Kindness for Weakness (10 page)

“My home’s fucked up, too,” says Freddie. “But I’m doing somethin’ about it. I got plans.”

“Yeah?”

“I passed my GED and applied to community college. Someday I’m gonna get a job working with computers, and I’m gonna buy my own clothes. Nice clothes, too. Then those gay boys will look at me and say, ‘Who he?’ ”

Freddie talks on about his dreams while I try to imagine my own. I try to picture a job and an apartment, but the only thing that sticks is the image of me riding around with Louis in his Bronco. The bass in the subwoofer is thumping out his song, and we’re driving to Dimitri’s to hang out. I’m going to eat a giant cheeseburger with fries and a chocolate milk shake. I’ll ask him if he knows that girl who blew me a kiss and if he can help me find her.

Louis will reach across the empty space between us and put his hand on my shoulder, a single squeeze as if to say, “I’m glad we’re driving around together, little bro. No more bad things; we’re gonna stick together and look out for each other.”

But we’re not together and we’re not looking out for each other; I am alone in room number fifteen, locked up in the Thomas C. Morton Jr. Residential Center, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to make it out of here.

Trouble comes to me in the form of Antwon, the tall, lanky gangbanger with heavy-lidded eyes and the slightest twitch of a smile. He walks across the unit in long, loose strides, moving slowly but effortlessly, like he’s going nowhere in particular and has all the time in the world to get there, which I suppose he does.

He sits down next to me, both of us pretending to watch a corny suspense movie on TV.

“What up, James?” he says.

“Nothing,” I say. The other boys are curious, watching to see what’s going to happen.

Antwon’s sleepy eyes show nothing. “I wanna talk some business. Are you cool? You know what I’m saying?”

I want to say, “No, definitely not. What the hell are you saying? Do I look cool to you?” But I don’t want to make enemies, and yet I’m not interested in being his friend, either, not even a fake friend. I’m grateful when Tony comes over and takes a nearby chair.

“What’s up, Antwon?” he says.

“Having a conversation that don’t concern you,” says Antwon. “What are you, his big Rican brother?”

“No, I just don’t want to hear any of your shit today.”

“And I don’t wanna hear your shit, either,
comprende
?”

“Yeah, that’s good, because I’m leaving soon. How about you? When are you leavin’, next year? Year after?”

Antwon shakes his head like he’s disappointed by Tony’s rudeness. But really it’s only because the guards are watching. He stands up, smoothing the edges of his short hair with his fingertips. He gives me a nod. “We’ll conversate later, James.”

He lopes back across the floor to the Ping-Pong table, where a line of other boys stand waiting for their turn.

“What’s that fool want?” says Tony.

“I don’t know. Something about business.”

“He thinks he’s a big shot for his gang. He tries to get all the new guys to rep.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Exactly, ’cause it’s bullshit. I’ll keep him off you for now, but you probably got to fight him after I get released.”

“When’s that?”

“Real soon. And I’m a little nervous about it, bro,” he says.

“Why?”

“Because in here everybody understands that you gotta
do you
, you know? Just focus on yourself. But at home? Shit. At home everybody I know wants something from me. My girl. My sisters. My mother. My boys. Too much fucking responsibility. You know what I mean?”

“Not really. Nobody expects anything from me.”

“That sounds nice. You could, like, relax and shit.”

“I suppose.”

“Listen, about Antwon. You
do
know how to fight, don’t you?”

When I fail to answer, Tony busts out laughing. “I’m sorry, man,” he says. “I don’t mean no disrespect; it’s just a little funny is all. Your white ass coming to Morton all innocent and shit. Don’t worry, though; you’ll be okay. I know you’re tough inside.”

During free time I stand in line waiting for my turn to play Ping-Pong. Double X has dominated all afternoon. No one can get ten points, much less beat him.

