We charged the merry-go-round, an old, wooden, splintery affair. We set our cups aside and kicked it into motion; it wobbled and creaked. We circled a few times and hopped off. “What a piece of shit,” John said, “that’s all the dirty Mexicans can afford.”
Jerry Rodriguez laughed, and I thought to look at him then. He had just picked up his drink; his eyes blinked over the rim of the cup as he looked away from us. I did not know how to describe the look then, what label to call it by, but I know now that it was a hunted, trapped look, a look I have since felt on my own face a thousand times.
“We better go,” I said.
“This place is garbage,” John said. He dashed his empty cup to the ground and Jerry and I followed suit.
We ran back toward the bridge, just as five boys were crossing from the other side. They came across the bridge to our side and stood blocking our way. The little halfback I’d pushed was in front. He was flanked by some older, bigger boys.
We stopped a few feet away from them and waited for them to move out of the way. The little halfback glanced sidelong at his friends. Then he walked up to me, looked in my eyes, and slapped me hard in the face.
My chest tightened and I stood there, feeling frozen, my hands at my side, as he slapped me again. John and Jerry moved aside to give me room.
“Flip him, Sean,” John said angrily. “Use your judo.”
I waited for the right moment to make my move. But my eyes swept past the boy to the group of smirking friends behind him—I bet they carried switchblades and the moment I touched the kid they’d swarm us.
“You’re chicken, man,” the runt said. He slapped me a third, and then a fourth, and then a fifth time, and there was something in his eyes, a shiny look of pleasure that sent a chill through me.
“Flip him, damn it, Sean!” John cried, his voice cracking in fury, “don’t worry about the rest of them.” He moved in front of the group of five. “Flip him, Sean,” he implored, “don’t just stand there.”
“He’s chicken,” the runt said. And he slapped me time after time as I stood there. First he set a slow rhythm, slapping and pausing and saying, “Chicken,” before slapping again. Then he fell silent and slapped harder, his face darkening until he looked a little frightened himself.
“Don’t just stand there!” John screamed, sounding as if he were about to cry.
My arms hung lifeless at my sides, but on the next slap I would flip him, on the very next slap I would . . . Slap. Slap. Slap.
Then a voice, Coach Garza’s, was shouting from the bridge. “What’s going on?”
The runt put his hand to my burning cheek and patted it almost gently. “So long, chicken. Stay on your side of town next time.”
Coach Garza came alongside us, pushed the boy away. “Beat it.”
“I’m going, man, I’m going.” He joined his friends and they sauntered off, laughing, as they crossed the weedy field toward the neighborhood that bordered it.
My friends were silent. I stared at the ground and felt their eyes on me. Coach Garza tilted my chin with his finger. “Son?”
I broke from him and ran for my mother’s car.
Riding back through the dark streets, our doors locked, my mother couldn’t understand our silence. “It’s just a game,” she said. “So what if you lost? It’s no big deal.”
John’s voice drifted from the back seat. “He slapped him. He slapped him and he just stood there.” He said it quietly, distantly, as if he wasn’t addressing anyone in particular.
“Who?” my mother asked. “Who slapped who?”
“Nobody,” I muttered.
Her head swiveled toward me as I died against the door. “Who slapped who?”
“Shut up,” I whispered.
Her voice grew shrill. “I want to know who slapped who. Well? Who slapped who?”
I screamed, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” and covered my face with my hands.
Word spread quickly at school. The next morning when I entered the room, the kids watched me. I tried to give them a cool look—a judo master look. Didn’t they understand that I’d acted wisely? Kept the other boys from being knifed?
Sister Matthew wasn’t there yet. I took my seat across from John, and he wouldn’t look at me.
Then the kids started in. From far across the room, I heard a single “Bawk.” Then that was answered with a “Bawk Bawk” from the front row. The back of the room then pitched in. And now the whole class erupted in a chorus of “Bawk bawk bawk, chicken chicken, bawk bawk bawk, chicken chicken, bawk bawk bawk, chicken chicken.”
