Children of the Streets

by Harlan Ellison

  Primo backed up. Behind him was an open closet. He kept backing up, with the Kid coming on steadily, until they were both in that closet. Then I heard Primo scream, ‘Don’t make me!’ and there was a thunk. The Kid came staggering back out of the closet with his hands wrapped around Primo’s windpipe and—I felt like vomiting—that spear sticking right through him, like Primo had backed it against the closet wall and driven it in when the Kid had run on to it. They staggered around the floor for a minute, with the Kid squeezing the life out of Primo steadily. They looked like a pair of crazy dancers and I suddenly realized my hands were in my mouth.

  One of the girls ran past me down the stairs, screaming for the cops; but I just stood there, carefully watching everything, because it was like I shouldn’t forget any of it. Queer, ain’t it?

  And then, real slow, the Kid collapsed, dragging Primo down with him. They were both dead, and there wasn’t no question about that. The Kid fell straight back, and the spear wouldn’t let him lie that way, so he rolled over, still hanging on to Primo’s head.

  Primo’s tongue was dangling out the side of his mouth.

  It was terrible to see them like that. Then there was somebody grabbing me by the collar, and I saw a blue sleeve, and it was one of your fuzz, lieutenant. And so help me God, that’s all I know, that’s all I had to do with it.

  I know you won’t hold me responsible for none of this. I mean, I got shafted enough already, Lieutenant. I mean, I didn’t even get that other two-fifty he promised me.

  School. For Killers, where the three R’s stand for ripping, O reefers and riot. Norman Rockwell never paints scenes of this school. It’s the slum-area high school of every big city, the old and rotting structure where kids gather in dark corners to plot petty revenges, to discuss the seduction or rape of the pretty young English teacher, to gauge the chances of running a rival gang member through with a baling hook while he cadges a smoke in the boy’s John. It’s the current view of America’s educational system—from the underside. This is the lesson for today: stay alive!

  SCHOOL FOR KILLERS

  Three of them cornered me in the bathroom.

  They had switchblades, and Porky stuck his right up against my throat, till I could feel it prickling my skin. ‘You wanna join the Organization, or you wanna die?’ he snarled.

  I stared him down, till his eyes wavered. ‘Get that shank outta my face,’ I snapped back at him.

  He’s fat; a little wormy kid with a face that looks like it’s got the king of all acne cases. Round and wormy like some stinkin’ pig’s feet in a barrel. I didn’t care for him, and he knew he was on my crap list.

  ‘Mr Big Basketball Player,’ he said, and pulled the knife back an inch. He was a jealous little bastard; hated anyone who could do anything, like me and basketball.

  He stood there with his one hand in the back pocket of his chinos, and the other on the blade at my face. ‘You’re one of the last to join up, big deal. You know what we do to boy’s don’t wanna co-operate with the Organization?’ He chuckled, and the other two joined him.

  I knew the others. They were a pair of dummies called Arnold and Bernard. They did what Porky told them to do. I wasn’t worried about them too much. It was really only Porky I had to worry about.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I know what you do to guys don’t want to join your frayking Organization. Like you did to little Petey Sellers when he wouldn’t join. Shoved him into the excavation for the auditorium next door—with a rock on his head.’

  I was glaring at them, and they were getting edgy, even though they had the blades. I’m six feet one, and sometimes I can look mean.

  They call me Softy Emerson. That’s because I don’t get mad very often. But I’d been getting mad more often lately—since Porky and Snapjack and Shark had started organizing the school. They’d put high school on a business basis—shaking down the little kids for their lunch money, cutting classes and fixing it with the monitors by bribing or threatening them, laying the girls in the woodworking shop, makin’ a real mess of John Adams’ High School. I’ve been gettin’ madder and madder.

  And they were thinkin’ maybe Softy Emerson ain’t so soft after all.

  ‘Get the frayk away from me, Pork, before I stomp in your kisser for you!’

  ‘Listen, big soft, you ain’t on no basketball floor now. You’re in the can, and we got you cold. Either you join up and pay your dues, or we slice you. Dig?’ His fat little kisser was sweating. He was hoping I’d back down and join the Organization, so he wouldn’t have to face up to me.

  ‘Dig!’ I snapped, and grabbed the little slob by his arm.

