  "Lissen up ... we gotta job for the Zorros," said Perry.

  "What kinda job?"

  "Revenge," said Richie, sending a white pearl of spit arching between his front teeth.

  "We want you guys to rub out an enemy," said Perry, cleaning the dirt from his thumbnail with a pocketknife.

  "A big guy?" asked Phil, a fat blond kid.

  "Nah ... a little guy."

  "Two little guys."

  "What grade?"

  "Fifth."

  The Zorros laughed easy.

  "We'll give you a slice of pizza and a pack of butts."

  "Each?"

  "A slice each and a pack for the whole gang," said Richie.

  "Two packs," offered Perry.

  Richie gave him a dirty look. "O.K. Two packs."

  "Done."

  The next day, six Zorros wearing Lone Ranger masks and riding English Racers swooped down on Dougie and Scottie in Big Playground and whisked them off to Bronx Park. Outside the cave the two kids were blindfolded, their hands tied behind their backs.

  "C'mon, Randy, I know it's you," said Dougie. Scottie, a skinny little kid like Dougie, with a blond almost white crew cut, was weeping.

  "Silence!" Cary slapped Dougie on the back of his head.

  "C'mon, lemme go, man!" Dougie whined.

  At a signal from Randy, they were shoved inside the cave and made to sit with their backs against a wall. The six Zorros sat facing them. The blindfolds and the ropes were removed.

  "I know all you guys," said Dougie. "I'm tellin'."

  The Zorros were silent. Randy produced a big fat earthworm. He held it on a stick in front of Dougie's face. "If you open your mouth one more time this goes in it."

  Dougie clammed up.

  "Now!" Randy took a piece of loose-leaf paper from his pocket. "Dougie Rizzo and Scottie Hite, you are formally charged with high treason. How do you plead?"

  Before Dougie could open his mouth, Randy picked up the earthworm stick and waved it in his face again.

  "Nothing to say? Ah ... contempt of court. Very good." He waved the stick in front of Scottie. "How 'bout you?"

  Scottie puked in bis own lap.

  "Hmm, spitting at the judge."

  Randy turned to the Zorros. "How do you find the defendants?"

  "Guilty!"

  "Kill 'em!"

  "String 'em up!"

  "Plan C!"

  "No, Plan A!"

  "Plan B!"

  "Kill 'em!"

  Rubbing his hands, Randy faced the defendants. "You have been found guilty on all accounts ... do you have any last words?" He made a motion for the stick but didn't have to pick it up. "Hey, someone clean that guy up." One of the Zorros took off Scottie's shirt and wiped his face and chin. "Now, as judge I decree that you can pick your punishment from three opt
ions. A." He counted on his fingers. "We tie you up naked on the cave floor, and in the morning we pick up what the worms and spiders didn't eat." He put the earthworm on Dougie's shoulder. Dougie screamed. "No ... I guess you wouldn't want that. Well, anyway, Plan B." He flicked open a pocketknife and rested it on Scottie's cheekbone. "We scoop your eyeballs out." Scottie screwed up his face like he was going to bawl again. "I guess that leaves us with Plan C."

  "Plan C!" everyone shouted.

  They were marched out of the cave and taken to a bridge that crossed over a dried-up stream. When they reached the center of the bridge Randy ordered their pants and underwear removed. One of the Zorros produced two lengths of twine. He tied one length around Dougie's little prick. Then he tossed the other piece to another Zorro who did the same thing to Scottie. The ends of the twine lay in curled piles at their feet.

  "Whadya gonna do?" blubbered Dougie.

  "We're gonna make you inta girls." A Zorro marched up to the bridge with two large rocks—one resting on each shoulder. He dropped them with a loud thud. Randy tied the loose ends of the twine around the rocks. Dougie and Scottie were pushed to the edge of the bridge, the dry riverbed twenty feet below. Randy and Cary each picked up a rock, checked the tightness of the knots on both ends, and held the rocks over the edge.

  "Do you have any last words to say to your pricks?" Scottie peed all over his legs. Randy tugged slightly on the twine and watched Dougie's prick jump like a marionette. "Look a' that! It'll probably rip right off before the rock hits the ground!" He laughed.

  "Hey! I wanna hear you guys say goodbye to your pricks. Say ... goodbye, prick ... nice a you to hang around so long. Say it."

  Dougie said, "Goodbye ... nice a you ... c'mon, Randy, I'm sorry."