Ahgottahandleonit

by Donovan Mixon

  As he cleaned up, Jones’ mind wouldn’t rest.

  Damn! Lucky we were on the ground floor. What have I done? A better question would be, Who’s the unemployed sorry ass when the administration hears about this? Damn! Would he report me? Nah! He knew he had it coming. Maybe I wasn’t the one to do it, but he surely needed somebody to put some fear into him.

  He went to pick up the xylophone, but his lower back was having none of it. With a loud crash, instrument and teacher went down together. Luckily he landed on his back to the side of the thing. Lying still, he listened to the decrescendo of tones emanating from the upturned instrument like the whine of a wounded animal and wondered how cigarette burns got into the panels of the drop ceiling. The cheap carpeting was as shocked as he was at the torrent of tears flowing down his temples.

  ESCAPE

  Tim ran.

  Images moved lazily across his mind: Jones’ face—sad, furious and then sad again. They’re in the classroom, the one and only session when he’d read an entire paragraph aloud without a single error. Sheila’s churlish insult at the kitchen table: “You silly asphalt.” His uncle’s critical gaze. Out of nowhere, his mother’s tired face moved in as he relived scraps of arguments between her and his dad—something about an indictment—that it was all her fault.

  Back to Jones—imagining the dude climbing out of the window and sprinting across the grass in those pleated pants and black socks stopped him in his tracks. Man, you crazy—like he really was going to come after you—ha!

  Only after shooing away a homeless man did Tim notice that he had gone in the opposite direction from home. He was standing on Clifton Ave at the corner of Bloomfield where the old pawnshop with the broken window stood, its shiny junk proudly on display. On this bright summer day, street hawkers in full force manned their stands—hot dogs, boiled corn, bean pies, toys, incense, essential oils, costume jewelry, USB drives, counterfeit CDs and DVDs were everywhere, all for sale. Car horns blared. A queue of drivers yelled at some unlucky girl in a stalled SUV until a policeman—hand on pistol, jaw set for action—arrived at the scene.

  Keeping one eye on the cop, Tim bent down to help an old lady pick up some groceries she had dropped. His own reflection in a storefront window showed what looked like another homeless person in a torn oversized T-shirt and a pair of frumpy jeans. His entire left side sported a shadow of green from his roll on the wet grass. When a dull pain in his side reminded him of the xylophone, fresh embarrassment shot through him like a transfusion. Mumbling curses, he began to throw the groceries into the bags. “Mind what you’re doing, child!” chided the old woman. Her homey admonition calmed him, but the expression on her face told him that she wasn’t going to take any lip.

  However, when a group of kids bumped into him as they ran by, he turned and yelled, “Y’all better watch where the f— I mean, watch where y’all going!”

  Tim wanted to sprout wings, jump up and fly out of this place, perhaps to land at his father’s apartment. Seeing those kids with musical instruments made his side hurt even more. In his mind’s eye, the angry face of Jones loomed forward—his voice speaking the truth inside of him. The word respect reminded him of the time Jones spoke about a neighborhood shooting. A boy was shot during an argument over a basketball game. Tim was surprised to hear Jones say that it wasn’t about someone being dissed, as he’d concluded, but that it was more about someone going for a cheap victory with a gun instead of trying to legitimately earn the respect of another person.

  Suddenly he couldn’t breathe or see as tears rained from his eyes and nose upon the groceries. He felt the old woman’s hand on his shoulder. “It-it’ll be alright, child. I-I didn’t mean to yell at ya,” she said with crumbly regret in her voice. Saying nothing, he finished with the bags and walked away, wiping his eyes with the end of his shirt.

  Damn, man, why the fuck are you crying like some crazy fool here on the street and shit? You know the dude wasn’t trying to hurt you. Yeah, you had no business getting up in his face, but he had no fucking right to—huh?

  Across the street in front of Brown’s Bakery, Sheila and Rene spoke with some dude wearing a single glove with no fingers. Tim thought he recognized him, but at the moment he didn’t care. He had to get away quick. If his sister saw him on the street in his stained T-shirt, he would have to hear about it for the rest of the summer. Mr. Brown, who had recently caught him with a scone in his pocket, popped out onto the sidewalk. Tim nearly fell down a basement stairway as he turned to get away. By the time the storekeep turned in his direction, the only trace of the fugitive was a flying streak of blue and white.

