by Carolee Dean
By that time every guy in the shop was standing outside watching us, and they all began to cheer, except for Wade, who stood at the back of the crowd with his hands in his pockets, looking like he’d just lost his best friend.
“I couldn’t stand watching you walk away last night,” Jess told me. “But I was so afraid something bad would happen if you stayed. And now look at you.” She started to cry and wiped my face again. “This is all my fault.”
“I’m okay,” I said, trying to get up and grabbing my side in pain.
“All right, Romeo,” Gomez said as he and Kip helped me to my feet. “I’m taking you to my doctor to have a look at those ribs.”
Jess looked around and seemed to notice for the first time that we had an audience. She quickly stood up, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Tonight. My place.”
“Tonight,” I said, and then I watched her walk away.
The doctor x-rayed me and said my ribs were bruised, but not fractured. Mr. Gomez paid him out of his own pocket and then drove me back to the shop. “Thank you,” I told him, feeling bad for what I had said to him earlier. He was the only person who had ever acted like anything even close to a father.
“Is she worth all that pain?” he asked me, smiling.
“Definitely,” I said, still reeling from the events of the day. “But I don’t deserve her.”
“Then be somebody who does.”
“That’s what I intend to do.”
By the time we got back to the shop it was closing time. “What about the party?” Wade asked me, looking like a wounded puppy.
“I don’t think that’s gonna work out,” I told him. It would have been easier if he’d gotten angry. Then I could have stood my ground, told him to leave me alone, but it was the sad, lost look in his eyes I couldn’t stand.
“But we had plans,” he said.
“Plans change.”
His lower lip started to quiver as if he was going to start crying right there in front of me. It took so little to make him happy and so little to crush him. It was exhausting, being so responsible for his happiness.
“Come on, Wade. Can’t you see I got a good thing going?”
“You can’t be somethin’ you ain’t,” he reminded me.
“I gotta try.”
“But I’m the one who set up the party. I’m supposed to bring the booze, and now I don’t even got a ride. Can you at least give me a ride?” He was so pathetic. What could I say?
“Sure, Wade. I can give you a ride.” And with those eight words, my fate was sealed.
Wade showered. Combed his hair. Got dressed. Checked his watch. Decided he didn’t like his hair. Spent a half hour trying to get it right. Then, just as I thought we were finally going to leave, he checked his watch again. Decided he didn’t like what he was wearing.
“I’ve got a couple of things to take care of,” I explained to Jess on the telephone, after Wade started changing his clothes yet again. “Then I’ll be right over, I promise.”
“I’ll be waiting, as long as it takes,” she told me. “I’ll stay up all night, just come to me as soon as you can.”
I looked around at the dismal room, the dirty throw rug we’d tossed over the grease stain in the middle of the garage, the one window with the threadbare curtain, the cinder-block wall we’d built where the garage door used to be, the lone bulb that served as our main light source. It was so pathetic compared to Jess’s house I almost felt guilty for leaving Wade behind.
Almost.
“Okay, it’s time to go,” Wade said at 8:35 on the dot.
Finally.
I thought about taking a change of clothes to Jess’s house, but then remembered the bag filled with her father’s rejects. Didn’t want to look like I was moving in. I put Baby Face in the backseat and we were on our way.
“You can wait out here,” Wade said as I pulled up in front of a liquor store on Rosecrans Avenue. “I’ll just be a minute. And keep the engine runnin’. I don’t wanna be late to the party.”
Then why did you change your clothes four times? I wanted to ask him, but I kept my mouth shut.
Wade went into the store and didn’t even walk over to the liquor aisle. He just stood in front of the candy, next to the register.
“Wade, what the hell are you doing?” I said, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.
That’s when I saw him draw a gun and point it at the guy behind the counter.
“Shit!” I yelled. “Wade, are you crazy?” I screamed.
Before I had time to think what to do, Wade had handed the man a pillowcase, which the clerk filled with money and handed back. Wade ran outside, jumped in the car, and screamed, “Drive. Drive! DRIVE!”
