Plantation of Chrome

by R. J. Coulson

  “That’d be amazing. So if I come back then, you’ll have my hat?”

  “I can’t promise anything, but we’ll see. Just promise to come back.”

  Stone was left standing for a while. Julia Sedgewick was already cutting out some of the fabric. She looked at him and smiled. Stone wasn’t sure what to do, but then decided to wish Julia Sedgewick goodbye. But then, as he was leaving the workshop, he turned and said,

  “Why weren’t you in church the other Sunday? I don’t think I noticed you.”

  “I wasn’t there,” she said and smiled. “I overslept.”

  Messenger woke up with a shriek that sent a throbbing tear through the little pocket of darkness in which he had been sleeping. He put his one hand on the cold window by his bed. He breathed heavily, sweat pouring off him. He swung his legs out of bed and got up, and, steering blindly through the darkness, he reached the end of the room, where he embraced the sink’s cold porcelain. He turned on the water and let it flow. He rubbed some onto his face, careful not to wet the bandages around his head. He drank some too, but as he stepped forward to reach closer to the tap, he stubbed his toe against something hard on the floor.

  “God damn it!” he yelled. He bent down to feel what it was, but before he touched it, he realized that it must have been the monkey wrench. He cursed it and slid it to the other side of the room, where it hit the wall with a soft thud. Messenger returned to his bed, but he didn’t return to sleep. His eyes were fixed through the darkness and towards the corner of the room, and as the morning sun started breaking through the window panes and into his apartment, the contours of the red wrench in the corner of the room grew clearer and clearer.

  Messenger walked his usual route to the Pit. His breath was visible in the cold. He slapped his sides to keep warm.

  He watched the walls where he knew that the poster with the Bull would hang, but as he came closer to the Pit, it looked as though the posters had been torn down in places, leaving nothing but naked brick in their stead. When he reached the walls of the Pit, he was surprised to see that not a single poster was hanging along it. He walked to the door, but it opened before he could reach it.

  “Good morning, Messenger,” said Grundy.

  “Did you take all those posters down?”

  “The posters with the boxing match?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grundy’s lower lip protruded out a bit as he shook his head.

  “No I didn't. Maybe the fight’s all over? No reason for posters then.”

  “The fight’s not 'till next week.”

  “Why is it bothering you anyway? You don’t usually notice that sorta stuff.”

  “It doesn’t bother me. I just noticed it, that’s all.”

  “Hm, that’s good. It’s good to notice things.”

  Messenger squeezed in between Grundy and the door, and as he was walking down the entrance hall, Grundy said, “I heard you got the fight.”

  Messenger stopped walking. “How you know?”

  “I heard Stone come in late last night. He seemed awfully chipper, whistling and singing, but he said that he had to make some scheduling arrangements. I’m sure it’s your fight with Holden he meant. Can't think of anything else.”

  And, without saying one more word, Messenger continued down the hall, a smirk hanging off the edge of his face.

  The locker room was more crowded than he was used to. He scanned the room to see who was in and who wasn’t, and he saw Holden along the wall close to the showers. No one said anything to him as he walked through, and he continued on to his usual spot in the far corner of the room. He saw that there was a mountain of white towels across his bench, piled over something.

  “Why the hell did someone put towels all over my bench here?” he asked.

  No one answered. The door opened and Grundy stepped inside. He was carrying a bucket of water and a few small sponges, and no one seemed to notice him but Messenger. Messenger turned back to the pile of towels. He grabbed all of them and threw them on the floor, but what was now left uncovered, made Messenger step back, his jaw unhinged. There were a few laughs among the boxers in the locker room.

  Grundy extended his neck to see what it was all about.

  “Take a seat, majesty!” said someone, and more laughs followed.

  In front of Messenger was what looked like a chair of cardboard and paper. It was as if someone had plastered some of the wall, the bench and the empty space between the bench and the floor with the posters from outside.

  “You like your throne, Messenger?”

  Messenger stood in front of the poster throne for a while. The Bull’s face stood out in several places, and in some of the curves of the chair his face was crooked and bent, coming out as if it was there for real. Messenger stepped forward and let his fingers glide along the smooth surface of the abomination of posters. He bored his nails deeper and deeper into the frailty of it, feeling all the way down to the hardness of the bench, and then he ripped the chair in half with one clean shred. He threw the piece he’d torn off and started thundering through the locker room. Everyone except Grundy was laughing all around him, but he continued on, pushing to whoever was in the way, and then, reaching the profile of Clay Holden, he flung a straight punch across his face. Holden staggered a bit, but regained his balance. He felt the spot where Messenger had punched him.

  “You don’t like your throne?” asked Holden. “We made it just for you.”

  “Stone’s set us up,” said Messenger.

  “For what?”

  “For a fight. I don’t know when, but probably when I’ve gotten all of this shit off of my face.”

  “Well, well,” said Holden, a surprised hint to his voice.

  “So I won’t wail on you too long just now, but save it for the fight instead. Because I swear to you, Holden,” Messenger pointed at the poster chair, “I will remember that,” he said and walked away.

  “Why don’t we just finish it now?” asked Holden.