  PULLING BACK THE CURTAIN

  From her seat, Sheila had a clear view of the driver and every soul that boarded the bus. She thought of her dad and wondered if—like for this driver—it had been the stress of sitting all day, saying the same things over and over and arguing with people that made him turn to the bottle every night. How boring it must be! Yes, miss, this is the 49 Downtown Line—move towards the back, please—no, m’am, you need exact change—sorry, this transfer has expired—you have to get off the bus now or I’ll have to call the police.

  Sheila looked at Rene sitting next to her and marveled at how she hadn’t even broken a sweat while sweat rolled down her own temples and her handkerchief had long gone soggy. Making a run to the other side of town to Sal’s Finance wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to spend her afternoon. The fuck-face owned the loan her dad had taken to pay her mom’s legal bills. It would be a late payment—she knew the drill: Wait in line, present the bill, act surprised at the penalty fee, claim ignorance—say she was running an errand for her mother and that she only had the money for one month. They would send her home with a receipt and a note that warned of the apocalypse if they didn’t pay by a certain date. They will just have to wait, that’s all. What are they going to do? Repossess our Bentley? Four more stops to go. They had been sitting in this sauna on wheels for too long now and they still had a five-block walk to the loan shark’s office.

  She peeked at Rene again out of the corner of her eye and thought, She’s really smart and looks good. I’m going to have a body like that one of these days.

  Sheila could never figure what the hell Rene saw in her brother. Yes, they were middle-school sweethearts, but they were all just kids back then.

  Sheila wasn’t surprised to hear that Rene and Tim were off again. She kept trying to avoid the subject, but Rene wouldn’t talk about anything else. Rene was usually quite animated when she spoke, but today her hands remained in her lap, massaging each other slowly.

  “I thought you knew me and Tim weren’t together?”

  Sheila looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was paying attention to what they were saying. “How would I know that, Rene? He hardly talks to me. So, uh, what happened between you two?”

  A car with a 1000-watt stereo system paused at the light next to them. Rene leaned in close. “So, uh—what?”

  “Wha-what happened?” Sheila yelled into her ear.

  Lips pursed in disapproval, Rene had apparently caught the eye of the driver of the loud car.

  Sheila considered that maybe her friend was trying to stare down the volume of the boom-box on wheels. Rene waited for the dude to speed off and said. “Well, it’s obvious you don’t wanna talk about it. I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “No, no, girl, tell me. For real! But keep your voice down.”

  “Well…” whispered Rene, covering her mouth. Her expression turned serious. “It’s mostly about that Maria girl.”

  “Oh no!” Sheila said, holding her hands to her mouth.

  “What-what’s up, homegirl?” Rene said touching her forearm.

  “That silly boy Maurice Rice just got on. He beat up Tim in the park yesterday,” she said, settling back onto her seat.

  Rene shook her head side to side, “Wh-what? Why?”

  Keeping an eye on Maurice, Sheila held onto the handle of the seat in front of
her as if she expected turbulence. “He and his boys are always fucking with me in the halls. You know how they do. I ended up telling him that my brother was going to whip his ass.”

  “You what? Sheila! What the hell?” Rene whispered and pushed Sheila’s arm away. Sheila let go of the handle and grabbed Rene’s hand. “Shh–shh, here he comes.”

  The bus had suddenly emptied out a bit. Maurice, wearing huge headphones, sauntered over to them, bobbing his head to some down-low beat. “Well, well. Who do we have here? Hee–hee. S’up, Sheila? How you doin’, Rene baby?”

  “I’m so not your baby, Maurice. Please!” Rene folded her arms and looked out the window.

  “I guess not—not yet! So, Sheila…” he said, head bobbing in time to the track in his phones…“you ain’t speakin’ or what?” He punched a fist into his palm like some kind of punctuation.

  “Hey, Maurice,” Sheila said, as stonily as possible.

