Snotty Saves the Day

by Tod Davies

  Snotty, expressionless, let him go. He continued, with his usual sense of purpose, along his way. The howls of the dog followed him, but he never allowed anything like that to distract him from business, and it was to a business meeting that he headed now.

  Chapter II

  AT THE CROWN AND MITRE

  “Wh-wh-why c-c-can’t he b-b-be like other b-b-b-boys?” Mick complained the way he always did after he finished his third pint of watery beer. He was sitting, as he always did on a Wednesday, with Keef and Dodger in the back room of the Crown and Mitre pub on Hamercy Street. They were waiting, as they always were, for Snotty.

  “He needs a good thumping,” said Keef, his tiny pig eyes shining malevolently, the way they always did behind his thick wire-rimmed glasses. “One of us should give it to him.” At this he looked at Mick.

  “Then he WOULD be like all the other boys,” chortled Dodger, the way he always did. In his amusement, he, too, snorted his lager the wrong way and spewed a little bit out his nose. (This happened a lot on Hamercy Street. In fact, it was practically a sport.)11 “That’s what boys are for. I know I got thumped all the time, and look how I turned out.”

  Mick and Keef turned and looked at Dodger. It didn’t seem to either of them that having been thumped when he was young had done Dodger much good. But they kept this thought to themselves.

  “That’s beside the point,” Keef said impatiently.

  “Wh-wh-what is the p-p-p-p...”

  Dodger laughed again. More beer spurted out of his nose.

  “P-p-p-p-POINT?”

  “The point,” Keef said patiently, “is that he has money. And that money by rights belongs to us.”

  “How do you figure?” said Dodger curiously.

  “It’s obvious. We’re bigger than he is. And we’re stronger.”

  “Th-th-that’s tr-tr-true.”

  Keef leaned confidentially across the grubby table. “So here,” he said, “is what we are going to do.”

  The Crown and Mitre pub was a villainous and lonely place at the end of Hamercy Street. It had once been held up on both sides by other, even older buildings—a Mission Hall and a Library—but these had long since been torn down. Now it tilted by itself over a scruffy dirt square that was covered with broken glass.12

  Snotty turned into its splintered doorway and contemplated a sign hanging there. This said: NO DOGS. NO CHILDREN. NO EXCEPTIONS.

  Snotty stared at this for a moment. Then he went inside. He shifted his backpack onto one shoulder, and a couple of packages wrapped in Christmas paper poked out.

  “He’s a cool one,” a policeman snorted from the parked car across the street. His name was Terry, and his partner’s name was Alan.13 “And what’s with those packages?” Terry had the wild look of a man who has been sent to the wrong place by mistake, and who keeps trying to get someone in authority to fix it. Alan was more resigned: he was older and burlier and sadder, too.

  Alan sighed. He watched two toddlers play a game on the sidewalk with a broken beer bottle. He was feeling more depressed by the minute.

  “I’ll tell you what’s in the packages,” he said, tilting his head backward so he could stare at the ceiling of the car, which was, he thought, a nice change from the world outside. “What he has to sell. And what, you ask”—though Terry hadn’t—“does a little boy in a place like this have to sell? It’s drugs, of course. No need to say what. A little of this, a little of that. He gets it down at the docks and then hides the stuff in dolls, Easter eggs, Christmas presents—depends on the time of year. When we catch him, which we do from time to time, he says some strange man gave the packages to him. What’s the court going to say? He’s not more than twelve years old, and he looks about eight.” Alan gave a grudging laugh. “None of us thought it was true for years. Didn’t think it was possible for the kid to have the kind of brains to think something like that up.”14

  Terry snorted again and grabbed the car’s wheel as if he’d forgotten it wasn’t going anywhere. “I don’t think much of the kind of brains that lead to criminal behavior,” he spat.

  Alan sank further into his seat, still staring at the ceiling. He knew Terry’s type well. Always in a hurry. Always trying to start things or stop things. Always thinking he COULD start or stop things.

  Alan himself had long ago given up trying to start things or stop things. In fact, he had few illusions about his impact on anything around him at all.

