The Amazing Adventures of John Smith, Jr. AKA Houdini

by Peter Johnson

  “You know, my mother has sleeping pills around here.”

  “What, are you nuts?”

  But Jorge wouldn’t let the idea go, so we argued back and forth until Lucky came into the kitchen. “The dude passed out,” he said.

  “What?” Jorge said.

  “The dude passed out. The last thing he said was ‘Lucky, you’re one of my favorite people.’”

  Jorge laughed loudly.

  I felt a great relief as we all went back to the living room. Angel was half sitting, half lying on the couch. We sat on the floor, staring at him for a few moments.

  “Where’s the razor?” I asked, and Lucky reached into the pocket of his slicker, removing a brand-new razor and pack of blades. He’d also bought a can of shaving cream.

  “Don’t we have to lay him down first?” Jorge said, so we dragged Angel off the couch onto the rug.

  Lucky poked him a few times in the forehead and shook one of his legs to make sure he was a goner.

  “Who’s going to start?” Jorge said.

  BARBER SCHOOL

  Unfortunately, we hadn’t considered certain details. For instance, none of us shaved much, so we didn’t have experience with razors, and instead of a professional electric one, Lucky had bought a Gillette Mach III blade.

  “What do we do now?” Lucky said, holding the razor in his right hand and the shaving cream in his left. “Shouldn’t we wet the Mohawk first?”

  “Damn,” Jorge said. “Who came up with this stupid idea, anyway?” Then he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a pair of rusty scissors, a towel, and a bottle of Windex. He slid the towel under Angel’s neck and sprayed his head with the Windex.

  “Couldn’t you have put water in the bottle?” I said.

  “He doesn’t know the difference.”

  After we wet Angel’s Mohawk, Lucky chopped off chunks of hair with the scissors. It was tough going because the scissors were so dull. When there was only about a quarter inch of the Mohawk left, I saturated it with shaving cream, and Lucky went back to work, a little at a time, but his hand was shaky and the hair wasn’t coming off easily. By the time he finished, the middle of Angel’s head looked like the field by the basketball courts, mostly bare but spotted with ugly patches of grass.

  Lucky sighed and slid the towel from under Angel’s head, using it to wipe the remainder of shaving cream and black hair from his skull. We should’ve been laughing—that was the whole point—but you would’ve thought we had just removed his appendix.

  “Don’t you think we have to do more than shave his head?” Jorge said. “Tomorrow he’ll just finish the job and people will think he did it to be cool.”

  “He’ll still look like a goofball,” I said.

  “I agree with Houdini,” Lucky said. “We’ve done enough.”

  But Jorge felt Angel needed more punishment, and he reminded us Angel could’ve killed Lucky, me, and Da Nang. We had finally told him about the rotten piece of meat.

  “Dude, you gotta let it go,” Lucky said.

  “Why do you care about the guy?” Jorge said. “The jerk almost killed you.”

  Lucky got mad. “It’s over, so let’s get him home.”

  “You act like you hate the guy, but you’re always cutting him slack.”

  “Jorge’s right on that score,” I added.

  Lucky ignored Jorge, but got in my face. “Does your dad ever smack you, Houdini?” he said, poking his finger into my chest.

  I pushed his hand away. “You know he doesn’t.”

  “What would your mother say if he did? Would she let it slide, like Angel’s mom and mine?”

  I didn’t answer.

  We stood, facing each other, and I would’ve felt better if he didn’t have the razor in his hand. “I asked you a question,” he said, moving closer.

  Jorge got in between us. “Cool it, Lucky.”

  Lucky shook his head at both of us. “You guys think you know everything, but you don’t know squat.”

  Now Jorge was mad. “Gimme a freaking break. You want us to cry for poor Angel because his family sucks?”

  “I just want you to let it go.”

  “I’ll let it go,” Jorge said, “if we get Old Man Jackson to come over and cut off his privates.”