But before I get to the table, Mr. Pike calls me into the staff office. “Phone call,” he says, pulling on his red beard, looking at a Time-Life military history book from our classroom library. “You got five minutes. Don’t talk about drugs, gangs, or any other illegal activities.”

“Okay,” I say.

He sits in the swiveling office chair looking at his book, which is about World War II. He pushes the phone in my direction and says, “Clock’s running.”

I pick up the receiver tentatively, like it’s something dangerous, which I suppose it is. Maybe it’s my mother. Maybe she left Ron and is calling to see if I’m okay. Maybe she’s going to apologize, or tell me she loves me, or something.

“Hello,” I say.

“It’s me. Louis.”

Louis. My big brother, who was supposed to look out for
me. Suddenly I want to curse him out for leaving me and tell him he is not my brother anymore, that I’m better off without him. I want to tell him that I would have stood up for him if
he’d
needed help.

But I don’t say any of these things, because he would get mad and hang up, and then I wouldn’t have a family anymore. I’d be left with a gray husk of a mother who doesn’t call or visit. And Ron with his body odor and rotten teeth. And that would be no kind of family at all. So what I’ve got is Louis, who might not be as loyal and strong as I thought he was, but at least he called.

“Hi,” I say.

“Are you okay?” The tone of his voice is strange, far away and shaky, like it’s a bad connection.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” But it’s not a bad connection. I think his voice is cracking and he’s on the edge of losing control.

Louis clears his throat. “I’m sorry about what happened.” He goes on for a while. Apologizing. Explaining. But none of it matters anymore, because something is happening inside me. Something is hardening and softening as I realize that all of his toughness and confidence is just so much bullshit. In the end, he is like everyone else. He gets scared and makes mistakes. He talks big but fakes it most of the time. And if this is true, which I think it is, then how can I
not
forgive him? I have to, because I would want to be forgiven. I would want him to give me a second chance. Maybe we can both have second chances.

And maybe, when I get out of Morton, the two of us can go far away and start over. Someplace where there aren’t
any drugs to deliver. No detention centers. No screwed-up mothers or disappeared fathers.

“It’s okay, Louis,” I say. “Really. I’m fine.”

He clears his throat again. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” I lie.

“Do you need anything? The guy I talked to said I can come visit next week, if you want.” His voice sounds a little stronger, more together.

“Yes, I want you to come. Can you bring me a book?”

“Sure, bro. Any book? You want something special?”

“It’s called
The Sea Wolf
, by Jack London.”

“You got it. Lemme write it down.”

His receiver clatters while he looks for a pen and paper. Mr. Pike points at his watch to let me know that my time is up. He taps the receiver button and disconnects the call. Eyes narrowed, he studies me. For what? Does he actually think I’m some kind of threat? I want to tell him I’m not, that I’m not worth the trouble of pushing around or intimidating.

“Tell me something, James. Are you a smart guy?”

“I guess so,” I say, hoping that he’ll let me go back to my room. I’m worried that Louis will forget the name of the book, and all I want to do is lie on my bed and listen to the clock tick off the minutes until the visit.

“I don’t know,” I say at last.

He flashes a fake grin and rubs the red bristles in his beard. “Because Ms. Bonetta showed me a paper you wrote in English class yesterday. It was a nice paper, too, nicest I seen in a place where most kids are half retarded and can’t
read or write for shit. She said your paper was damn near college level! So tell me, James. Are you smart?”

“I guess I’m smart in English class, sir.”

“That’s right, you’re smart in English class. See, that’s a smart answer—you agreed so you and me won’t have no conflict. So tell me, why is a smart kid like you getting friendly with someone … different like Freddie?”

“I don’t know.”

“You like
different
people? Is that it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, consider this a warning, James. A friendly warning.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Then let me explain it. Some of them boys out there, like Antwon and Coty and Xavier, ain’t as worldly and understanding as I am. They ain’t tolerant of
alternative lifestyles
and shit like that. And they been talking about you and Freddie. Wondering. Know what I mean?”