I peeled out of the parking lot as fast as I could, nearly hitting a Volkswagen. I could hear sirens in the distance. Wondered if they were already coming after us. Wondered if the guy in the store had pressed a silent alarm, gotten my license plate number, had Wade’s picture on the surveillance camera. Realized I’d just become an accessory to armed robbery.
“Wade, what the hell were you thinking?”
“Get on the 710,” he said.
I didn’t really have much choice if I wanted to put some distance between us and the crime scene, so I did it.
He was clutching the pillowcase full of money to his chest, and the hand holding the gun was shaking so badly I was afraid he was going to accidentally shoot me. “Would you please put that thing down?” I said.
He looked at his hand. Didn’t even seem to realize he was still holding the gun. Tossed it on the floor.
“Wade, what is going on?”
“Take this exit,” he said.
“Wade!”
“Do it!” he yelled.
I took the exit. Didn’t know what else to do. When I was sure we’d lost the cops, I pulled to a stop in front of a park. Got out of the car, went over to the passenger side, and yanked Wade out by the collar. Threw him up on the hood of the Mustang with him still clutching the bag full of money.
“Is this some sort of fucking game to you, Wade? You turn eighteen in two months, and my birthday is next week. We’re not going to juvie this time. They’re gonna lock us in with the big boys.”
“Ajax got a hookup. We ain’t gonna do no time. He promised.”
“What are you talking about?” I looked around the park, saw the graffiti covering the trash cans, and realized we were smack dab in the middle of Compton.
About that time the black van pulled up alongside us and parked on the curb. Ajax, Spider, Eight Ball, and Two Tone all got out, along with some other guys from the BSB carrying twelve-packs of beer like they’d just arrived at a party.
That’s when I realized. This was the party.
“What up, cuz? You got the goods?” Eight Ball asked Wade.
“Right here.” Wade handed him the pillowcase, his hands still shaking.
Eight Ball looked inside, smiled, and slapped Wade on the shoulder. “You done good.”
“Dat’s my man,” Two Tone said, knocking fists with Wade.
Ajax pulled out something that looked like an electric toothbrush, with a needle coming out the top where the bristles should have been. “Okay. You boys proved yourselves. Time to tat up.”
The full impact of what was happening hit me. Ajax wasn’t holding a toothbrush. It was a homemade tattoo gun. And this was an initiation. So Wade had robbed the liquor store to get into the gang. But why did he have to drag me along?
Ajax grabbed my right arm and held the needle against it. I jerked away from him. “No!”
Eight Ball’s smile disappeared. “Whatchoo mean, no? You done the crime. Now you in. We had an agreement.” He looked at Wade. “Both of you or no deal.”
Wade turned to me. “Come on, Dylan. You know this is where we belong. This is where guys like us always end up. Here or in the gutter, and I don’t wanna end up dead in no gutter.”
“You decided this all on your own. You didn’t even hit me
up on it!” I screamed at him. “You had no business!”
“You told me he was down,” Eight Ball said to Wade, his eyes cold and dangerous.
“Fo’ sho he is,” said Wade, posing like a tough guy. “He’s just a little sideways right now. Some rich bitch got him twisted. He’ll come around.”
I grabbed Wade by the face, wanting to crush his jaw in my fist. “Don’t you ever call her that. I’m not coming around, Wade. I don’t want any part of this.” I turned to Eight Ball. “What I told you in the garage is solid. I’m going legit.”
The BSB looked from one to another as if they were having a silent conference among themselves. “We cool wit’ dat,” said Eight Ball. “’Course, we can’t offer you no protection from the po-po if you ain’t in.” He glanced at Ajax, who nodded. “If you in, this never happened. You ain’t in, you on your own.”
He was blackmailing me. If I joined the gang, my life would belong to them forever. But if I didn’t, I would go to prison.
“I’m not tatting up,” I said.
Eight Ball looked at me long and hard, but I wasn’t backing down. “Okay,” he finally said, his voice full of resignation. “You can roll.”