  He sighed again. He didn’t want to have an impact. What he really wanted was a drink.

  The owner of the Crown and Mitre had, like Alan, long ago given up thinking he could have any kind of influence on anything around him, and so felt helpless whenever he looked at his horrible pub. The lounge’s moldy orange-brown carpet, the stained and torn fake leather banquettes, the cheap veneer peeling off the walls, the tilting pool table with its broken leg propped up by a stack of beer mats: this was the Crown and Mitre. It had always been like this. It would always be like this. What could he do about it?

  Instead of worrying, he watched the television that blared from one corner of the room. It was a way to pass the time. He was used to it. So when Snotty walked in, he was annoyed at being interrupted. Without turning, he barked, “Hey! No kids!” Then, seeing who it was, “Oh. It’s you.” He held out a hand, which Snotty shook in a businesslike way. “They’re waiting for you,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the back room. “Just like always.” Then he went back to his television show, a Lifestyle Presentation touring the Central New York home of the Duke of New York.15

  Snotty stood for a moment, eyes narrowed, taking in the Duke’s way of life: the indoor swimming pool, the marble foyer, the silkcovered walls, the bath’s gold spigots in the shape of swans. Together these details made up a vision so desirable, so delightful, so different from anything that Snotty knew that he drifted into a momentary dream.

  He shook himself awake, of course, back to the business at hand. But it was to prove a fatal distraction. Snotty had come into this pub so many times the same way, exchanging the same handshake with the owner, going into the same back room, doing business with the same men, that he wasn’t paying the attention that he should.

  There they were, Mick, Keef, and Dodger, drinking lager just like they always did.

  “H-h-hello, Sn-snotty,” Mick said, his dirty toenails sticking out of his sandals just like they always did.

  “Evening, Snot,” Keef said, his little squinty eyes gleaming as usual in his fat pink face.

  “Your favorite drink, Snotty, just the way you like it,” Dodger said in his ingratiating voice, the way he always did. And there, as always, was the waiting can of sweet soda pop and a cloudy glass of ice.

  And Snotty, the way he always did, pulled the Christmas packages out of his backpack and exchanged them for bundles of cash. But his head was filled, not with the cold realities of commerce, but with pleasant thoughts of roast chicken, strawberry ice cream, feather pillows, and the Duke of New York asking his business advice.

  From which it is clear that Snotty was finding it harder and harder to keep his mind on his job. To tell the truth, he had taken it as far as it could go. It didn’t offer him any more scope. He was bored with the whole thing.

  As usual, Mick tried to stiff him. By now it was a familiar game they all played, and everyone had a good laugh when Snotty counted Mick’s bundle and found the usual one bill missing. Mick, as usual, pretended he’d miscounted, then tried to borrow the money first from Snotty, then from Keef and Dodger. He finally, grudgingly, scraped together just enough from the change in his pockets. Just like he always did.

  None of their hearts were in any of this. With a sigh, Snotty collected his cash and turned to go.

  He didn’t notice that Keef took Mick aside and muttered something. Or that Dodger ushered him to the door with an even more than usually obsequious gloat. If he had, it would have made him think. But his thoughts were drifting. He had grown tired of Hamercy Street. He was going stale. H
e needed new challenges, a change of scene.

  Yes, it was time for a change, all right. It was definitely time for a change.

  Terry saw Snotty come out of the pub, and hit Alan on the arm.

  “Calm down,” Alan advised him wearily. Against all regulations, he lit a cigarette. “He’ll go to stash his money now. We’ll pick him up there.” Terry grunted agreement to this and sank back into his seat. “You know the boy’s game?” Alan said, pointing his cigarette at Snotty as he disappeared down the street. “He pretends he’s the go-between. Pretends he works for Mr. Big. There is no Mr. Big. That child is it. You know what he does, Terry...” At this, Alan leaned forward, eyes bright, as if he could see it all. “That boy...that CHILD goes down to the docks on his own. Tells the men there that his father sent him. Or his uncle. Or his brother. He buys the stuff cheap, brings it up here, distributes it himself. And he’s twelve years old! Think of it!”16

  But Terry didn’t think. He growled instead.

