Ahgottahandleonit

by Donovan Mixon

From the taco truck parked in front of the gym entrance, Fidel watched Tim greet his homies. Chewing his fake Mexican breakfast, the jacketed-one recalled the last time he had seen the dude. It had taken him over two hours to get out of that damned chair at the gym. His wrists still ached from the tape.

  His cousin Chucky hadn’t come home yet. That boy Tim had to pay.

  But first, he had to get his piece back.

  Jones was happy to be back at school. He didn’t think anything could affect his mood—except for perhaps Tim, who had only fleetingly entered his mind the entire summer. Now, he genuinely wondered about the boy—if what had happened between them in June had gotten through—even a little bit.

  The boy had it coming. He needed somebody to get in his case. He sure wasn’t getting the message at home.

  Opening the door to the music room, the entire encounter came flooding back to him as if it had just happened. Jones shook his head and sighed. I doubt the boy heard me. Hope I get a chance to see his sorry ass today. Damn, I may have really blown it this time!

  When Tim sprinted off like he did, Sheila took a last look at the dirty tattooed boy Maurice, turned on her heel, and made haste back home for a quick shower and to think what to do next. By the time she arrived at school, it had been more than twenty minutes since the bell had sounded. The office attendant Ms. Morrison peered at Sheila over her glasses. “My, my, this is unusual for you, Miss Thornton—late on the first day? Sign here. Oh yes! Someone has been waiting for you, young lady.” She pointed over her shoulder.

  Legs crossed and leaning back in his chair, Gentrale beamed at her. “Close your mouth, girl. You gonna catch flies if you don’t,” he said dripping with affection.

  Sheila raised her hands in surprise. “Wha-what are you doing here, Uncle Gentrale?”

  “Well, I…” Gentrale leaned forward and reached into his shirt pocket.

  “Shh, wait.” She grabbed him by the arm. “Come over here—please don’t tell me that something happened to Mom?”

  “Don’t worry, honey, all is well. I took a walk, that’s all. Hey, have you seen your brother? They say he made it to homeroom this morning. Here, take this—I think he came home last night—must’ve ran off and forgotten it.”

  Sheila stared blankly at Chucky’s phone in her uncle’s outstretched hand for a few seconds before she grabbed it. Without thinking, she pushed the front button. There hadn’t been any calls and the ringer had been set on silent. Good! He wouldn’t have a clue how to access the photos anyway, she thought.

  Gentrale’s smile disappeared. “You alright, child? What’s the matter?” he said and squeezed her arm.

  Sheila’s fingers went limp at the surprise of Gentrale’s touch. The phone bounced off the ceramic floor with a loud crack and broke apart. They watched the battery slide under a heavy cabinet.

  “Oh shhh—oot!” Sheila said, immediately picking up the phone and leaving the battery to remain under the furniture. She took her uncle by the elbow and led him to an office attendant.

  “Yeah, I-I’m fine, Uncle Gentrale. I’ll get it to him. It’s third period and I’ve got to get to class. This lady will show you out. See you later…” she said and before he could say anything, she had stepped in the corridor and disappeared into the crowd.

  Timmy, where are you?

  Tim sat in the same third-period English class he’d sat in last year. Having blown off the proficiency—what else could he expect? His entire schedule was the same except for calculus and something called humanities. A text beeped in from his sister:

  Tim! Where are you? Come to the front entrance. That’s where you’ll find me. Come straight here. Don’t do anything!

  The don’t do anything part of her message prompted him to check for Chucky’s phone. He’d left it at home! His heart raced so hard that he had to rest his head on his forearms. He ignored the inquiries from his classmates and breathed deeply to calm himself. He planned to keep his head down until the teacher approached his desk. In the end, he was left alone to his own thoughts. There would be no chance of getting the phone back this time. It didn’t matter anyway. Soon he would have to deal with Fidel. He had no idea what that would look like. And besides, before anything else happened, he hoped to catch up with Jones.

  At the bell, on the way to the cafeteria, he scooted down to the exit to check parking space 202. Jones’ old Ford with the hanging hubcap sat as patiently as ever.

  “Yo, s’up? Checking on your new ride? Haaa!” Spank held a cigarette in his mouth while balancing himself on the banister.