  “Yeah, I’m cool. Ha! Seems to me you ain’t so talkative today. Not like the last time I saw you.”

  A couple seconds passed. The bus accelerated and jerked. People were watching now. Sheila turned towards Maurice with such force, the boy flinched. “Hey, Scarface, I don’t have anything to say to you. Ok? Especially after what you did to my brother.”

  Rene cracked up. “Oh–ho-ho! Aw man—Scarface? You didn’t say that…”

  “Shut up, Rene,” Sheila said, fixing her gaze on the thug.

  Maurice held onto the overhead bar and leaned forward. Sheila frowned at his BO. “So we gonna play it like that, huh—innocent and shit? Like you ain’t got nothin’ to do with it?”

  “Maurice—I have to go,” Sheila said and pushed the boy out of the way as she rose from her seat. “This is our stop, yo! Get up, Rene.”

  Rene hesitated, looking a bit confused. She knew Maurice liked her and was dangerous. She didn’t want to mess with him. He had taunted Tim a couple times when they were still together.

  “Nah nah, get out of my way, brother,” Sheila insisted, holding up her hand towards the bully as she spoke. “This is my stop,” she said, moving down the first steps. “You stay on the bus and go on with your sad business. Come on, Rene, the doors are about to close!” She held out a hand to her friend.

  Hand in hand, they hopped from the bus onto the sidewalk, laughed and fanned themselves with relief. The moment was short-lived. As the bus started to pull off, the asshole managed to hold the doors open enough to squeeze through. Sheila threw her hands up and pleaded with him, “Aw man, Maurice, what do you want? Don’t you have somewhere to go?”

  The boy adjusted his shirt. It had caught in the closing doors. Busting a major sag that day, he gave a quick tug to his waistband and came back with, “I can get off wherever I want to. Like I was just saying—I remember you giving me some kind of bullshit about your brother kickin’ my ass. I only gave him a chance. Seems to me the story had a different ending.”

  Sheila, breathing hard, stood nose to nose with him, about two inches from his face.

  “Whoa, back off girl. Rene, tell yo’ girl to back off.”

  Rene’s eyes were filled with panic as she grabbed Sheila’s arm. “Come on, baby. You don’t want to fool with him.”

  “That’s right. Tell her before somebody gets popped,” Maurice barked as he backed away. He held his hand sideways, pointing his middle and index fingers at them.

  Sheila shook off Rene’s hand. “What kind of chance was that, Maurice? You and two of your thugs holding Tim down, kicking and beating him.”

  Rene had taken a couple steps away from the action. “Come on, Sheila, let’s go.” She sounded as if she was going to cry at any minute.

  “Was Darryl Campbell there?” Sheila demanded and took a step towards the thug again. Maurice backed up and held up both hands, amused. “Look look. Hands up, don’t shoot! Ha, you crazy girl. You better get your big ass outta my face. Why you wanna know who was there? What difference…”

  “WAS-HE-THERE-MAU-RICE?” Sheila growled. Her voice bounced off the buildings.

  Everyone on the street stopped to watch them.

  Maurice’s smile drooped a little. He didn’t like the way things were going. An audience was the last thing he needed if he was going to slap the shit out of this fat girl. So he answered her straight. Well, straight enough. “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. Anyway, he didn’t do nothin’—stood around and shit. He didn’t have to do nothin’, you know? Your bro wasn’t exactly hard work! Haaa! Word is that even Mr. Jones got a piece of him last period today!”

  “What you talkin’ about, man. I’ll…Rene, let me go. Shit, the fool is running away now. Why’d you do that?”

  Maurice yelled from across the street. “Yeah, Rene, thanks for savin’ my ass from thunder-thighs! Hee-hee!”

  BULLY

  About mid-block, Tim slowed his pace. At the corner Chucky was busily torturing what looked like a middle-school kid. He could tell from the expression on the boy’s face that the skateboard Chucky rode in circles was probably his. Chucky was like, “What you gonna do? Take it back if you can. Come on, pint-boy! Tick-tock! You got about sixty seconds before I leave with this piece of shit.”