I searched for allies; glancing sidelong, I saw that John was silent, his jaw clenched tight.
Ah, and there was Penny. Penny Riley, my old nurse. Surely Penny, my good nurse from the Alamo, would not desert me. A flush had come to her delicate face; her moist lips parted to speak in my defense. A speck of spittle had formed at the corner of her mouth; her features suddenly twisted and sharpened as she bent back her head, tilted her chin to the ceiling, made wings of her arms, and masterfully crowed, “Bawk bawk bawk, chicken chicken!”
“Shut up!” John yelled, and his voice was loud enough to bring a deathly quiet to the room, save for the last haunting strains of Penny’s crow, which died note by note, until we all sat in the thick silence of the besieged.
Enter Sister Matthew, clad in black.
At recess that day we played football on the field behind the school. I ran like a madman through the crisp autumn air, dashing and darting and crashing through tacklers. I scored two touchdowns, but the next time I carried the ball, John grabbed me from behind, lifted me in the air and threw me to the grass. I stood up, heading to the huddle. Something slammed into the back of my head. I stumbled and felt a hot wave spread through the back of my head and neck, and the wave turned to a sharp pain. Dizzy, I turned and saw the football still wobbling on the grass. John was facing me, and I realized he’d thrown the ball at me.
I glared. “Why’d you—”
The boys were ringing us as they had that day just two months and a lifetime ago. “Get him, John!” they cried. “Get the chicken! Sean’s a chicken!”
“Let’s play football,” Jerry said, but no one listened.
“Are you going to fight or not?” John asked. There wasn’t any anger in his voice. Arms at his sides, he waited as if to perform a necessary rite.
“I’ll fight you,” I said thinly.
He nodded. We circled each other and the war cries of the boys rolled over us. He stepped forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. I clenched his wrist, pivoted and bent my back to flip him; he came halfway up my back and in a moment I would send him sailing and regain my rightful throne, except his weight suddenly seemed immense. My legs buckled and we fell to the grass together. We writhed on the ground and he ended up on top. He pinned me and slugged me in the face. I squirmed from underneath him and rose to my feet. He came at me again and grabbed the front of my windbreaker, tearing the zipper loose. I ducked my head and tackled him and we went to the ground again. We rolled around and again he pinned me, kneeled on my stomach, and slugged me in the head. Then he rested atop me, looking down into my face. The boys were quiet now. They weren’t calling chicken anymore.
“Let him up, John,” Jerry said. “Please let him up.”
Slowly John rose. I picked myself up, panting for air. I looked wildly at John, unable to fight anymore, frightened to stop.
We faced each other. He gave me a long look and nodded his head faintly. Softly, a bit sadly, John said the most painful words: “You don’t know judo, Sean.”
My lip trembled and I fought back tears.
He shrugged his shoulders, turned and walked away, steps heavy, head down, as he crossed the field toward the red brick school building.
Then the bell was ringing. One by one, and then in a wave, the boys ran for the sch
ool. At first they ran quietly, and as they neared the school their voices broke into shouts as they heralded their return from yet another recess, as if, to them, it was simply another ordinary day.
As I straggled toward the school, I pulled my torn windbreaker tighter around my throat. I wondered what Penny Riley would think when she saw me stagger in from the battle, bloodied, wounded.
Crossing the field, I felt myself joined by shadows, the kind of shadows cast by judo masters, spies, and lone survivors, the kind that rise and wander, forever sleepless, searching abandoned fortresses for forgotten passageways.
THE PEARL DIVER
Jean Paul, the owner and head chef of the fancy French restaurant where I work, throws temper tantrums. He is convinced that everyone is conspiring against him. The waiters write down the wrong orders, the dishwashers, or pearl divers as we are known in the trade, break glasses, and the other chefs burn up the food. The customers are cruel. If anyone orders a steak well done, he looks crushed, and then flies into a frenzy. Knife in hand, he looks prepared to storm out of the kitchen to dispatch the villain who would destroy a good piece of meat. “Tell him he cannot!” he shouts at the waiter. “Tell him he cannot have his steak well done!” A tall, rail-thin man in a white uniform, he acts like the crazed ruler of a beleaguered kingdom.