  Which was a crazy idea but not completely crazy.

  OLD MAN’S JACKSON’S HOUSE YET AGAIN

  Moving Angel wasn’t easy, especially since we had to carry him down two flights of stairs without killing him. When we got to the second floor, an apartment door opened and I heard a baby screaming in the background. A huge, pasty-faced guy stood in the hallway, holding a can of Bud Light. His long, black hair was tied into a ponytail and he wore a black wife beater and white boxer shorts patterned with red hearts. I almost laughed.

  He smiled. “He ain’t dead, is he, Jorge?”

  “No, just sleeping.”

  “Sleeping?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “I won’t,” the guy said, “as long as you’re sure he’s not dead. We don’t need no dead guys around here. I don’t want to move again.” Then he went back into his apartment.

  “What did he mean by that?” Lucky asked.

  “Nothin’,” Jorge said. “Let’s just get Angel outta here.”

  The idea was to drag Angel downstairs and throw him into a wheelbarrow I’d seen leaning against the house. Next, we planned to haul him to Old Man’s Jackson’s house, lift him over the fence, pound on Jackson’s door, and run away.

  We picked a good night to wheel him down the street. It was only about nine o’clock but because of the storm, no one was out, and we knew that if anyone happened to see three kids, one limping with a cane, lugging a body in a wheelbarrow, they’d close their drapes and go back to their TVs.

  Jorge held one handle of the wheelbarrow, and I held the other while Lucky walked point. Because Jorge was shorter than me, it was hard to steady the wheelbarrow. About halfway there, it tipped and Angel toppled facedown next to the curb, torrents of rainwater bathing his face.

  “Damn,” Lucky said as we lifted him back into the wheelbarrow.

  When we arrived at Jackson’s, we somehow lugged Angel over the fence, dragging him through the muddy front yard and propping him against Jackson’s door. “Maybe we should put an apple in his mouth,” Jorge said.

  “Shhhh,” I said, trying not to laugh.

  I thought we should wait for Jackson, but Jorge said to let it be a surprise, and I could almost see Jackson’s big grin when a sopping-wet Angel collapsed onto his living room floor. I imagined him staring at Angel, rubbing his hands together, as if someone just dropped off a Thanksgiving Day turkey, while Da Nang licked his newly shaved head like it was a piece of filet mignon.

  My daydream dissolved when we heard Da Nang begin to bark. Jorge and I helped Lucky over the fence and we hustled back to Jorge’s. I had to be home by ten, so I left, promising I’d call tomorrow after Mass. But what we all were secretly wondering was how Angel would get revenge at school on Monday.

  TEN WAYS TO DESCRIBE ANGEL’S SHAVED HEAD

  1. A hundred-year-old soccer ball

  2. Mr. Potato Head after being stung by a hive of bees

  3. An undercooked meatball

  4. The moon after a meteor shower

  5. A burnt Brussels sprout

  6. A round piece of Swiss cheese with ants on it

  7. A white jellyfish with a rash

  8. A horse’s ass with acne

  9. A clam (That was Jorge’s. Lucky and I didn’t know what that meant, but Jorge couldn’t stop laughing.)

  10. A barber’s bad dream (Mrs. Guido, the next week in class. Though she said it nicely.)

  “VERY CREEPY”

  On Monday, Lucky, Jorge, and I discovered Angel leaning against the school’s flagpole, talking to his flunkies. His head was shaved to the bone, spotted here and there with tiny red scabs. Lucky was still walking with a cane, which was good. I figured that when Angel tried to kill me, J
orge and I could tackle him while Lucky beat him unconscious.

  Surprisingly, Angel wouldn’t even look at us, and when he did, he focused on me. I braced myself but was surprised when he asked, “How’s your brother?”

  “What?” I said.

  “How’s your brother?”

  “He’s coming home,” I said, slightly stunned, as I walked off with Lucky and Jorge.