  “If we fight now, then guess what? Stone is gonna pull our fight, and then I can’t beat you in the ring.”

  “But you could try and beat me now, here in the locker room. There’s a big audience here, too. Enough to see your glory, I’m sure. Even the nigger’s here, and he usually never watches the fights.”

  Messenger glanced at Grundy.

  “Better be careful there, Holden. That nigger there is gonna be wiping up your blood later this month. Making your executioner mad seems bad enough; I wouldn’t bother the rest of the court if I were you.”

  “He’s black,” said Holden. “Angry or happy, he’s gonna be doing what he’s supposed to.”

  “And what’s that exactly? To wipe your ass?”

  Holden stepped forward. “If I asked him to.”

  “Well try then. Ask him if he’s gonna wipe your ass. Come on.”

  Holden went silent, looking at the big Grundy.

  “Well come on, Holden. He’s right there, big as a barn. I’m sure he speaks English, too. I’m sure his momma taught him that at least, don’t you? His black momma. I’m sure if you--”

  “Messenger, stop!” bellowed Grundy. His eyes were enormous with rage, his lips trembling.

  “Grundy, come on, the guy’s ranting about your god damn color.”

  “And what exactly are you doing? You can’t save an already chipped tree by chopping at it from the other side!”

  Some of the other boxers stepped away from Grundy, and some of them even grabbed their things and left.

  “I see before me not one, but two men, and concerning any matter of distinction or difference, I see none… None!” Grundy’s chest grew as he spoke, pumping. “I’ve seen boys younger than you die, and here you are, embarrassing yourselves by creating your own pathetic battles. You run around in some ring, and act like it’s the most important thing in the world. I’ve seen boys so young that they couldn’t lift the rifle that was put into their hands. I’ve seen their muscles melt by the mere thought of
the enemy they were about to face. And that’s the distinction you think you have between yourselves… you think you’re enemies, but you’re not. You’re both the same. What one does, the other does as well, like in a mirror. And if you shatter a mirror, you cut up your hand. Look at my hands!” Grundy bellowed. More boxers left the locker room, but a few were still standing around, doing nothing. “I’ve shattered a lot of mirrors,” said Grundy, holding up his scarred hands. “I’ve shattered mirrors of fire, and see what it has left me. You’ve seen what I’ve done with my hands, Messenger. You’ve shattered the same mirrors from hell as I have.” His lips were trembling even more now, his big brown eyes foggy and dense. “Even if you don’t show it, I know how you feel.” He grabbed one of the shower handles and held it so tight that his knuckles turned white. “It’s like a burn,” he said, quietly. “It’s like a burn that keeps on searing, one that doesn’t show in your eyes; an invisible flame.” His eyes widened and his nostrils flared; opening and closing along with his breathing. “But the burns it leaves are without equal, and the scars are so deep that they turn your flesh inside out!” He uttered each word through his teeth, his grip around the shower handle tightening. “And then, when it starts feeling beyond what you imagine death feels like, you just want it to end!” Grundy let go of the shower handle, silence pouring out of him.

  Holden and Messenger were speechless as they stared at the hulking Grundy, his pupils bent and thin like two crescent moons. Holden left the locker room, and whoever remained followed.

  Grundy exhaled and his whole body stopped shaking for a while. He looked at Messenger and said, “I can see your hands as well. I can see the invisible flame now.”

  Messenger walked over to Grundy and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I don’t know what happened,” said Grundy.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” said Messenger.

  “I know. We do things for different reasons, I guess. I’m not sure what made me react this way in front of all these people.” Grundy sat down on one of the benches, and Messenger joined him. He glanced at his poster throne.

  “I think it’s the same thoughts I have sometimes,” said Messenger, “but I mostly dream about them when I sleep, and I could imagine someone like you having them while awake.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Messenger. His gaze seemed to wander off into some far distance, beyond the locker room, beyond the Pit, beyond the edges of the city. “It’s just a feeling.”

  Grundy nodded towards the posters on Messenger’s bench.

  “They really get to you with that poster.”

  “Yeah,” sighed Messenger.

  “Who's the boxer?”

  “He’s the Bull. He’s fairly old, but he’s still one of the best boxers in Plissbury, maybe the whole state. Best boxer I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure.”

  “Is that why you hate him? Because he’s good?”

  “No, I guess I don’t. It wouldn’t be fair for someone to be hated because of how good they are.”

  “Maybe you just hate that he’s stronger than you? Or that you think he is.”

  “He definitely is, but he’s in a higher weight class, so it wouldn’t make sense to compare.”

  “Do you want to be the best boxer? Is that what you want? Is that what you want to do in life?”

  “Do I want that?” he said. “Do I want to grow up and be on some posters to annoy younger-than-me boxers. Truth is, I don’t need to be the best for them, you know?” Messenger looked at Grundy with squinty eyes. “You know?”

  “I think I do.”

  Neither of them said a word in a long time, and yet they kept sitting next to each other, as if they still owed each other something.

  “What about you?” asked Messenger.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you want to be?”

  Grundy bowed his head, grunting.

  “I’m a janitor here.”