  Alan was too caught up in his own vision to care. “Think of the BRAIN,” he said, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “Think of the willpower! The nerve! Think of it, Terry. Could you have done anything like that when you were a kid? Could I?”

  Terry gave Alan a disgusted look. Alan was going soft. Terry planned on reporting this at the right time to the right authorities, after which, with Alan gone, he, Terry, would move up in the hierarchy. In the meantime he had to keep his focus. He wished Alan would shut up so that he could concentrate on the job.

  But Alan wasn’t done yet. “I look around this place,” he said. “I look at it and I think: the kids who’re stealing, setting fire to buildings, breaking car windows—they’re angry.”

  The combination of Alan’s philosophizing and Terry’s distracted annoyance meant that neither of them noticed Mick come out of the Crown and Mitre and follow Snotty down the street.

  “Those kids,” Alan said, still deep in his own thoughts, “they’ve got reason to be angry. At least they’re not beaten down, sitting at home watching television and letting their brains turn to mush. Maybe the angry ones can change this stinking world.”17 Here he winced at the unlikeliness of such an event. “Somehow,” he trailed off.

  Terry started up the car. “I like the world the way it is, thanks,” he said. “Tell me where we’re going, would you, please?”

  Alan sighed again and pointed ahead. “Up there,” he said. “Back Hamercy Street.” And the car lurched away.

  Chapter III

  IN THE SEVENTH GARDEN

  And all that time, the Seventh Garden waited behind the six houses on Hamercy Street.

  The alley of Back Hamercy Street was an L-shaped dirt path that curved around the houses in front of it, and it was here that Snotty went now. “This is the last time,” he thought as he walked into its shadows and heard the familiar sound of water dripping—plop, plop—down the fences and the walls. A rusted skip sank into the dirt at the side of the lane. It waited there for him, buried to its belly in dirt and filth, stewing in old rags, yellowed newspapers, and bits of barbed wire.

  Snotty’s look softened. This was familiar. It was what he knew. “Now then,” he scolded himself. “Don’t start going sentimental on me.” There would be other skips, he knew, in other towns—bigger and better skips, and filled with a higher quality trash, too.

  With that in mind, Snotty now set to work, methodically digging in a special, particularly disgusting spot marked by an old green and gold coffee can. It didn’t take long for him to uncover a battered metal box, flaking red and gray paint, which he opened. He gave a contented sigh.

  The box was full of money.18 Snotty scooped this up and would have stuffed it in his pockets—except there was this sound.

  Instinctively he shoved the money back in the box, and shoved the box back under the trash. Then he looked around.

  That was when he saw the dog. It was standing there, quiet. It stared at him.

  “Hey there,” Snotty said in an uneasy voice. “Heh, heh.” But the dog just stood there staring.

  “What are you looking at?” Snotty was annoyed at being interrupted, but he was curious, too. The dog was covered with bloodmatted fur, the result of its recent encounter with Stan and the boys.

  “Go on,” Snotty muttered halfheartedly. “Shoo.” He and the dog looked at each other. Snotty couldn’t help being impressed by how big it was, and how it just stood there looking at him. The whole thing excited him in a way he couldn’t figure out, so he did what he usually did when in doubt. He picked up a rock and threw it.

  The rock hit the dog’s side with a dull thud, and Snotty tensed, getting ready to run, and eyeing the exact fence over which he reckoned he could get a good head start. But the dog, to his surprise, didn’t chase him. It didn’t even growl. It just put its head down and gave a deep sigh. Then it shook its large and shaggy gray-black head and sighed again.

  “What’s your problem?” Snotty said defensively. He already knew that throwing the rock was a mistake, but experience had taught him never to apologize.19 Instead he looked down at the ground resentfully and scratched his head.

  The dog just looked at him. Snotty looked back. And the dog, still looking at him over its massive shoulder, trotted down the alley of Back Hamercy Street and stopped at the door of the Seventh Garden. It cocked its head.