“That’s it? You just gonna let him fly?” said Two Tone.
Eight Ball raised a hand to silence his younger brother. “Go on,” he told me.
I walked to my car in relief. “C’mon, Wade.”
“Wade ain’t goin’ with you,” Ajax said.
“You still letting me tatt up?” Wade asked.
Ajax set the tattoo gun on a bench and pinned Wade’s arms behind his back. “Not a punk-ass lying piece of shit like you.”
Spider reared back and gave Wade such a punch to the gut that he doubled over and couldn’t breathe. Then he grabbed Wade by the hair and forced him to look at Eight Ball. “We had an agreement, and you didn’t follow through,” said Eight Ball. “Now we gotta teach you a lesson. Two Tone, take care of him.”
Spider helped Ajax hold Wade while Two Tone took a switchblade out of his pocket, beaming at the opportunity.
“No, please,” said Wade, starting to cry as Two Tone tossed the blade from hand to hand, smiling.
My mind went back to juvie. To one night when I was in the shower and all of a sudden I looked around and no one else was there except three guys with swastika tattoos. They grabbed me and threw me on the floor, and the next thing I knew, Wade came into the bathroom carrying a shank he’d made from a tin can lid stolen from his job in the commissary. He was like a crazy man, cutting and slashing at them. Screaming at them to leave me alone. Then one of them pulled a pipe off the sink and started swinging.
I had run, thinking Wade was right behind me, and didn’t slow down until a guard stopped me and asked me what had happened to my clothes. I looked back and realized Wade wasn’t there.
“Leave him alone,” I yelled at Eight Ball.
“I told you to go,” Eight Ball said. “Don’t push me.”
Two Tone lunged playfully at Wade, laughing when he winced. Then his eyes turned ice-cold as he held the blade against Wade’s throat.
“Stop!” I grabbed Two Tone from behind, spun him around to face me, and gave him an uppercut to the jaw.
One blow. It wasn’t even that hard, because I was still aching from the bruised ribs. It was the way Two Tone fell. Slow motion. His head hitting the park bench. Neck twisting awkwardly. A look of realization in his eyes just before they closed.
Eight Ball fell to his knees beside his brother, followed by Ajax and Spider. I grabbed Wade and pulled him toward the Mustang. Eight Ball felt for a pulse. Began weeping. Cradling his brother in his arms. “No!” he screamed. “No, no, no.” Then Eight Ball looked at me, eyes smoldering in hate. “You killed him.”
He grabbed the blade from Two Tone’s limp hand and came after us, but I was already slamming on the gas.
I got on the 710 and headed north. Got off in South Gate. Took side streets till I found the 5. Got on and off of highways going north and south, east and west. Every time I had the chance to merge onto another highway, I did. No rhyme or reason. No plan. Just trying to make sure we weren’t followed.
I knew I couldn’t go back home. Couldn’t go to the garage. Couldn’t go to Jess, even though she was still waiting for me. It wasn’t until we were just north of San Bernardino and Wade asked, “Where are we going?” that I knew.
“We’re going to Texas.”
THE HEART OF TEXAS
In the heart of Texas, there’s a town,
a sleepy town nine prisons strong.
Commit a crime and you’ll go down
to Huntsville, where the days are longer,
steel bars strong there, hope all gone
there. Huntsville, where they right the wrongs
done in the heart of Texas.
27
FIRST THING MONDAY MORNING I HEAD OUT FOR Livingston. I don’t know if they will let me in to see my father, but I have to try. After I get to Huntsville, I stop to ask for directions. Then I take highway 190 through Dodge and Point Blank. Can’t believe the names of these Texas towns.
The Polunsky Unit sits outside Livingston in a big clearing surrounded by chain link and barbed wire. I approach the parking lot and am stopped by a guard in a polo shirt, who gets out of a pickup when he sees me coming. Not very official-looking. There isn’t even a guard hut at the entrance. Just a picnic table. I’m guessing the guy stays in his truck because it has air-conditioning.