  “I know that, but that wasn’t what I asked you. What do you want to be? What are your dreams?”

  Grundy laughed. “Well,” he started. “I’ve always been fond of the theater. Have you ever seen a play?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Messenger. “But I’ve read some.”

  “That’s good. But there’s nothing like a play. The words they… they get to dance on a stage, and the heart of man is suddenly without boundaries.”

  “I think I get that.”

  “You do? That’s good, that’s good. But I’m not one cut out for the stage, what with my face and all, and… yeah.”

  Messenger caught a glimpse of Grundy’s face; his scarring was so severe that it looked like worms were crawling on the inside of his skin, many of his features perforated or bloated or scarred. Messenger had looked at Grundy's scars many times and he realized that they never exactly looked the same, as if they changed with the light. “It's funny,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “That I’m afraid when I sleep, and you’re afraid when your awake, but... but I dream while I’m awake, and you dream while you’re asleep, you know?”

  Grundy chuckled. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but that makes me very happy. I hope you get your Bull one day, Messenger.”

  “Yeah,” said Messenger. “Me too.”

  Later that day, when the Pit was all empty, Grundy stepped out in the main hall. He crawled up on the ring and through the ropes. There was a little light from the corner of the ceiling that illuminated him. He took a deep breath and looked out into the empty room.

  “Is it a grand faith?” he asked, holding his hand on the left side of his chest, “for a young man to die? If a young man dies, does his youth die with him? Or does he grow up in our minds after that? Will I imagine a man after my son’s death? Or will he always be a boy in my mind?” Grundy walked across the stage, letting his fingers slide along the ropes, and as he walked he spoke, “In war, does a young man die for himself, or for his country? Does he die for those older than him or those younger still? The truth here is not whether youth dies or not, but to think that there exists youth beyond youth. The youth of a young man is a mature youth, one that has evolved through ages of absolute distinction, but before this youth there exists the very sprouts of nature, and they should never deserve to die, for they can hold no grudge on their own.” Grundy reached one of the corners of the ring. He let his enormous body settle into a seating position, but still looked out at the imagined crowd. “A child’s hands are too small for the encumbrance of guilt or sin. It would run, like sand, through their fingers and on to the ground beneath them, and so they would never catch the sin of others. That is why we, the adults of nature, with deep furrows in our hands, must catch the sand of sin and keep our children from it. And if we spill that sin… if we let the grains of sin spill out on those with no means of catching it… then the very earth under the young children will break open. They will fall into that chasm, the sinner standing above it… forever destined to look down into the far reaches of an abyss without end.” Grundy stood up and walked across the ring to the opposite corner, resting his body against the ropes. “This is the punishment of the sinner that takes away the very essence of innocence!” he bellowed. “And it will be bound to our backs for the most eternal of eternities, for even as we die… even as our souls are sowed to create a plantation of death, we will still stand punished as the most vilest of creatures! And it is for this…” screamed Grundy, “for the killing of children!.. that we will stand without a soul at the gates of death, for it is being ripped from us as we live!” Grundy collapsed, and his tears fell outside the ring as he slid down the ropes. “It is for this,” he whispered. “That we must endure not death… but life itself, and dying will bring us no death… but an eternity of life instead.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Frank De Gracy walked down the pier at night, in his hand a little pile of rocks and pebbles that he threw into the water, one by one. The moon w
as an odd shape, he thought; it looked crooked, as if someone had broken it or hanged themselves from it. However, when he looked at its reflection in the water, it looked as it was supposed to, round and complete. There was a layer of thinly veiled mist in the air, and although things looked distorted through it, it left everything clear and apparent.

  De Gracy leaned up against the railing. The building was further down the pier, but he could see it perfectly well because of the way the coastline curved. He wondered if he was too tired to even go. He threw the remaining stones in his hand, up and down, up and down, and looked out at the horizon. The air was very cool, and it hit his face just right, between his low fedora and high collar. He had started walking again, blindly following the trail he walked every evening.

  Then the air in his lungs compressed and the inside of his stomach collapsed, as something charged him from behind, crumpling his spine with great force; all the rocks fell out of his hand and into the water, and as he was trying to reorient himself, several hands had already grabbed him, pushing him over the railing. De Gracy’s ribs gave a soft crack as he bent down, his fedora flew off, and he fell only for a short while before a quick jerk from above kept him dangling over the waves. Three silhouettes of men were standing overhead. The middle one was holding his hand. They all wore hats.

  “De Gracy!” said one of them loudly. “De Gracy, De Gracy, De Gracy…”

  De Gracy didn’t say a word. He looked down at the calm waves instead, estimating how cold the water would be this time of year.

  “You down here for more customers?” asked the man on the right. “Like you were a month ago? Hm? Snooping, were you?”

  De Gracy shook his head.

  “The hell you weren’t!” bellowed the middle one, lowering and raising his grip in one fast succession, sending jolts down De Gracy's body.

  “Listen here, De Gracy,” said the man on the right. “I’m gonna give you to three to tell us why you’re back here on the docks, and I’ll let you go easy, all right? Might even have my boy here haul you back up?”