  The scrawny motherfucker grabbed the kid’s cap and put it on his own head just to aggravate the situation. Tim thought the middle-schooler was going to cry. If he hadn’t shown up, Chucky would have already left with the board.

  The kid’s tormentor continued to circle and taunt the twelve-year-old as he spoke. “What up, Tim?” he said, making a quick swerve to avoid the kid who tried to take advantage of the distraction.

  “Hey, man, why don’t you give the boy his board?” Tim smiled as he spoke to lighten his words, but his eyes weren’t cooperating.

  Chucky had to stop and flip the board backwards to avoid the kid’s latest attempt. “Whoa-ho-ho, my little brother. Nice try. Now you got about thirty seconds. Tim, what you talking about? What’s it to you? You know this dude or something?” he said and jumped right back on the board.

  Tim put a hand on the chest of the middle-schooler to chill him out. “Yeah, I know him and his family. He’s cool, man. Now stop with this bullshit and…” This time when Chucky came around, Tim snatched the cap off of his head and stomped on the edge of the skateboard. The punk jumped off just in time to land on his feet. He wasn’t happy.

  “Shit, Tim,” he screamed. “You almost made me…”

  “Fall?” Tim said in a dramatic high falsetto, holding a hand over his chest. He sent the boy off with his cap, skateboard and a fist bump, both laughing their asses off.

  “Man, that’s some shit you pulled. I gotta fly now, but payback is a bitch,” Chucky said, turning away. “I guess I’ll catch you at Spank’s throw-down.”

  Tim watched the kid cross the street. “Oh yeah, I’ll be there, Chucky. See you then.”

  Chucky yelled over his shoulder, “You can bet on it.” His words echoed off the brick and concrete.

  Tim shoved his hands into his pockets and whistled while he walked—he wanted to appear unflustered, cool. But he was mad as hell and ashamed. Soon his walk became a trudge, his tune a noise of disgust. Leaning upon a large city trash receptacle he took a quick sniff at his armpit. Dag, you stink! And what’s going on here? In the last thirty minutes you had to escape an ass-whipping, slip by your little sis on the street—and who was that dude with the glove anyway? Running from an old man in an apron don’t even sound good and what the fuck was I doing with Chucky and that kid? Ew, what’s that?

  Curiously, he had walked three blocks without seeing much of the neighborhood, like the balloon merchant, only ten feet away, nearly overwhelmed by a rowdy brood of siblings or the kids in the playground he’d just passed. He hadn’t even seen the old lady sitting in the window of the brownstone in front of him. Somehow the stalled car with the overheated radiator and barking terrier in the back seat had missed his attention. And he may have never noticed the busload of onlookers behind him had he not followed his nose to
the half rotting pigeon staring at him from inside the trashcan.

  All of a sudden, something in his belly wanted out, and wanted out fast. Shocked at his guts suddenly erupting, he held on tight to the wire-mesh rim as his throat stretched open to maximize passage of the chunky, bitter spew. Within seconds the corpse was no longer visible. Only a slimy wing protruded from the stinky slop.

  When he finally looked up, the bus passengers had lost interest. His audience had been reduced to an old mangy cat and a wild-haired bus driver. When the vehicle pulled away, the hiss of the air brakes dismissed him with a sound of disgust. Nevertheless, feeling better and grateful for the napkin in his pocket, he smiled. Turning on his heel, he kicked a can into the gutter and decided to walk the two and a half miles home. He needed time to think.

  REGRET

  It was an hour later by the time Jones got to his car, half expecting to see Tim waiting in the school parking lot with a couple of his boys, perhaps to eye him menacingly, lob an F-bomb or worse. No such luck, the grounds were clear.

  It was hot and his AC was on the blink. Jones sat heavily in the driver’s seat, grabbed a towel from a gym bag and vigorously wiped his entire head and neck dry. As soon as he was done, sweat began to collect on his forehead and upper lip. In the rearview mirror, dark spots on his shirt reminded him of the futility of his tussle with Tim. He reclined his seat as far as possible, waited for the ache in his lower back to subside and thought of a time when his dad had chastised him, the only time that he’d actually struck him. It was an accident really—his mom and dad had been arguing when he came into the room and asked for permission to go outside.