Helix of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

  “He’s gone; I mean he died, when Ben was in college. I thought he would have told you. Well maybe not, it was very hard for Ben, losing his father.” There was an uncomfortable silence.

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” Cole felt like his face was on fire. “I didn’t realize. I’m very sorry.”

  “Eight years ago now. He didn’t even tell Erin until shortly before their wedding. Even then she had to pry it out of him. Tell you what, I’ll scold Ben and you scold Erin for this uncomfortable moment. What do you think?” Another pause. “So, next time?”

  “Absolutely!” Cole said, the heat fading from his cheeks. “It would be nice.”

  “All right then, it’s a date! I mean, I’ll call you and let you know—oh, you know what I’m trying to say. Bye-bye.” The line went dead.

  Cole put the phone back on its base, raised his eyebrows, and blew out a long breath from his puffed-up cheeks. Across the Golden Gate Bridge in Sausalito, Kelly did the same.

  Cole went to the hall closet, grabbed a sweatshirt from the hook on the door and his peace sign baseball cap. He locked the front door, unlocked his bike from the wall rack, and jogged down the stairs to the street. Sweatshirt on, cap adjusted, he was off down the street heading for the bay.

  The wind was crisp and the water was tipped in white as Cole pedaled his way along the wide cement walkway. A few months ago, he would have stopped to rest after the first half mile. Now he braced himself against the wind and didn’t miss a stroke. He stopped at Fort Point, got off his bike, and climbed up on the rock wall. He took a deep breath of salty air.

  Even with the slight chill, the day was glorious. He stood looking across the bay toward Alcatraz. As he turned, the golden glow and deep shades of the afternoon sun gave the hills north of the bridge sharp contrasts of gold and near black. Cole looked up at the bridge. The tops of the towers seemed to reach the heavens. The sky was cloudless, and Cole squinted as he followed the line of the gracefully flowing cables from tower to tower, like the arch of a trapeze artist. He imagined a girl in white tights swinging along the span of the bridge, her feet lightly grazing the cable, dismounting at the top of one tower, only to grab another bar to the next.

  Cole felt totally relaxed on any day he rode along the bay. He seemed to gather strength from the water, the graceful sailboats, and the power of the windsurfers. He loved watching people who jogged and walked along the paths. He smiled at mothers pushing strollers along the walkways. Among the neighborhood residents who walked, rode, or jogged around Crissy Field, there was an unspoken understanding. Cole noticed it about three months after he began riding. One day, a jogger gave him a slight nod of the head. A little while later, another jogger without drawing the slightest notice to himself, briefly touched the brim of his cap. After that, Cole paid closer attention to those around him. He gave a smile and a quick nod of the head to anyone he saw a second time. Occasionally, there was a friendly “good morning” or “hello,” but most of the time, the acknowledgment was enough.

  Cole spent about 10 minutes at the Point. He broke into a sweat riding into the wind, and now he was starting to get a chill. As he remounted his bike, he noticed a flock of gulls about 20 feet off the water. Their wings were spread wide and their heads faced into the wind. They hung like a mobile above the water, their altitude fluctuating slightly as they floated. Cole stopped, straddling his bike, and gazed in awe at the birds’ ability to relax in mid air.

  It was a good day, and Cole was at peace. He rode back along the side roads and skirted the old Presidio buildings. He decided to take an alternate route home. As he climbed the hills, he shifted gears twice. He was quite pleased with his new healthier self. The old, getting flabby Cole of Chicago was giving way to the trimmer, more fit, tanned Cole of California.

  Cole judged that he circled six or eight blocks south of home and was thinking of extending his ride to explore the center of the city when he saw a 7-Eleven on his right. He forgot his water bottle, and the combination of wind and exercise made him thirsty. Rationalizing that he already worked off the ice cream from lunch, he figured he could use a Coke and a candy bar. He glided up on the sidewalk in front of the store and leaned his bike against the window. Glancing around, he was aware that the area was not as nice as his Marina neighborhood. He remembered that he hadn’t brought his bike lock. No problem, he thought, I’ll be quick.