  “What was that about?” Lucky said.

  “Very creepy,” Jorge added.

  I had to agree that Angel’s response to Saturday night was pretty weird, and I believed his revenge would come sooner than later. I figured the next time I turned my back—to open my locker or to take a drink from a water fountain— I’d feel the thump of a blunt instrument on my neck. For that whole week I didn’t go anywhere without Lucky and Jorge.

  And I was right that Angel pretended to have shaved his head on purpose, though Jorge was right that he looked like a meatball. But whatever happened that night seemed to have changed how he acted toward me.

  So what did happen at Old Man’s Jackson’s?

  Jorge believed Da Nang bit off Angel’s privates because he was sure the pitch of his voice had gone up an octave.

  Lucky thought Jackson held a gun to Angel’s head all night, periodically spinning the chamber and pulling the trigger, or maybe, he said, it would be enough for Angel to wake up hungover staring into Da Nang’s one good eye.

  Whenever we asked Jackson he’d laugh and say, “The boy just needed to be educated. There’s somethin’ decent in everyone, even Angel.”

  “Fat chance,” Jorge said.

  THE ZOO

  During the two weeks that we waited for Franklin to come home, we talked to him on the phone, so we weren’t worried something bizarre would delay his return. It seemed like one day we heard he was leaving Iraq with a stopover in Germany, the next, Lucky was shaving Angel’s head and I was watching my back, and the next, Franklin was sitting at the dinner table, eating peanut butter cookies with his right hand, his left arm suspended in a sling.

  All I know is that it was cool to be with him again. Everywhere we went, people said hello or patted him on the back, and we could eat any place for free. At first, Franklin enjoyed the attention, though he was quieter, and he seemed to space out sometimes, like he was looking at something none of us could see.

  He also didn’t seem comfortable inside restaurants, and one time in the middle of lunch he surprised us when he left without saying a word. My father followed him outside and they spoke in the cold for about five minutes before returning. My mother and I sat in the booth, watching them through the plate-glass window, Franklin shaking his head while my father rested his hand on Franklin’s shoulder. My mother told me not to ask questions, so we all pretended nothing had happened. But in spite of that day, Franklin seemed happy to be home, sleeping in his old bed, and I felt safer.

  The Saturday after Thanksgiving, Franklin took me to the zoo. It was cold and sunny, and we got there at nine a.m. to avoid the holiday crowd. I hadn’t been to the zoo in a while, and it had been fifteen years for Franklin. He was blown away by all the changes, a little disappointed the polar bear and his favorite deranged camel had died. When he was a kid, he and his friends used to tease the camel and it would spit at them.

  Halfway through our visit, we grabbed some hot chocolate and huddled around a table outside the gift shop. He asked me how I was doing.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “That’s weird what Gregory’s doing to Jackson.”

  He was referring to a march Gregory had organized on Jackson’s house. Gregory had done things like this before. He’d stir up some nutcases, then magically appear in his Maxima and give a speech. I didn’t see what Gregory could do to Jackson, but my father explained there were a lot of ways to force people out of their homes. Gregory was arguing that Jackson’s house was a health hazard.

  “Yeah, it’s real wack,” I said. “You know, Jackson said you used to go over there. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were just a baby.”

  “He said you were always asking about Vietnam.”

  “I wanted to learn about where Uncle Dick was killed.”

  “Didn’t he die way before you were born?”

  “Yeah, but everyone was always comparing me to him. It makes you want to know more. You probably don’t know much about him, do you?”

  “Dad told me the story a few weeks ago.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he hasn’t stopped thinking about Dick since you left.”

  Franklin seemed uncomfortable and took a sip of his hot chocolate. “You going to play football next year?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Mom wants me to apply to the Catholic high schools that offer scholarships. She’s heard it helps if you play sports.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “How would I see Lucky or Jorge?”

