Chapter 11
When everything goes razor and the edges get sharp. Oh, Joe, if you only knew what you’re so close to. In the heightened awareness of the fight, you’ve got your own metaphor of Heavenly Mind. That’s where your exhilaration comes from. That’s why you like to fight, you dope. And why you’re so good at it. It’s your personal shortcut for skipping headlessness and going right to the source. Too bad you have to beat people up to get it. If only you could learn to stir out that clear awareness into the rest of your life. You’d be… You’d be… Awesome.
- From His Recorded Words
Walking over the bridge back home, Danny said: “I hear you’ve been getting into some fights. You know you can’t do that on your probation. You’ll get expelled.”
“I haven’t been getting in any real fights. I just shoved a few people around. My thrills are long gone, courtesy of Principle Steele.” I was trying to make light, but I was bummed out about a bunch of things. He probably could hear it in my voice, though he may not have known all the reasons. I’d never told him about the Sally issue.
“You miss the fightin’ days?”
“You kidding? You know I do. It’s not for most kids, I get that. But I love a good fight. Going razor is the best high I know. The world slows down; I speed up. There are no nerves. No fear. Total focus without focusing. And I can do anything.” I kicked some grass sticking out of the sidewalk and made sure to stifle a sigh. People who sigh get on my nerves.
“Yeah, I understand, Joe. It’s exhilarating.” He paused for a minute and then said, “When you’re beating the crap out of someone, I believe you’re undergoing that same transpersonal flip that Mr. Tan was talking about back there. The way you describe your senses in a fight—the world slows down, you speed up, sight gets super sharp. That’s headless seeing.”
“Maybe Mr. Tan should be studying me.” I didn’t believe Danny really understood it though. He couldn’t know squat about the fighting feeling. That was my kingdom; where I had all the ability; where everyone looked up to me—or at least feared me—and that was close enough. There I was, like a great sports star—benched. What hell did he think he was talking about anyway? Transpersonal flip, my ass.
We walked by the park where we’d practiced our karate moves. We hadn’t done it since the accident. I figured Danny wasn’t interested anymore, so I never pressed it. I was surprised when he stopped and said, “Let’s practice.”
“Danny, I’m not in the mood.”
“What? What if Tim Hanson pulled one of these on you.” He poked me in the chest—pretty hard. “Would you say, You know, Tim, I’m just not in the mood…” He meant it.
“Now you’re getting nasty.”
“Come on. Let’s see how much I’ve recovered.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll go easy on you.”
“We’ll see if you need to.”
Danny led the way to our regular practice spot on the grass. Some geezer wearing a slouchy Frank Sinatra hat sat on the park’s only bench about ten strides away. An empty bottle was tipped over next to him, which was probably the cause of his sad face. I said, “We’re gonna give you a show, old timer.” He only stared back.
Danny had balanced into the readiness stance. He lifted up his fists to me mockingly. “What do you got, tough guy?”
“How about some deflection practice.” I lobbed a slow motion overhand at him.
His hand shot out to my wrist, snatched me forward. “Faster.”
“No problem.” I popped another at him about seven-tenths speed. His arm snapped it aside again. “Faster.”
I’d never gone full speed with Danny before, ever. He was too uncoordinated. And if I slipped and couldn’t pull back in time, well, with fists as big as mine, bones could be broken. But since he was insisting, and being a bit of weasel, I notched it up to nine-tenths. He caught it easily and, with an unnaturally firm grip, tugged me in. “Joe, let loose. I mean it. Really test me.”
“You asked for it.” I began to turn slowly around as if to take stock—then spun back to catch him off guard. Obviously I wasn’t going to hit him. Just shock him with a demonstration of how fast I can really be.
He deflected it with ease, then delivered a lightening upper cut which—if he hadn’t pulled it himself—would have popped me right in the kisser.
I was stunned, but I wasn’t going to let on. Something was fishy about this. “You’ve been practicing.”
“I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Because of my superb teaching?”
“Hah!”
“Okay. Try lunging at me now.”
He began prancing from side to side, darting in and out with hands high, occasionally throwing a punch—and taking perfect advantage of any slip in my own defenses. I couldn’t believe his speed. He hadn’t just gotten better. It was hard to keep up with him.
“What is going on here?”
“You’re off your game, Joe. We got to get you back in the mood. We got to get you razor again.” He stepped to one side, but his foot shot the other way and he thumped me in the rear, jumping back before I could get at him.
“Where are you learning this stuff?” I wasn’t faking being pissed. I was starting to feel like Mr. Tan being corrected by his own student. Only I wasn’t enjoying it.
“You taught me this stuff, remember? And that was called kicking your ass,” he laughed. “My body moves differently now, sort of by itself—all those things I talk about that you refuse to believe.” While I paused, puzzled by what he’d said, Danny feinted with a jab, then wrapped his foot around—for the second time!—and smacked my ass. He laughed. “How’s that, Joe Maddy? I didn’t really do that. Can you believe that?”