  The man behind the counter didn’t smile when Cole came through the door. Cole walked to the cooler in the back of the store and got a Coke. He glanced at the window to check his bike. The old Chicago Cole, he thought, always worrying about the bad guys. As he made his way to the candy aisle, he noticed that the guy behind the counter was leaning around the register, watching him.

  Cole grabbed a Snickers bar and walked to the counter.

  “How you doin’ today?” Cole asked.

  The clerk didn’t respond. “One eighty-five.”

  Cole paid with two dollar bills, all he had on him. This was another of his old habits: Never carry much money when you leave the house on foot. The clerk slapped 15 cents change on the counter.

  “Thanks.” Cole forced a smile.

  The clerk didn’t respond.

  Cole began to tear the wrapper from the end of the Snickers bar as he stepped out the door. He sensed, more than saw, someone approaching on his left. As he turned, he saw a man in a filthy down jacket that once was beige. His hair was dreadlock matted and as filthy as the jacket. He looked to have about a week’s growth of beard. Cole figured him for another junkie panhandler and was planning to ignore him.

  “Hey, you,” the man said in a dry growl.

  Cole ignored him and reached for the handlebar of his bike.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, asshole.”

  Cole turned and faced the man, now only about three feet way. So much for trying to avoid him, Cole thought.

  “Give me your money,” the man demanded.

  “Don’t you mean some money?” Cole asked sarcastically.

  “Give me your money. Now!” The man shouted.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Cole glanced around. There was no one on the sidewalk, and he didn’t remember anyone in the store but the clerk. The bearded man was about three inches taller than Cole but thinner. His eyes were large and seemed exaggerated because of the dark circles around them. The muscles in his jaw worked as he gritted his teeth. Cole noticed the man’s strong hands and large knuckles. He used one hand as he spoke to make a jabbing, pointing gesture at Cole; the other hand was in his jacket pocket.

  “Have you got a gun?” Cole said calmly, stalling and hoping the clerk would see and hear the confrontation. When Cole glanced through the window, the clerk was no longer behind the counter.

  “No, I ain’t got no gun. I said give me your money, and I mean it, shithead.”

  “A knife?” Cole wondered what the man had in his pocket. “Have you got a knife?”

  “Money!” The man screamed the word in a crazy, long, howling growl. He stretched towards Cole, his neck twisting, his head turning, with lips pulled back, showing a contorted view of his stained, crooked teeth and swollen gums.

  “No gun? No knife? What makes you think I’m going to give you anything? I don’t have any money. Now, get the hell away from me!” Cole half-laughed, dismissing the man and now becoming more irritated than afraid.

  “I’m going to kick your ass and take it. Now give it!” The man’s countenance became dark with anger, and his words came in screaming bursts. The strong gnarled hand made a thrust for Cole’s throat.

  Cole jerked back and felt the unopened Coca-Cola can in his right hand. He slipped his hand to the top of the can and held it, fingers spread like claws around a sphere. In a quick arcing move, he brought the can full around and, with all his might, struck the man with the base of the can across the bridge of his nose.

  The bearded man’s filthy hands flew to his face, and he screamed in pain. Cole stepped bac
k and watched as blood began to flow through the man’s fingers, into his mouth, and down his chin and neck. The man’s eyes were closed, and he screamed, spitting and gurgling blood as he staggered past Cole, turning so he faced the parking lot. Cole spun and kicked the man just above the ankles with a powerful blow with his right foot. The mugger’s feet flew up, and he landed hard on his butt, falling back against the windows and hitting the back of his head on the metal bar that ran about two feet off the ground.

  Cole knew the man no longer presented a danger, so he backed away from the howling figure on the sidewalk and opened the door to the store. “Hey, better call the cops and an ambulance. Got a guy hurt out here!”

  Cole moved quickly, grabbing his bike and mounting as it rolled down the parking lot toward the street. He passed a green dumpster at the edge of the lot and tossed the Snickers and the Coke into the left side where the lid was flopped back. Traffic seemed to swarm around him like angry bees. Horns honked and cars cut him off, turning in front of him without signaling. Twice Cole swerved to keep from hitting people running against the light through crosswalks. The serenity of his earlier ride turned to an angry fight for survival as he tried to get home.