He asks for my ID, and I hold my breath as I imagine an all-points bulletin with my name in flashing red letters, and hope the legal system doesn’t work that efficiently. I don’t really know if the law is after me or not. Maybe the liquor store clerk didn’t get my license plate number, and maybe Eight Ball won’t tell the cops how his brother died.
As I sit in Levida’s pickup, waiting, I watch the guards standing in their towers with their rifles and imagine how hot they are going to be in a few hours. I’m already sweating, and it’s only ten o’clock in the morning.
The man in the polo shirt gives me back my license, asks me to sign a visitor’s log, and lets me into the lot. I drive up to a concrete building and park. Then I go inside, passing through a metal detector before I reach the guard behind the window at the counter.
“Hello, my name is Dylan Dawson Junior. I’m here to visit my father, Dylan Dawson Senior.”
“I’ll need to see some ID,” she tells me.
I give her my license, which she looks at briefly and returns to me before thumbing through a notebook. “Dylan Dawson Junior. Yep, there you are,” she says.
“I’m on the list?”
“Yes. Is the prisoner expecting you?” she asks.
“No,” I say, but then I wonder, how long ago did my father put my name on that list? How many years has he been waiting for me to show up?
Another guard arrives to escort me to the visitation area. We walk outside through an automatic door to another, larger concrete building. The main part of the prison, which we are now entering, is surrounded by rolls of razor wire, and I wonder if I’ll end up in a place like this for killing Two Tone. I wasn’t trying to kill him, just trying to protect my friend, but the law doesn’t always see things the way I do. My whole body is trembling uncontrollably, and I pray it doesn’t show. This place is three times the size of juvie, and I know the men inside have had a lot more years of hard time.
We enter the unit and walk down a long hallway until we arrive at the visitation area. “Enjoy your visit,” the man says, like he’s some kind of Disney tour guide. Then he returns to the front of the prison. I enter the room, tell my name to the gray-haired guard inside. “I’ll have them bring the prisoner,” he says, and then he picks up a phone and says my father’s name.
There is a row of brown plastic chairs facing a wall of glass, divided into little cubicles. Visitors sit in the chairs talking over telephones to prisoners perched on metal stools on the other side.
One of the v
isitors is a tall man in a polyester suit and alligator boots, who reminds me of my uncle Mitch. I look through the glass to the man across from him and instantly recognize the pale blue eyes from the photographs at Levida’s house. His hair is different, a crew cut, and the face has been worn by the years, but I know instantly who he is.
“He’s already up here,” the guard tells me, but I’m already walking toward the man in the boots, who looks up at me as I approach. “Can I help you, young man?”
“I’m here to see Dylan Dawson.”
The man on the other side watches me through the glass.
“I’m his lawyer, Buster Cartwright. Who are you?” the man asks me.
I hear my father’s voice faintly, over the telephone, answering for me in a soft drawl. “He’s my son.” He reaches out his hand, pressing it against the glass, as if trying to touch me. He smiles, and I see a tear making its way down his cheek.
“Well, I’ll be,” says the lawyer, sizing me up. “You’re the spittin’ image.”
I press my hand up against my father’s, and I’m suddenly close enough to the glass to see my reflection, blurred by the tears now filling my eyes. I wipe them away with my fist and take a good look at my father. He’s bigger than I thought he’d be, even larger than in his football pictures. His chest is huge, and his biceps strain against the white cotton prison shirt. A massive presence of a man. Even so, there is nothing hard or cold about him; in fact, he radiates a warmth that I can feel through the glass.
“I been waitin’ a long time to talk to you.” I hear his voice coming over the phone in the lawyer’s hand.
I pick up the second of the two phones on my side of the glass, hanging on the partition separating the cubicles. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here,” I say.
“It’s okay. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He gives me a smile as deep and wide as the Pacific Ocean.
I sit down, and before long we’re talking to each other as if I’ve just stopped by to visit any old divorced parent and not a man awaiting execution. He asks me about school.