  I chopped him hard and the knife flew outta his hand, went clattering across the bathroom tiles, disappeared into one of the stalls.

  The other two started to move, and I hauled Porky in front of me. ‘Go ahead! Slice! Cut up this little hunka bacon. Then I’ll slam the two of you into the floor, and ship all three of you down to the principal.’

  I shoved Porky at them. ‘Here!’

  He went tumbling can-over-tea-kettle into them. Then I moved, fast, and brought my algebra book around flat, cracking it into the first dummy’s face. The book caught him with a hard splat, and a big red mark started spreading. He spun sidewise, and I dove for him, caught the knife as it whirled out of his big mitt, was on my feet and waiting for them.

  ‘Now! Now you wanna stand with me, you bastards? Now you wanna see who’s got more guts? Come on, come on, move! Move! And I’ll cut off your rotten—’

  One of them did move. A dummy, big boy named Bernard Kessel. He took a lunge, came up with the switch like he wanted to rip out my belly. I stepped back, and he lost his footing, took a stumble toward me. I didn’t use the knife. I can’t stand the damned things.

  I caught him over the eye with a hard left, and he grunted when I smashed into the bone.

  I followed it with a hard shove in the chest and a flat-hand chop to the back of his dirty neck as he fell. He tumbled over, his head slipping into one of the urinals.

  ‘That’s where he belongs,’ I said, motioning with the shank. That Arnold boy was just getting up, and Porky was still trying to catch his breath. He’d cracked his head against one of the tiled walls. He was shaking himself, trying to focus properly. ‘Had enough?’ I asked.

  One of them was out cold, the other was shaken bad, and Porky was half-cooled. I knew they didn’t want any more.

  I started to leave, turned back and tossed at them, ‘Go back and tell your big bosses, Snapjack and Shark, I ain’t gonna join! I’m gonna help break this fraykin’ thing up. I’m gonna break it if I gotta break every one of you creeps!

  ‘You tell them that! And you tell them if they want me, school’s out at three. They can find me on the football field. I’ll be waiting—with this!’ I held up the shank.

  Porkey’s big, white-rimmed eyes were fastened on the steel, and I could see the yellow blood oozin’ through his veins. ‘I’ll tell ’em, you bastard,’ he said, still half on the floor, ‘and you’re gonna get your guts spilled.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, opening the bathroom door, ‘but you won’t have to worry about it.’

  He looked at me strange. He didn’t know what I meant. So I told him:

  ‘If I go, bacon-head, I’m takin’ you along with me.’

  The fear was crawlin’ bigger in his face when I went out.

  After fifth period, I had lunch. When I came up from the basement lunchroom, Dick Plumber, a buddy of mine, stopped me on the stairs.

  ‘They’re screwin’ up in the study hall,’ he said.

  ‘What gives?’

  His thin face held a real frown. ‘That sonofabitchin’ Shark got ahold of Flip. Shark knows Flip’s a buddy of yours, and he wants to make him join up. Flip won’t move till you do.

  ‘He’s got Flip up there in the study hall, against a wall, and they’re takin’ turns beltin’ him. With Flip’s bad arm, he ain’t got a chance.’

  ‘Let’s move,’ I said, tak
ing the steps two at a time.

  The top floor was an old auditorium they’d converted into a study hall. On the stage, during the first half of the lunch period, there was dancing to a beat-up old jukebox. Most of the seats were rickety jobs that you could yank out of the floor if you gave the screws a good kick. The ceiling paint was flaking, and it was about ready to crash down.

  That’s why they were building a new auditorium annex next door. Maybe in ten years it would be ready—if the school ever got the dough to finish the construction.

  I shoved open one of the doors at the left side of the study hall, and heard the roar even before I got it open. The study-hall teacher, Miss Dexter, was being held by two goons I knew belonged to the Organization. She was crying, and one of them was telling her, ‘You say anything to the principal about this, Teach, and we’ll make sure we shove a blade up…’

  I knew what he was gonna say, and I backed out slowly. ‘Where’s the pole they use to close the windows from the top?’ I asked Dick Plumber.

  He looked around the hall, spotted it leaning against some lockers, and got it for me. I took it by the handle, felt the hard metal hook on the end for a second, and then opened the door again.

  The two goons were holding Miss Dexter right at the edge of the stage, their backs to me.

