Pay It Forward

by Catherine Ryan Hyde

  It’s not my fault. People just like to put a name and a face on their hatred. My face goes real well with hatred. I’ve noticed that.

  It’s better, now, though. It was hard for the first few months. But now. Everything’s better now.

  HIS MOTHER WAS HOME FROM WORK—the good news. Ralph was still awake—the bad.

  Gordie held the smeary handkerchief to his nose and tried to slip by. If only his mother would let him slip by. But she wanted to see his face, so Ralph saw it, too.

  “Oh, honey,” she said, grabbing Gordie’s arm. He tried to pull away, but he felt so weak and shaky. “Oh, Gordie. Honey. What happened to you?” She turned him around and tried to move the handkerchief away. His only cover.

  “Nothing, Ma. I’m fine. I fell down, is all.”

  She disappeared suddenly, pushed out of the way by her new husband. Ralph loomed in his face, holding Gordie’s wrist to keep him from running. Gordie longed suddenly for the familiar company of the three men from the bar. They seemed safer in comparison. At least they were not in his home.

  “What the hell’s all over your face, boy?”

  He felt the back of Ralph’s hand, hard. He heard his mother scream. Gordie fell easily, steadied himself on hands and knees, tried to keep his head down. No more. Not tonight. Please no more tonight. He wiggled a loose molar with his tongue.

  “Stand up to me, boy. You hear?” A roar, a bellow, like the roar of a forest fire out of control. He did not stand up.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother grab Ralph from behind, grab him with her arms around his neck. They yelled at each other, but Gordie couldn’t make out the words. Ralph shook her off, turned back to Gordie. But Gordie had seen that brief window of opportunity and used it. He launched from his crouched position like a runner at the gun.

  He locked the door of his room before Ralph could catch him.

  The door shuddered when Ralph hit it. Gordie wedged a chair under the knob. His hands trembled, a feeling that ran all the way to a place inside his gut. A second strike came, followed by the sound of wood splintering, but the door held.

  Then relative quiet.

  Gordie could hear his mother’s voice, the steady, comforting litany of it. Couldn’t make out all the words, though. Something about how Ralph should take some nice deep breaths and she would fix him a nice drink.

  Their footsteps moved off down the hall.

  Gordie washed his face in his bathroom sink. The comfort of warm water, the sting of soap. Leftover blood and makeup swirled down the drain.

  Then he lay on his back on the bed, wondering what Wolf might have looked like. Wishing he had aspirin, but they were in the kitchen.

  In time he heard a shy, gentle knock that he knew was his mother. He rose painfully and unlocked the door, then lay down again.

  “Lock it behind you, Ma.”

  “He’s asleep, sweetie.”

  “Passed out, you mean.”

  She didn’t answer. She sat on the edge of his bed and handed him three aspirin and a half glass of water. He swallowed the aspirin. She gave him an ice bag for his face. He wanted to put it everywhere at once. His head pounded with pain, his chin and nose felt painfully swollen. His jaw ached at the spot of the loose teeth. He put the bag over his nose and eyes. The world disappeared.

  “He’s not a bad man, honey. It just makes him mad. If you could just wash your face before you come home. Maybe change your clothes. Just don’t rub his nose in it, you know?”

  “Sure, Ma. Okay, I will.”

  “He’s not a bad man.”

  “Ma? I just want to go to sleep. I don’t really want to talk tonight, okay? I just want to go to sleep.”

  He heard her slip out and close the door gently behind her.

  He woke hours later from a bad dream, with melted ice soaking the sheets and pillow around his head. The pain wouldn’t let him get back to sleep. He’d been dreaming of the cop who gave him the handkerchief. In the dream, he didn’t help. He laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  CHRIS

  The call came in at 7 A.M.; hard to think of it as a good thing. His girlfriend, Sally, groaned, rolled over, and wrapped a pillow around her ears.