  “I’m cool. S’up with you?” Tim said, trying to snatch the cigarette from his lips.

  “Cool. Man, you be cut, dawg! What, you been like living at the gym?” Spank mumbled, still holding onto the butt.

  “Nah, man, nothing like that, yo. Just doing what I have to. You know.” Tim turned to leave the stairwell.

  Spank jumped down from the banister. “Speakin’ of the gym—you seen Fidel? I think he be looking for your ass.” He said ass with a lusty smile.

  “Well, I’m around, Spank-a-Lank. He don’t have to look too hard.”

  Spank smiled that piranha grin again as he took a drag. “Says you got some property of his. Didn’t say what. That true?”

  Tim stopped short and turned around. “Tell him he can come and find me whenever he wants.”

  “I hear that! Yo, we gonna hook up later for some beer and splif. You in?” Spank snuffed out his cigarette, put what was left in his wallet.

  “Le-lemme get back to you on that. Cool?” Tim said with a wave of the hand. He had to get out of there.

  Spank watched Tim turn the corner. “Cool. Yeah-heh-heh…Tim! My man!

  “Yeah, yeah, Spank, whatever.” Tim’s words were lost in the noise of the halls.

  “Tim! Tim Thornton. You hear me talking to you, boy! Come over here. Do you know your sister been asking around for you?” It was Les calling from down the hall. Tim turned around with his hand over his crotch. “Yo, I got your boy right here! Come and get it, ha! Damn, seems like she’s always looking for me lately. I’ll catch up with her sooner or…”

  In a wink, Les had grabbed Tim by the arm and pulled him down the stairwell.

  “Wa-wait a minute, dawg, what are you doing? Didn’t you hear? That’s the bell. Now I’m late,” Tim said pulling away.

  Les wasn’t having it and wouldn’t let go. “Yo, man, I don’t wanna see you hanging around with that fool Spank. I told you what they’re saying about you and Fidel’s cousin. Do you hear me? He’ll get your ass in tro…”

  “Ahgottahandleonit, dawg. Now let go of my arm.”

  “What?” Les said, releasing him. He looked him up and down as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing/hearing. He was pissed too. “What the fuck does that mean? You for real?”

  Tim held his hand up high. Les took it in his and they bumped shoulders. “Don’t sweat it, homie, I’m not about to get involved with Spank and them. Good to know you always got my back.”

  Les pushed Tim back and gave him a hard look again. “Wha-what? You sick or something? DID-YOU-SEE the police out in front of the building? What’s up with that? Are they still messing with you?”

  “You seen Mr. Jones around?”

  Les held up his hands. “Yeah, okay—okay, homie—if you wanna play it like that. He’ll be in the cafeteria next period. I heard him talkin’ to somebody. Uh-oh, look who’s comiiiing. I’m outta here. Catch you later.”

  “Hey, Timmy!” Maria said, wearing a big smile and a pair of painted on jeans.

  “Yo, I told you, people don’t call me that no more. Okay?”

  Maria folded her arms and pursed her lips as if she wasn’t buying any of it. “Humph…okay, Tim. Hey—you got yourself some new muscles!” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder and letting it travel down to his bicep.

  He took her hand away as delicately as he could. “Go on, girl, you don’t want to mess with me, with your cute self—wha-what you looking at?�
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  Staring over his shoulder, Maria held both hands up to her mouth. “Turn around, Timmy.”

  “So, um like…whoa, wha-what’s up?”

  “TURN AROUND NOW!” she said, making a megaphone with her hands.

  “Yo-ho-ho, Tim! You dim? Hee-hee. Yeah, motherfucker, I am talking to you, that’s right, my nigger. S’up?”

  “Fidel! You must be one crazy negro—still, in this heat, hanging with that leather jacket. Hey, it’s summertime! Or didn’t you notice?” Tim said, taking his backpack off one shoulder and unzipping it.

  “Oh, so like you’re all concerned about me now, huh? Hmm—since you have something of mine, you must think that you are in a position to punk me. I imagine you’ve been keeping it with you twenty-four-seven! Yeah, go ahead, I know what you’re thinking to do, bitch. Do you think I didn’t hear that click? Go on, pull your hand out of the backpack, faggot—if you got the balls.”