  I raised the stick high and brought it down fast and hard—wham! It caught the first one alongside the skull, and he fell over fast. The second one turned slowly, and the pole went sinking into his belly. He doubled over, and I stepped the length of the pole in two strides, hit him in the mouth. He joined the other goon.

  Miss Dexter looked up with relief, the terror washing out of her face. She was an okay teacher. ‘They’ve got Flip at the back of the room,’ she said.

  I followed her eyes and saw the huge knot of kids gathered around the rear windows. Some of them were standing on the seats to get a better view. The roaring was getting louder, and right then I hated every kid in that bunch.

  They couldn’t stop themselves from joining a herd. They hated to be left out. That’s why they were beating up a poor crip!

  I lost my head. Next thing I knew I was swingin’ that pole, running down the aisle into the center of the crowd.

  I swung the pole every which way, knockin’ heads and crackin’ into kids with every movement. I heard some of the girls scream, and the pole smacked full into one kid’s ear.

  Then I was through the crowd, into the center, and I felt like heavin’ up my lunch.

  They had Flip against the wall.

  You had to be careful about laughin’ at Flip. He had some bad kid’s disease when he was real young, and it withered up his right arm. He carried it like a claw all skinny and yellow in front of his body. He was a good friend of mine, and nobody made fun of him ’cause he was a good guy, and strong as a bull with that left one.

  But they had him boxed-in against the wall. He was shielding his eyes from them, and all around on the wall were square chalky-white marks where the erasers had hit. Shark was standing there, and, as I watched, he heaved back and let fly. The eraser clobbered Flip in the face, spraying chalk dust in every direction till he coughed somethin’ bad.

  Then Shark laughed like the bastard he is! He was still laughin’ when I hauled back with that pole and jabbed him in the back of the head. He spun around, and he had his switch in his hand.

  The crowd started chanting, ‘Fight! Fight! Fight!’ and I took the pole in both hands, ready to block him off.

  He came at me fast—that stud was lightnin’ with a steel. He swung up, knife-fighter style, and I lowered the boom on him. The pole came down, cracked across his arm as it came up, and I kicked out. Caught him dead smack in the crotch, and he screamed blue!

  He dropped and I gave him a boot in the mouth. He folded over on his back and lay there, gaspin’ like a fish outta water.

  A kid started to move for the shank he’d dropped, and I kicked him in the seat of the pants. He went sailing up against the baseboard, and Flip toed-off on him under the chin.

  ‘Thanks, Softy,’ he grinned at me. His face was all dirt and sweat and blood where they’d slugged him. But he was still kickin’.

  ‘Why’d this start?’ I asked a girl standin’ next to me. She was a stupid-lookin’ broad with gum goin’ hell-for-Sunday in her mouth, and she spoke with a twang.

  ‘Shark wanted Flip to give him his lunch dough, and Flip wouldn’t come across. If he don’t wanna join the Organization, he should quit school.’

  She was so goddam smart-alecky about it, I wanted to belt her, but I stopped myself.

  ‘Can’t you kids see what a fraykin’ mess this is, what these slobs are doin’ to the school?’ I said to the bunch of them.

  They didn’t look me in the eyes, but I heard ’em sayin’, ‘We like it! Mind your own biz, or get out!’

  I was gonna say something, but one of the monitors came runnin’ in from the door on the other side of the hall.

  ‘Hey!’ he yelled. ‘The principal’s comin’! Jig it! Here he comes!’ And everybody made a scramble for their seats.

  Flip plunked down next to me, and I shoved the pole out of sight on the floor. Shark was hauled into a seat, and they lowered his head on to his arms like he was sleepin’.

  Principal Greenberg came in and looked around. Then he asked one of those crooked monitors, ‘Everything okay in here, Bert?’

  And the slob said yes it was. So the principal went away, nodding to Miss Dexter. She was scared white and knew better than to rat on these crumbs. They’d have raped her when she went home if she had.

  When it was quiet again, I nudged Flip to his feet, and got Dick Plumber. We started out of the study hall, and I stopped by the door. I smiled at Miss Dexter, and she smiled back, whispered, ‘Take care of yourself, Softy.’

  I grinned and yelled at the bunch of slobs in there:

  ‘There’s gonna be a stand on the football field tonight, and anybody backs Shark and Snapjack and Porky is gonna be known as a slob that don’t care who runs this school! So if you ain’t scared, stay away from that fight when they ask ya to back ’em.