  “Is that important?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then stay where you are. You’re smart, so make sure you end up doing something using your head.” And he asked what I wanted to be. I said I planned to talk our dad into opening his own cleaning business and then maybe Franklin could join us when he got discharged.

  “Don’t count on that right now. I’m supposed to go back.”

  “To Iraq?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you have to?”

  He rubbed his wounded arm. “It’s pretty complicated,” he said. He looked like he was trying to catch his breath.

  “They can’t make you go, can they? I thought after you got shot, you came home, got paid a lot of money, and were a hero.”

  “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

  “So I guess no family business then?”

  “I’m not sure about anything right now. But we all expect you to go to college. There must be something you like besides working as hard as Dad. Mom told me you’ve been writing a book. What’s it about?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but we’re all in it.”

  He laughed. “You’re not going to embarrass us, are you?”

  “I’d never do that, Franklin.”

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “You should write a book about Iraq,” I said. “You were always smart enough to do anything.”

  “To be honest, I’d like to forget about Iraq right now.”

  “Then whatever you do, don’t write a novel. Writing makes you think very hard about things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just describing things can freak you out.”

  “Really?”

  “Like you getting wounded. Normally, I’d just tell myself, ‘Franklin got wounded,’ then try to distract myself by watching TV or shooting hoops. But if I start imagining it and describing it and writing about it, I get nightmares.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Because I usually feel better afterward.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Well, if it makes you happy, then do it. Those old dead guys from our coat of arms would probably be proud of you.”

  “DON’T TELL ME ABOUT FAIR”

  For the next few days after our zoo visit, I kind of stalked Franklin. Sometimes he seemed like the Franklin I knew, but other times he appeared stoned, like some alien had crawled inside his ear and was eating his brain. During those times he rarely smiled, and he’d leave the TV room when the news came on.

  Once, I asked my father if Franklin had to go back when he was healed, and he said it wasn’t clear yet, and that we’d “cross that bridge when we came to it.”

  “That wouldn’t be fair,” I said.

  “Don’t tell me about fair right now, John.” He was talking about his job. It seemed like the inevitable layoffs were starting. We all thought his fifteen years with the company would give him security, but he wasn’t so confident.

  The
biggest change I noticed in Franklin was at night. Even if he had a great day, he would roll around in bed during the early morning hours, talking to himself. Or he’d go downstairs for a while, return in ten minutes, then do the same thing one hour later. It kept me awake, but I never complained.

  One Sunday at around two a.m., I heard voices, so I left my room and sat at the top of the stairs. Franklin and my father were talking in the kitchen, but it was hard to make out the conversation, so I crept down a few more steps. I probably should have gone back to bed but I was worried that my father had lost his job or that something was wrong with my mother and everyone was hiding it from me. I walked into the kitchen, where I found Franklin sitting next to my father, his head buried in both hands, crying. I had never seen a guy that age cry, and it scared me. Sensing my presence, they both looked up.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  Franklin wiped the tears from his cheeks with both hands. “Just go to bed,” he said, “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  I went upstairs and lay there for about an hour. When I heard Franklin and my father talking outside my room, I pretended I was asleep. Franklin came in, closing the door behind him. His bed groaned as he collapsed onto it. All was quiet, until he came over to my bed, sitting down on its edge and pulling the covers up to my chin. Then he placed his hand on my forehead and ran his fingers through my hair the way my mother does when I’m sick. It was very hard for me not to cry but I didn’t want to make Franklin feel worse, so I lay quietly until he wandered back to his own bed and went to sleep.

  The next day Carlos Perez, the cop who’d served in Iraq, showed up at the house, and he and Franklin went off together.

  THE STUPID LAW

  Mr. Gregory had his march on Jackson’s house organized for noon on the first weekend of December. Although my father, Franklin, and I had talked all week about the stupidity of the event, we decided to make an appearance and see what Gregory was up to. I told Lucky and Jorge to meet us there at 12:30.