  “What did you say, motherf—?” Tim reached deeper into the bag.

  “TIIIIMMY!” screamed Maria.

  “WHAAAT?” he screamed over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off of Fidel.

  “A teacher is coming up the stairs! Hurry up and get the hell out of here! Go, go, go!”

  He sprinted to the next stairwell, down to the lower level and then straight to the music room that was locked. Through the window in the door, he saw the primary witnesses to the shame: the old red, white & blue, hanging solemnly in its holder as the drum set and piano, ready to fill the space with sound at the slightest touch, sat silently under tarps. The trashcan, sitting on its side in the middle of the room reminded him of Jones’ face when he’d kicked it against the wall. The memories brought the weight of the entire summer down upon him, starting with Jones to his pitiful father, weak mother, that chump Maurice, Darryl, dead Chucky, and finally this fool Fidel. Sitting on the floor now, he covered his face as Jones’ words came to him: What you do matters, Tim. He wondered if Jones had thought about what he did? Had it crossed his mind even once over the whole damned summer? Even if he had meant good, he blew it when he tried to punk him. Did the bitch motherfucker think about the possible consequences for jumping on me like that?

  The fifth period bell was about to ring. In the emptiness and quiet of the corridor, he reminded himself of the police hanging around. Was it the lull before the storm? Probably. He calmed himself by letting what he had to do take shape in his mind before what was surely to come.

  Upstairs, the halls were electric with end of the summer energy. But Sheila moved in a daze as she searched for her brother. Even Rene, her rock, claimed she hadn’t seen Tim since the music fest. His silly friends—Spank and Lucy—hung out at the west entrance like they were paid sentries. Yes, they’d seen him, but couldn’t say where he’d gone.

  “Me seems he was in a real hurry, yo!” Lucy told her. “You know, Fidel’s been asking around for him—some shit’s goin’ down today.”

  Sheila didn’t remember so many students last year. The halls seemed jammed packed with jabbering, laughing teenagers. She had to look twice at practically every other boy. Today they all looked like her brother. Then something that looked like a giant bandage in the shape of Maurice made its way towards her! However, when their eyes met, she had to laugh as the thug limped off in the opposite direction.

  Her phone beeped with a text from Darryl:

  Where are you going, girl? You trying to dis me? Turn around.

  The make-believe gang-banger had been in class all morning and didn’t know anything—besides he would be one of the last people (after Maurice maybe) who would want to see Tim.

  A voicemail from Gentrale chimed in:

  Call me. The police are parked in front of the house again.

  She returned to the main foyer of the building—two cruisers were now parked out front.

  A familiar voice called out to her. “Yo, Sheila! Have you seen your brother yet?”

  “No, Mr. Les, I’m still looking. When you see him, tell him, don’t do anything! He needs to find me now!” she said, turning towards the exit.

  “What you talking about? Do what?”

  But Sheila hadn’t heard. She had already left the building.

  Jones, stewing in his own guilty juices, wolfed down his lunch: pizza, fruit salad, corn chips and Coke. He’d been watching the cafeteria door from a corner table for awhile and was having doubts. Aw shit—he’s not coming. It’s strange that I haven’t seen him all morning. I heard that he’d made it to homeroom. Maybe it’s true what they’re saying about him. Hmm…

  He had been hearing things—something about a kid named Chucky disappearing and Tim having something to do with it. From somewhere, he’d heard that Tim had gone off the deep end, was getting revenge for everything that happened over the summer.

  Everything? Getting revenge for everything? he thought. And who’s this kid in a coat I’m hearing about?

  The air of the cafeteria, rank with the stink of processed foods, sat on top of them like a moist layer of imitation mozzarella. It was hot and crowded. Until the sixth period bell, students were allowed in, but not out. With their junk food lunches consumed and thirty minutes remaining in the period, spontaneous arm wrestling matches, rap competitions, card games, celebrity impersonations, and insult contests broke out willy-nilly. The security staff, knowing well who to keep an eye on, stood motionless at the exits, brandishing meaty forearms.