  Even through a fog of sleep, Chris recognized the voice immediately. Roger Meagan, a friend of sorts. A cop. An unlikely friend. Overall, Chris didn’t think highly of cops. He’d met some he liked quite well—Roger, for example—but it discouraged him that the only honest, idealistic, unjaded cops tended to be the brand-new ones. He didn’t figure he blamed them for callousing up, not in a world like this one. He fought the tendency himself. Maybe if he could fight it, so could they.

  “Sorry, Chris. I forgot you like to sleep in.”

  What he liked had nothing to do with it. He rarely got to bed until three. “What’s up?”

  “I’m not sure, really. I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe a story. I don’t know. I guess that sounds stupid. Wake you out of a sound sleep, then say maybe it’s nothing. But if it is something, it’s something big. Real big. I just thought it might be a good thing for you to hear it first. I mean, it’s known, but—one little angle of it. If you could break some pattern…if there is a pattern…oh, hell. I’m not making much sense, am I?”

  “You’re sure as hell not, Roger, slow down. Let me get my brain cells back in line. One fact at a time.” Were there facts involved? He hadn’t heard any yet.

  “You know gang killings have taken a real drop lately.”

  “I heard that. But it’s just a fluke, right? I mean, what else could it be?”

  “I don’t know, Chris. I figure that’s where a good investigative reporter comes in.”

  “So you want the name of a good one?”

  “Shut up, man. You’re good. You know you are. Look. Two months ago, the number of shootings drops eighty percent.”

  “Drops to eighty percent?”

  “No. By eighty percent.”

  “I didn’t know it was that much.”

  “Well, everybody kind of wants to lay low about it. Like, you just know it can’t last. Everybody acts like it’s magic or something. We just stay real quiet, like we think we’ll…I don’t know, scare it away or something. Then last month, one gang death in all five city boroughs. One, Chris. Do you realize how remarkable that is? I mean, in a good weekend sometimes we’d get two dozen. I mean, not a good weekend, but…you know.”

  “And this month?”

  “Everybody’s alive so far. So far as we know.”

  Chris felt his brain pull away into the intricate strain he associated with contemplating infinity. Hard enough trying to figure out how things happen. Why things happen. But why they don’t happen? Like doing a story on the wind. What would he do, interview people on a street corner in the South Bronx? Excuse me, ma’am, what’s your theory on why you weren’t hit by a stray bullet last month?

  “You think there’s a reason?”

  “Man, everything has a reason.”

  “Want to put your next paycheck on that?”

  “There are no accidents in this world, Chris.”

  He almost scoffed, but caught himself. Imagine taking the jaded side in an argument with a cop. “Roger. Where in God’s name do you think I’d begin with something like this?”

  “Start with a guy named Mitchell Scoggins. He knows something about something. We picked him up on an illegal weapons charge. Went out to settle a score with some rival banger, but nobody got hurt. He said it was a point of honor. But—what honor? Whose honor? Since when is it a point of honor to go after your enemy with a gun and then not kill him? It’s like a new gang law or something. But he won’t tell me anything about it. I’m ‘the man,’ you know? He’s not going to talk to me.”

  “Where’s Mitchell right now?”

  “Doing thirty days at County.”

  1993 interview by Chris Chandler,

  from Tracking the Movement

  MITCHELL: It’s not a New York thing. I mean, now it
is. But it didn’t start here. It started in L. A. I mean, way I hear it. I mean, word on the street. They sayin’ that.

  CHRIS: I hear you know all about it. I hear the whole thing started with you.

  MITCHELL: Not even close. Nice try, man. You think I got a ego, huh? I tell you what the word is. Guy named Sidney G. He take credit for the whole thing. Tell you he the guy thought the whole thing up. Not that I ever met him. Hell, Sidney tell you all kinda shit. That’s the word on the street. Others say no. Sidney G. mighta got it started in L. A., but it’s not his. Just picked it up somewheres. Brought it back.

  CHRIS: What? Brought what back?

  MITCHELL: The Movement.

  CHRIS: This is all part of a movement?

  MITCHELL: It moves, don’t it?

  CHRIS: Tell me about it.