  “No,” Snotty said firmly. “I’m not coming down there. There’s something spooky about that garden.” In spite of himself, he counted the gardens again. One... two... three... four... five... six... seven...

  Seven gardens.

  Six houses.

  Seven gardens.

  The dog barked. Snotty backed up a step.

  The dog barked again.

  A wind blew, and the door to the Seventh Garden opened. The wind rushed through the alley, right into Snotty’s face.

  Snotty had backed up another step, planning to turn and run, when the wind blew over him, and with it, its smells. These were layers of smells, all of them good. One was of warm taffy apples, one of buttered corn, one of coffee and cream.

  Snotty had never smelled any of these things. Startled, he took a step forward. The smells multiplied. Cinnamon. Tomato sauce. Lemon and sage. You and I have smelled these things, but Snotty—never. Sniffing, Snotty followed them until he was at the open door of the Seventh Garden. He sniffed again. There was no doubt. The smells came from inside.20

  “How about that, Dog?” Snotty said, peering into the dim shadows of the garden. But the dog was gone. At any rate, it was nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you there?” Snotty said. There was no answer. Just a rustling noise that came from all the overgrown corners of the Seventh Garden. A gold light flickered behind this rustle, and the green tangle of weeds and flowers and vines heaved in a slow moving tide. The trees leaned forward toward Snotty, their branches waving. But there was no wind now.

  “I don’t think I like this,” Snotty said. Even as he said it, though, he knew it wasn’t true. He did like it. He didn’t know why. Something here was familiar, as if it were a place he knew very well from sometime long ago.

  While he pondered this, another smell floated past. This was a smell it’s almost impossible to describe. It was a mixture of violets and morning sunlight after a rain and white velvet and puppies, and the out and out unexpectedness of it filled Snotty with panic. “That’s it for me,” he thought, stumbling backward. “I’m out of here.” In his hurry to get away he almost fell, but he got his balance back and ran down the alley to Hamercy Street, where Mick, unfortunately, was waiting. Snotty ran slap into him.

  “G-got you!” Mick said, wrapping his stubby arms around our hero and squeezing for all he was worth. Snotty, smothering there, smelled tar and sweat and stale beer.21 With a muffled shout, he shoved as hard as he could, and brought one scrawny knee up harder.

  Mick yowled and let go. Snotty raced back the way he came.

  But Mick, who was faster than he looked, caught up with him right outside
the Seventh Garden. With an angry bellow, he pounced and brought Snotty down in the dirt, both of them shouting and coughing. Snotty pummeled Mick on the chest, but as his fists were extremely little, this didn’t count for much. So instead he yelled as loud as he could.

  Alan and Terry, getting out of their car on Hamercy Street, heard this and ran. Terry shouted. Alan shouted, too.

  There was a lot of shouting at this point in the story.

  “Other side,” Alan shouted. He meant Terry should block their exit out the other end of the alley. And this Terry sprinted to do.

  Mick cursed. Snotty tried to push him off. But it was no use. So instead he shouted some more. Mick shouted back.

  “Okay,” Alan said more quietly now that he was near. “That’s enough, now. Give it up.”

  “A f-f-fine th-thing when a man can’t b-beat up his own b-b-b-boy!” Mick said, aggrieved. But he stopped shouting. He didn’t, however, loosen his grip on Snotty.

  “I’m NOT his boy!” Snotty howled. All he got for that was a slap across the face.

  “Don’t sh-sh-shout while the officer’s t-t-talking. It’s r-r-r-rude.”

  “Okay, let the boy go,” Alan said.

  “Sure, sure, sh-shure,” Mick muttered. Reluctantly releasing his hold, he stood up and dusted off his trousers in an ingratiating way, just to show there were no hard feelings between him and the police.

  Snotty’s eyes snaked back and forth, looking for the best way out, while Mick pretended to search through his pockets for his i.d.

  “I know it’s here somewhere...”

  Snotty started to inch backward. But a hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Oh, no you don’t,” Terry said, coming up from behind.

  Snotty was in a jam, of that there was no doubt. The only good thing was that his money was still buried in the skip. Other than that, he couldn’t think of a good word to say about the whole scenario.