  The noise, heat and stink had put Jones into a state of sensory overload. Though he had reached his limit, he couldn’t move from his chair. Staring unseeing straight ahead, he sat with his elbows on the table. The idea that Tim was getting revenge for everything that happened over the summer repeated in his mind.

  He never saw Tim walk up to the table.

  “S’up, Mr. Jones?”

  Tim’s voice cut through the noise like a table saw. Taller, broader, blacker—he stood silently and waited. Jones hesitated, then banged his knee when he stood up and extended his hand. “Well, hello, Tim. How are you? How was your summer?”

  Tim shook his hand. “Good—uh, interesting.”

  “Interesting? I like the sound of that. Hey, you’ve been working out!”

  Tim snorted loudly, looked around to see if anyone was paying attention and muttered, “Humph, yeah, like negro please.”

  “What did you say?” Jones asked, pretending to not have heard. But Tim saw a rash of anger flit over his teacher’s face. It brought him back to their last meeting. He thought, Oh! So now what, BITCH? Is this like round two?

  He took off his backpack.

  Ten minutes before the end of the period bell, Fidel pushed into the cafeteria.

  “I didn’t say nothin’—anything!” Tim said as he reached into the backpack. “I-I wanted to say, uh —about last June…”

  Jones had long stopped looking at Tim’s face. Instead he stared at the backpack. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk here, Tim.”

  “Nah, let me tell you here. Now,” he said, looking Jones dead in the eyes.

  There was a jostling in the crowd of students behind Tim. Les had pushed through. “Psst, yo, dawg! You don’t have to do this shit.”

  Tim kept his eyes on Jones. “Shut the hell up, Les. Mind your business and leave me alone.”

  Jones sat back down. Now, at eye level with Tim’s concealed hand, he appeared to be speaking directly to it. “Uh, maybe you should listen to your friend.”

  Tim lowered his voice and stepped closer to the table. “You know, you had no right to jump on me like you did.”

  “Tim, uh—let’s-not-do-this-here,” Jones said with resignation. He wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

  “What the fuck are you doing, man?” pleaded Les.

  Tim shot Les a look and faced Jones again. “Nah-nah, Mr. Jones. We’re gonna to do this. You know that you had no right to jump on me like you did? Right?”

  Jones’ lips quivered. “Okay—okay, yes. I shouldn’t have jumped on you like I did.”


  Tim looked to his left for a moment, inhaled loudly before fixing Jones’ eyes again. “Aw, so now you gonna to play me? Did you have the right, yo?”

  Jones noticed that the crowd had quietly formed a circle around them, careful to not attract the attention of the security guards. None the wiser, they stood serenely at their posts glancing at their watches. There were still five minutes before the bell. “No, Tim. I had no right. Now let’s get out of here and…” Jones went to stand up.

  Half smiling, Tim held out his hand and gestured for his teacher to sit back down and was surprised when he did. “Yeah, what you do and say matters—and all that shit. Right, Mr. Jones?”

  Jones’ handkerchief was soaked completely through. So was the front of his shirt. He couldn’t see the guards for the wall of students that surrounded his table. They were laughing, hi-fiving and shushing each other at the same time. His former student stood still as a statue, muscles bulging, his hand still in the bag. “Ti-Tim, it doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “TIMMEEEE!” screamed Sheila from the hallway. Almost as if on cue, six huge cops dressed to kill burst through the cafeteria doors like bison. Tim turned around to see Fidel, grinning death as he tried to flip the switch on him—inducing death by cop.

  “He’s got a gun!” he screamed.

  Everybody hit the floor.

  CONTEMPLATION

  Tim stretched out on his bunk and stared at the blank ceiling of his cell. He was thinking that the readings about astronomy that Darryl had turned him onto over the summer would come in handy now. Had he the chance and the supplies, instead of randomly throwing up star cutouts—as he’d done a couple years ago to his bedroom ceiling—he would arrange them so that Orion’s belt would line up with the dog star Sirius. After that, placing the big and small dippers would be a breeze with Polaris positioned to appear as though everything rotated around it.

  A single-piece stainless steel sink and toilet unit were bolted to the wall. Both he and his cellmate, Hernandez or Hanz, had taped up family photos on the wall at the foot of their bunks.