  MITCHELL: I don’t know. I don’t see how you one of us. I mean, who the hell are you? Know when I’d tell you? If you crossed me. Then I’d come after you. But I wouldn’t kill you, not unless I’m all paid back. Forward, I mean. Then I’d say, I come to kill you, but man, did you luck out. Then I would tell you. It’d be, like, part of my job.

  CHRIS: What did you mean, “forward”? You said something about being all paid back, but you changed it to “forward.”

  MITCHELL: You need to go see Sidney G. He like to talk.

  CHRIS: Know where I can find him?

  MITCHELL: Shit, no. Never even met the man myself.

  HE DIRECT-DIALED THE WEST COAST after five, New York time, to save a little money, since this probably wouldn’t work anyway.

  “Parker Center.”

  “Detective Harris, please.”

  “One moment.”

  She clicked him onto a silent hold. He sat for several minutes, fidgeting, jiggling his leg. This was such a waste of time. Then there was ringing on the line.

  “Harris.”

  “Harris. Chris Chandler here.”

  “Right, buddy. What can I do for you? Kind of a zoo here. Gotta talk fast.”

  “Thought maybe I could call in a favor.”

  “If it’s legal and it doesn’t have to be right this second.”

  “No, whenever. Tomorrow. Monday. Whenever. Thought you might go through your computer. See if you can find me a banger named Sidney G.”

  “Last name?”

  “Don’t have it. I know that doesn’t help.”

  “What do you need on him?”

  “Anything that might tell me where he is. Like, if he had a parole officer, say. Then I’d know how to get in touch.”

  “This’ll take me a few days.”

  “Whatever.”

  “There’ll be dozens of Sidney G.’s.”

  “I’ll just have to track them all down, I guess. Just get me a list.”

  “Your life, man. Give me three working days.”

  HARRIS FAXED HIM A LIST two days later: Sidney Greenaway. Sidney Gerard. Sidney Garcia. Sidney Gilliam. Sidney Guzman. Sidney Guerrera. Sidney Galleglia. Sidney Garris. Sidney Gant. Sidney Gonzales. All gang-involved. Three out on parole. Five with only last-known addresses. Two currently incarcerated.

  Chris took two months tracking them all down. He thought it made him feel alive. Sally said he’d become totally obsessed, and moved out, maybe temporarily, maybe permanently. Depending on when he came to his senses. He never found Sidney Gerard. The other nine Sidneys had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

  He lost two other writing assignments in the meantime, and eight pounds. And started drinking again, though not all that much at first. It bothered him, thinking he would always know it was Sidney Gerard, because it’s always the one you can’t find.

  Looking for a man named Sidney G. Originator of the Movement. Want to make him famous. No personal questions asked. Or anybody else with info on Sidney G. or the Movement. Something about being “Paid Forward” or “Paying Forward.”

  Write to C. Chandler at P. O. box below.

  Cash reward for right info.

  He placed the ad to run for a month in the L. A. Times, then decided he’d wasted his money. Homeboys don’t read the Times. And he had no money to waste, because he’d done no real work for too long.

  He visited his brother and borrowed another grand, which was loaned with no guilt or bad feelings. He’d done it before and had always been good for it.

  Then he placed the same ad in the Valley News and the L. A. Weekly.

  He opened a P. O. box and tried to work on another story. Every day he checked the box. Every day it was empty. Not even crank letters from impostors out for reward money. Where would he get more money if something broke?

  Dear C. Chandler,

  Somebody I know see your ad in the Weekly and show it to me. Sidney G. didn’t invent nothin. Not in his whole life. He left me with two bastard kids. He don’t care. He is such a asshole. He got that thing from somebody he meet in Atascadero. He hide out there when things get hot. But it don’t work forever.

  Last I hear his sorry butt in jail. I don’t know where or care. But his name ain’t Sidney nor G. that just what he call himself. His name Ronald Pollack Jr. No wonder you can’t find him. I hope you got more trouble for him. I hope it’s a trick. That’s why I write this. Not for money. But I need money real bad, with these two kids. If you want to send some.

  Yours Truly,

  Stella Brown

  1993 interview by Chris Chandler in Soledad State Prison,

  from Tracking the Movement

  CHRIS: You could be a famous man. Right here in prison.