  ‘And the ones that show up better be ready to fight for their goddam Organization!’

  I was out there at 3:00. But I wasn’t alone. I’d wanted to go it solo, but three of my buddies, Tony Brown, Dick Plumber and Flip Shapiro, wouldn’t let the stand come off that way.

  ‘There aren’t many guys’ll stand with those three creeps after what you did today, Softy, but even if they scare four or five into standin’ and backin’ their play, you’re gonna have real trouble. We’ll back this with ya.’

  Flip was real earnest, and I knew with those three beside me, I wouldn’t have to worry as much as before.

  ‘They got the school behind ’em,’ Flip said, making a damning motion with his bad arm, ‘only because they got everybody scared. We ain’t scared though, and we ain’t gonna let ’em slice you up, Softy.’ He was so serious about it I almost hadda laugh.

  Then I caught myself. You had to watch laughin’ at Flip. That arm of his made him sensitive. God knows he shouldn’t have been. He was twice as strong with his good one as any guy I’d ever seen.

  I once saw him grab a kid by the throat, almost kill the kid by bashin’ his head against a brick wall. We hadda pull him off. He’s got a good temper usually, but I was glad to see he wanted to stand with me. Made me feel good.

  I liked Flip. I liked Tony and Dick Plumber, too. Dick was a rich kid—his folks only kept him comin’ to John Adams’ cause he had registered there when he first came to town. They’d moved to a better neighborhood since then, but Dick had made friends at J. A. and so they let him keep attendin’. He had a real thin face, with big flat ears that stuck out like what they call ‘loving-cup handles.’ He was a sweet guy, too.

  Tony was the toughest one of all. He was a track man, and hotter than hell on the shot-put. He was our big man in Decathlon.

  It was swell to know they were gonna stand wit
h me.

  But I wasn’t so happy when I saw the gang comin’ across the football field toward us. There was at least twenty kids in that batch. And most of them were the fast-knife slobs that hung with Snapjack and Shark and Porky. A bunch of real dummy side-boys.

  They came across the football field slowly, just sizing up the four of us. The late afternoon sun caught the glimmer off a dozen switch shanks, and I even saw a zip in there. The rest had bricks or hunks of glass on the ends of sticks. One kid had ripped up a chunk of lead pipe from somewhere.

  ‘We’re gonna make it quick with you, Softy,’ Shark said real slow. He was a medium-sized boy, with slick black hair he used grease on to keep it flat against his head. His face came down to a sharp point at the chin, and he looked like the devil with blue eyes.

  I’d ripped the side of his mouth open when I’d kicked him that afternoon.

  He fingered it tenderly. ‘I’m gonna make you look like my kisser,’ he said. Little points of light danced in his blue eyes.

  ‘The rest of you bottle-babies better ease outta here, before we slice you too. We’ll forget this if you move right now,’ he added, motioning to Dick and Flip and big Tony.

  They didn’t move. Flip stepped next to me and he let his good hand come up. He had a rock in it. ‘You shouldn’ta smashed me today, Shark. See this? Make a step and I’m gonna plant this in your skull!’

  That was all they needed.

  ‘Jump ’em!’ Shark yelled, and he took a step back while everybody else came at us. He wasn’t no dummy. He knew someone was gonna get creamed, and he didn’t want it should be him.

  But those others were on us in a second. I saw Tony grab one by the leg and yank up; the kid fell on his back, and Tony booted him in the chops. I didn’t have time to look any more, because two of them came at me all at once. I saw a hooknosed bastard named Sickle swing in with a nasty-lookin’ Italian stiletto.

  The thing grazed my chin, and I felt it slice in and out, real quick, like I’d cut my finger on a piece of paper. It burned like hell for a second, but by then I had a hand around his throat. I stomped him hard on the arch of his foot, and with his face so close to mine, it was easy to see his eyeballs get buggy and his mouth twist all over itself. Then I put a couple of forked fingers into his eyes—hard! He screamed loud and spat on me and I smashed him in the mouth. He went down, right on top of the second kid. That one had come in with his switch aimed at my liver. Sickle went down on top of him as the kid was bringin’ the knife up. It caught Sickle in the stomach, and he tumbled over it, ripping the knife out with a slicing sound.