Some nights I amuse Jean Paul. I tell him that I am ranked the Number Two dishwasher in the nation. There’s a fellow in St. Louis who defeats me every year at the annual tournament. I tell Jean Paul about my dishwashing techniques. Some nights I use a modern European style, where the emphasis is on speed, and one works with a cool, detached attitude. Other nights I try a Greco-Roman approach, tossing a saucer to Jean Paul as if it were a discus. When he complains that some of the pans are greasy, I tell him I am using an impressionistic technique, slightly under-washing the pans to leave something to the imagination. Just as he is about to blow up at me, he will laugh silently. His upper lip curls back, and beneath his black wire moustache, his chipmunk teeth look like they’re nibbling at a nut. He snorts through his nose. But he never really laughs aloud. He can have his restaurant. I feel sorry for him.
Some nights I can’t dispel his rage. One night Roberto, my fellow dishwasher, asks Jean Paul for a raise. Jean Paul starts to shout that he hates this greedy town; he hates the greedy people here; he hates cooking for greedy imbeciles. He hates this restaurant that he owns. He will go back to France and drive a taxi.
“No raise, Roberto!” he screams, pronouncing the name like Robert O. “No raise, Robert O.” And he takes a frying pan down from a hook and bangs it over his own head, really whacking himself again and again until blood trickles down his forehead. “See!” he shouts. “See what you all do to me!”
“Okay,” Roberto says. “Okay, I guess I don’t need the raise. Stop hitting yourself, Jean Paul.”
I was about to ask for a raise myself, but I change my mind.
I’m tired but happy when I finish work at two in the morning. Dishwashing isn’t the glory job one dreams of, but then again, there’s some South American fishermen I read about once who work twenty-two hours a day and suck on raw squid for lunch. And if you’re new in town and need a job quick, pearl diving’s always there. So I can’t complain. It’s a great feeling to be through with work, riding in Roberto’s truck through the snowy streets, nipping on a beer, heading to Sue Anne’s. If it weren’t for Sue Anne, I wouldn’t be feeling so good, but I enjoy these moments with Roberto before I arrive at her house.
There’s camaraderie between dishwashers, a sense of loyalty to one another. At work, we sound like sentries in the movies. Dragging on a cigarette, Roberto will say a little anxiously, “What do you think they’ll hit us with tonight?”
And I’ll say, “It could get heavy.”
“We took a real beating last night,” he’ll say.
“We’ll be ready for them tonight,” I reassure him.
“It’s the silverware that gets me,” he says.
“It’s quiet so far,” I say.
He nods. “That’s what worries me.”
We smoke another cigarette and listen for the sound of incoming cutlery.
Some nights when I get to Sue Anne’s, she wakes with a tremendous energy. Sits up in bed like there’s a burglar in the house. Wants to talk, wants to hear all about my night.
On those nights we bound around her house like the only two people awake in the world. We dance on the pinewood floors. She fixes me bacon and eggs, and I eat by candlelight. She shows me her latest photographs. She comes into the bathroom while I shower. I talk to her through the shower curtain, telling her stories about the restaurant, about how I told Jean Paul I’d need a week off to go to the Dishwasher’s Convention in Hawaii so I could give my speech on the changing role of the dishwasher in our modern society. After the speech, I’d give a demonstration of my minimalist technique, which does not involve the use of hands, but relies on subtle hip and shoulder movements. She laughs, the most beautiful lavish laugh. When I hear that laugh, I think that nothing can be wrong in the world. I want that laugh to keep ringing out, to grow louder and louder, to float down the street, to wake everyone like a bell. A happy alarm.