  Reaching his building, Cole laid down the bike and sat on the steps to catch his breath. What happened? Such a great day had turned to crap with just one stop. Cole was not violent by nature. His fight-or-flight response always skewed towards flight, but he wasn’t afraid to defend himself. Stopping the mugger at the 7-11 was just such a situation. The man was an unknown quantity. There was no way of knowing what he was capable of. Cole always believed, as his father taught him, you hit first, hit hardest, and disappear.

  As a boy, Cole was harassed by a group of older boys on his school bus. There were four stops before Cole got off the bus. Each day when the driver got off to walk a student across the street, the older boys would begin a grunting, pushing sound in their throats. As the driver’s feet hit the ground, the boys would rush to Cole’s seat and punch, pinch, pull his hair, and poke at his neck with their thumbs. This torment went on for weeks before—in sheer anger, terror, and frustration—he confided the problem to his father. Cole made him promise not to tell his mother, because the first thing she’d do was call the school.

  Cole’s father took him out to the garage and taught him to hit—and hit hard. Their practice sessions went on every night for a week. On Sunday night, Cole’s father sat him down and taught him two things Cole has never forgotten. The first was to hit first, hit hardest, and disappear—run if necessary before the authorities came or the person revived enough to harm you. This rule came with a stern and strict warning. Hitting anyone was a last resort. It was done only if you believed your adversary meant to do you harm. If you feared for your own safety or the safety of your loved ones. It was basically the code of kill or be killed. Fight back or live in fear.

  Cole’s father held a deep sense of family. The defense of his family was the most important thing in life. When Cole looked back on his father’s life, he was always struck by the impact World War II had on him. Cole’s father often spoke to a school friend whose cousins in Germany went to the gas chambers. He was appalled that the Jews never fought back. Cole often heard his father say that he would never have let his family be “led off like sheep to the slaughter” in the Holocaust, that he would have either escaped or fought to the death. As a child, Cole knew that no matter what, he was safe as long as his father was alive.

  Cole was facing his first battle. The next day on the bus, during the first three stops, young Cole was spit on, punched in the back of the head and neck, and his homework folder was torn in half. There was one more stop before he got off the bus. Cole was ashamed and afraid. He knew he must stop the harassment or he’d go crazy. As the bus slowed to let off Candace Grant, Cole pulled together all the courage he could muster and waited. Remembering what his father showed him, he waited for his tormentors.

  The bus stopped, the doors opened, and Candace and the driver hopped out. Cole could hear the guttural “uuugh” of the jackals behind him. He felt the seat move back as Mark Pollard, the most vicious of the three older boys, pulled in behind him. Cole stood straight up as fast as he could. He reared his head back and heard the low thud as his head struck Mark’s chin. Then Cole spun around and with all his might hit Paul Thompson in the nose as he started to make the ghastly grunting growl of their pack. Lonnie Collins, the third of the trio, stood legs spread and hands across the aisle to prevent any help from the back of the bus, even though no one ever came to Cole’s aid. Collins’ eyes blazed with anger and hate until Cole pulled back and kicked him in the groin with enough force that he could have easily made a 50-yard field goal.

  Cole hopped up and sat in the vacant front seat across from the bus driver. Behind him, he heard the groaning and crying of his three fallen enemies. Each of the three bullies lay either on a seat or the floor, all out of the line of the driver’s vision. Mark’s tongue was nearly bitten off when Cole’s head slammed his jaws closed. Thompson had a broken nose, and Collins would roll and groan, holding his crotch long into the evening.

  On Tuesday morning, two of the parents called the school. Cole was not mentioned by name, but a girl on the bus told the principal that the older boys were picking on Cole. When a call slip summoned Cole to the principal’s office, he was prepared to use the second lesson his taught him in the garage. This was less noble than the fighting lessons but over the years would serve Cole on more occasions. Cole reviewed the rules in his head as he waited: Admit nothing, deny everything, and destroy any evidence.