His laughter did it. He knew I was short tempered and when the edges of my vision start to sharpen in my vision—I had to get calm, fast. Why was he doing this? He darted in another light smack to my cheek. What was happening here? Another smack. Explosion! “You little twit,” I snarled, catching his arm and yanking him like a rag doll to his knees. One second, mocking me. The next, his face fixed in my arm. Lickety-split. The edges began to recede. “Do you believe that, Danny Perkins?”
His bundled face was grinning. “I knew if I could make you mad enough, you’d get in your mood. Feel better?”
“Brat.” I hauled him up, and noticed the geezer watching us with the same confused expression that dogs get. “I’ll say this. I never knew you had that kind of speed. But I think I liked you better when you were pathetic and had zits.”
“Joe, start listening to some of the things I’m saying. You’d get it, if you tried. You don’t have to be punching someone to get the sharp razor feeling.”
The old man was still staring, and it bothered me because this was none of his business. “Okay, Danny, I’ll work on it maybe. But don’t poke me in the chest anymore. That really bugs me.”
“Didn’t it work?” he said.
“Be quiet.”
As we left the park, I had a change of heart for some reason. I stepped over to the old man and slipped him two bucks in change. “What the hell, old timer, go get yourself a fifth of something.” I always feel sociable after a razor moment.
After I dropped Danny off near his house I hiked it to the garage where my bike was being fixed. It was ready to go, and I had already made a good down-payment on the repair—they knew where to find me if I didn’t keep paying—so they let me take it and I drove to the Taco Johns. I bought a coffee and a sack of hard shell tacos and settled into a corner booth. I pulled out my Conan, but…
Okay, I knew I had been changing the story of Conan and Valeria in my mind into a story about Joe and Sally. That’s how I daydream. At least the girl in my fantasies was real. How many guys go around dreaming about the latest cute teen actress or imagine their favorite hottie singer crawling through their bedroom window after their parents have gone to bed, and she says, “Hey, I noticed y
ou in the audience tonight.”
But I couldn’t concentrate enough to read anymore, because I was fretting about something I didn’t usually let bother me: being from the wrong side of the tracks. Wondering if…what if I hadn’t been born on crappy Millway Street; the son of a drunken and crappy—yeah, I was saying it—dad. What might have been? I remembered Coach Stevens saying with my speed and size I could go—could have gone, at this point—“all the way.” Maybe it just meant getting out…out of Millway Street.
I must have sat there for a half an hour, munching on tacos, flipping the pages—but no longer able to read them—thinking about my life, wedging the taco wrappers one after the other into my empty Coke cup. When it got to a throwing heft, I tossed it about twenty feet into a trash container. Then Tim Hanson showed up with a couple of his buddies.
I slumped down. They got their food at the counter and moved to a booth. Tim looked drunk. The staggering was a good clue, and then he pulled a small dark bottle out of his jacket and poured it into a cup under the table. Steve Kinney and Frank Mitchell were with him, eating their own tacos and tossing the wrappers away or over their shoulders. Standard food-joint mischief. Tim’s face was blotchy, and he was making antsy drunk movements. His lips were tight beneath his red eyes. I couldn’t make out much of the language, though apparently Steve and Frank were trying to console him with lots of “that-a-boy” slaps to the shoulders. Steve finally said, loud enough to hear, “Look, Tim. She’s not worth it. Get over it!”
Tim’s face turned hotter and he was shaking his head back and forth. He snapped back at Steve, “No. I’ve had enough. They’re not getting away with this.”
I got up and moved towards the table. Tim saw me and mouthed my name with an ugly sneer. I stopped. Frank and Steve turned. I wasn’t worried about a scuffle breaking out. There were other customers in the place and a manager. Though on second thought, I probably should have been a little worried, since you never know what a guy will do when he’s both mad and plastered.
I tried to sound calm. “Guys, I’ve seen you hanging around Danny’s talks. I think you should stay away.”
Steve stood up and said, “Joe, let’s talk outside.”
We left Tim and Frank at the booth. Tim face was so distorted with a sudden bout of laughter he looked like an evil clown.
“Steve,” I said. “I want him to stay away from Danny. If he doesn’t—“
“Look, man. He’s upset.”
“He’s losing it, Steve. Don’t tell me you don’t see it. It’s a long time in coming, but all the booze and I don’t know what else…he’s losing it, and I’m telling you to keep him away.”
“Okay, Joe, it’s true. We’re trying to help, but it’s gotten worse. Michelle broke up with him today.”
“Who could blame her?”
“Well, he blames someone. He blames Danny.”
I said, very seriously, “Steve, Danny has nothing to do with this. Tim’s crashing and it’s his own fault. Do your friend a favor. Get him a shrink, and keep him far away from Danny.”
Steve paused, made a big exhale. “I’ll see what I can do.” He patted my shoulder the way we used to in football, and I sort of wished—but he’d already turned. I got on my bike and drove away.
Danny's Mind: A Tale of Teenage Mysticism and Heavenly Power Page 12