  SIDNEY: See how much you know. I’m already famous in this prison. Legendary.

  CHRIS: I mean famous all over the world. Could help your situation.

  SIDNEY: In what way?

  CHRIS: You know, go up before a parole board, and there it is on your record that you made this huge contribution to society.

  SIDNEY: I don’t even come up for parole till ninety-seven.

  CHRIS: That could change too.

  SIDNEY: What I gotta do?

  CHRIS: Tell me how this Movement started.

  SIDNEY: I tol’ you. Started in my head.

  CHRIS: You must be a really smart guy.

  SIDNEY: I am.

  CHRIS: How did you think of something this big?

  SIDNEY: Just kinda come to me. I just saw the way things kept going all around me. I thought, Somebody’s gotta do something different.

  Change this mess. Then I thought it up.

  CHRIS: Wow. I’m impressed. You didn’t even hear or see something similar? You know, to put the idea in your head?

  SIDNEY: Nobody put ideas in my head but me. So, how you gonna make me famous? I mean, even more than I already am.

  CHRIS: Well, I produce freelance stories. I’ll have to get a video camera in here. I’ll have to go through channels for permission. Then, when we have a spot together, I can sell it to Weekly News in Review.

  They take almost everything I do.

  SIDNEY: Think the fools that run this place’ll do it?

  CHRIS: When they find out they have a star in their midst.

  SIDNEY: Maybe the governor’ll pardon me. When he see it.

  CHRIS: You’re not exactly on death row, Sidney. I wouldn’t count on a pardon. Maybe early parole.

  SIDNEY: Yeah. Well. You do what you can for me, white boy. I’m sure you can see I don’t belong here. Big contributions I could be makin’ on the outside. The world need me out there.

  CHRIS: Yeah. Absolutely, Sidney. I can see that.

  CHRIS ARRIVED BACK IN HIS APARTMENT in New York about 7:00 A.M. Right away he called his cop friend, Roger Meagan, woke him up. That’s justice.

  “You did me a good one, buddy. I owe you. I think this is going to be big. I don’t know why I think that. No, I don’t even think it. I know it. I just know somehow. Maybe it isn’t big yet, but it will be. And by then it’ll be my story. Not that I’m at the bottom of it yet. But I will be.”

  “Who the hell is this?”

&n
bsp; “It’s Chris. Did I wake you?” He knew damn well he had.

  “Chris, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “That story you put me onto.”

  “You got to the bottom of that?”

  “I told you, not yet. But I will. Tracked it to this small-time banger calls himself Sidney G. He says he thought the whole thing up. He’s full of shit, of course.”

  “Thought what whole thing up?”

  “The Movement.”

  “This is all part of a movement?”

  “It moves, doesn’t it?”

  Roger groaned. “I don’t know what the hell it does, Chris. I haven’t even had my morning coffee. Want to loan me some of your energy?”

  I wish I could, he thought. He pulled off his shoes while he talked, and fixed himself a drink with the cordless phone clamped under his chin.

  “It’s like this, buddy. So far as I can tell. Somebody got it in their head to pass this thing along. It’s like a pyramid scheme, only it never goes back to the originators. People just keep doing amazingly nice things for people, and it just keeps going forward. It never goes back.”

  “So, what’s the angle?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be one. That’s why I’m so excited about this, Roger. Thing is, it’s a bitch to track down, because apparently there are no names involved. People go around saving lives, sparing lives, giving money away, and most of them never know who it was that helped them. No records kept.”

  He’d learned more about this last part from his visit to Stella than his Sidney G. interview. Sidney remained sketchy on details. Stella had looked at the five one-hundred-dollar bills in his hand and opened right up.

  “That’s weird, Chris. This is weird.”

  “Damn right it’s weird. That’s why I love it.”

  “But, Chris. I mean…if somebody saved your life, wouldn’t you get their name? So you could pay them back? You know, what goes around comes around?”

  “But that’s what this is about. You never pay it back. You always pay it forward. Like, what goes around goes around even faster.”