  Cole’s father explained that the burden of proof is always the responsibility of the prosecution. To a sixth grader, this was heady stuff, but it was quickly committed to memory. Occasionally, when least expected, his father would quiz Cole on the Rules of War, as they were known between them. Cole wasn’t quite sure what they all meant, but he was always ready.

  Principal Little frowned at Cole as he ushered him into his office.

  “Were you on Bus 18 yesterday afternoon?” Principal Little began.

  Cole didn’t answer.

  “Three boys were injured pretty badly,” Little went on.

  “Really?” Cole said. Admit nothing, he thought.

  “Lonnie Collins said you were responsible.” Little’s voice softened with the lie. He slowly leaned toward Cole.

  “He’s an eighth grader,” Cole said, as though the mere idea was ridiculous.

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “No.” Cole looked straight at the principal. Deny everything, he thought.

  “Were you the one who beat them up?”

  Cole laughed and said, “I wish!” He felt empowered by the Rules of War.

  “This isn’t funny, young man.” Little’s face was turning a deeper shade of his usual pink.

  “I was sitting next to the bus driver,” Cole offered calmly.

  “We’ll see about that!” Little’s anger seemed to be growing.

  “Ask Delores, she’ll tell you.” Cole never had a confrontation with an adult other than his parents. They always won because they communicated to Cole why he was in the wrong or why the rules were the way they were. Even if he hated it, in a way he always understood. The adult he faced now was like one of the kids on the playground. They just got madder and madder and always lost because they couldn’t think anymore. Cole was elevated to a new level in life as he realized that adults did the same thing! He knew that, equipped with this power, he could win against any adult. I can rule the world, Cole thought to himself.

  “That’s Mrs. Bellpassi to you!” Little broke into Cole’s thoughts.

  “I sat right across from her,” Cole said, looking the man straight in the eyes.

  The principal picked up his desk phone and dialed a three-digit number. “Bus shed? Is Mrs. Bellpassi around? Yes.” Little glared at Cole as he waited for the driver to come on the line. “Delores, Mr. Little here. Where was Cole Sage sitting
on yesterday afternoon’s bus? He was. All right. That’s what I needed to know. No, no, I’ll fill you in later.” Some of the power seemed to have seeped out of the red-faced little man.

  Principal Little moved around a note pad and straightened several pencils that were on the top of his desk. After nearly a minute, he looked up at Cole. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mrs. Bellpassi confirms your story. I still think something is fishy about this whole mess.” Little sounded defeated even though he still glared at Cole.

  “Do you really think a six grader could beat up three eighth graders?” Cole knew he won both on the bus and now with Little. But he needed to push it just a little.

  “I suppose not. But I better never hear of another problem on the bus again. I will call your parents and it’ll be their responsibility to get you to school. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir. I won’t have a problem on the bus.”

  That afternoon, only one of the three eighth graders rode the bus home. Cole never had another problem on the bus. Although his father had been dead for years, there were many times Cole thought of the Rules of War and wanted to ask him about them. Had he lived by those rules himself? Cole never saw his father do anything violent or be put in a position that would warrant the use of the Rules, but Cole had used them—not often, but enough to know they worked and, unfortunately, several times the results were far from what he intended. By and large, he subscribed to them and knew that if he’d had a son, he would have taught them to him. In today’s world, they seemed far more necessary than the world he lived in as a boy.

  Cole thought of the mugger, his animal fierceness, and the grotesque contortion of his face. Then he thought of the wounded, howling figure leaning back against the 7-Eleven windows. Would he have really hurt me? Cole wondered. But this wasn’t a schoolyard; this was a cruel, angry world. It was the threat his father spoke of long ago. The threat that someone might hurt or possibly kill him put Cole into fight-or-flight mode. He did the right thing. He couldn’t have run. His bike was there. He couldn’t have ridden off. He would’ve taken too long mounting, and if the man attacked Cole, he would have had a difficult time defending himself straddling a bicycle. He did what was necessary. Cole was not a violent person; he knew that violence had its place, but only as a deterrent to further violence.