In these late hours we talk about what we’ll do next month, next year. I think we should go to Peru, I tell her. I’ve heard there’s rivers there where you can pan for gold.
“Pan for gold?” she says.
“You’ll like it.”
I keep spinning plans, and sometimes she looks up at the ceiling as if she can see a map there. I think of so many places I want to be with her, so many things I want to do with her, and sometimes she looks worried and I have to call to her from far away.
All this winter when she drives off to work in the morning, I get up to scrape the ice from her windshield. She tells me that I shouldn’t come out in the cold, that she can scrape her own ice. But it makes me happy to do it.
“I used to scrape Parnelli Jones’s windshield in the Indianapolis 500,” I tell her.
Freezing, shoes unlaced, stamping my feet in the snow, I await her kiss before she drives away. They are nice kisses and I can’t complain. She drives off with courage. Her hands look steady on the wheel, her shoulders solid beneath her coat.
But sometimes she doesn’t bound up to greet me when I get back from work at two in the morning. When I climb in bed, she only groans and shifts her body to make room for me. On those nights I think she could do without my cold hands and feet, my sour smell, my breath of beer and smoke and onion. I feel like I could keep talking all night, but sometimes she just doesn’t have the gas. One night I shake her by the shoulder. “Talk to me.”
“Glad you’re here,” she mumbles, and pats my thigh.
I tell her about the upcoming winner-take-all match with the dishwasher in St. Louis. It’s my big chance to be Number One. She’s laughing as she falls back asleep. I keep talking anyway, like she can hear me in her dreams. I look out the window at the ridge of mountains in the moonlight. Even these mountains above our town will change. In a million years, maybe they won’t even be there. Everything’s changing all the time. Sometimes I feel scared about it all.
Sue Anne tells me she needs a little time to herself to think about things.
“This has sort of been rushing along,” she says. “I feel worried, scared, a little confused. You’re always making plans for the future, but the plans change all the time. I don’t want to get carried away and then get hurt.”
“I’m just trying to talk ourselves some place nice,” I say.
“I love you, but just give me a little time to become more confident.”
She tells me she is going to take a vacation to her hometown, St. Louis, to think about things. She doesn’t mention her old boyfriend who lives there.
After work these nights, Roberto parks his truck outside the old rooming house where I live. We drink our beers in th
e truck because my landlady’s a fanatic about noise. Roberto leaves the motor running so we can keep the heater on. The snow falls and encloses us. Roberto talks about finding another job in the spring. “When times are better,” he says. I tell him that I may move to India. He says he’s tired. I’m tired, too. We shake hands. “Good job tonight, buddy,” he says. “We took their best shot.”
“Good job, partner,” I say. “They can’t get us down.”
I sigh around my room, light candles, dream of Sue Anne. Times will be better in the spring.
I go to the laundromat one day and meet the world’s most obnoxious child. He’s about two-and-a-half feet high. As I sit reading the newspaper, he keeps running up to me and blowing a noisemaker in my face. “Now you stop that or I’ll have to take it away,” his mother keeps saying, but she says it in such a vague, washed-out way that it wouldn’t stop anybody. The kid takes the noisemaker out of his mouth long enough to stick his tongue out at me.
Nothing’s fun any more. One night Jean Paul calls out, “Hey, Number Two dishwasher, dishwasher PhD, what technique are you using tonight?”
“The old drowning pearl diver’s method,” I say, thinking about diving down into one of those big old grimy sinks and not coming up.
Jean Paul comes over and stands beside me at the sink. He puts his arm around me. For a moment I feel like he’s my father. For a moment I feel like bawling.
Sue Anne shows up at my door late one night. She’s crying. She says she misses me.
“You just want your windshield professionally scraped,” I say.
“No, I want to hear you talk,” she says. “I want to hear your stories.”
“You know what I’d like?” I ask her. “I’d like to get married in a tree.”
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
“I was thinking maybe we’d live in Samoa for awhile.”
“Sure, let’s live in Samoa.”
A Night at the Y Page 8