A knot starts to form in my stomach. I see what Pike’s doing, but it’s too late. Tony tried to warn me, too. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “Freddie is on his own.”

I nod slowly, careful not to show any emotion.

“Good, because I want to help you do good here and get home. You want my help, don’t you?”

I nod again, a little too quickly this time. “Yes. I want your help.”

“All right, then.”

It’s the beginning of my second week, and I’ve learned the schedule and most of the rules. Bobby has returned from Charlie Unit with a blue fiberglass cast. He’s picked most of it away, and the dirty cotton lining is hanging off the ends in tatters. He says Charlie Unit sucks even worse than Bravo.

“The guards are bigger douche bags than Horvath and Pike,” he says. “Well, almost. And they got this kid that pisses on his radiator every night because he hates being locked in. The whole place smells like piss, but they can’t get him to stop.”

Today for group Mr. Eboue and Mr. Samson hand out copies of a paperback book with a picture on the cover. It shows a pair of strong black hands wringing out some kind of a rag. There’s no face or body, but I think the owner of those hands is angry.

“We’re starting a new group,” Samson says, tossing the last copies to Freddie and me. The title is
Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned
, by Walter Mosley. I flip to the end to get
a page count: two hundred eight. If I don’t read it all at once, I can make it last until Louis’s visit on Wednesday.

Right away Wilfred’s and Bobby’s hands shoot into the air.

“Yes, Wilfred,” says Samson.

“Like, whose books are these? They belong to the school or the unit?”

“They’re yours,” Samson says.

“But what if I don’t like it?”

“Then I’ll give you your money back,” Samson says, winking at me.

Wilfred looks confused. He touches his mustache, says, “But, mister, I didn’t pay no money.”

“Shut up, fool,” says Double X. “He’s giving them to us.”

“You shut the fuck up,” says Wilfred, looking ready to fight. But Mr. Eboue comes over and settles him down with a few whispered words.

It takes a minute for the room to quiet, and then Samson opens the cover. “This is my favorite book,” he says. “I’m going to share it with all of you. It’s about Socrates Fortlow, an ex-con who murdered two people and spent twenty-seven years in prison. Now he’s out on the streets of L.A., trying to see if it’s possible for him to become a good man.”

“This a true story?” Antwon says.

Samson ignores the question and continues. “He caught this boy, Darryl, killing an old rooster Socrates kept outside his house, and now he’s going to make that boy clean, and cook, and eat it.”

“Why?” says Coty.

“To teach him responsibility. Because it wasn’t his rooster to kill.”

Nobody says anything. Samson clears his throat and starts to read an excerpt from the book in a deep, rough voice that no longer sounds like his own:

“ ‘You should be afraid, Darryl,’ Socrates said, reading the boy’s eyes. ‘I kilt men with these hands. Choked an’ broke ’em. I could crush yo’ head wit’ one hand.’ Socrates held out his left palm
.

“ ‘I ain’t afraid’a you,’ Darryl said
.

“ ‘Yes you are. I know you are ’cause you ain’t no fool. You seen some bad things out there but I’m the worst. I’m the worst you ever seen.’ ”

Samson keeps reading, until we are lost. Spellbound. For the moment, he has become Socrates Fortlow, a giant ex-convict sitting on an overturned trash can in his too-small apartment in Watts. I can picture him, the faded threadbare T-shirt stretched over his big shoulders, beads of sweat standing out on his bald head. And I very well could be Darryl, the skinny boy waiting to eat his plate of dirty rice, green beans, and tough rooster. I keep one eye on the food, and the other on the doorway, wondering if I’ll make it out unharmed, or if the big man will crush my skull with his big hands, the ones the other cons used to call rock breakers.

The boy tells of a crime he committed with some friends, a murder. He becomes scared that Socrates will turn him in. Samson reads on: but Socrates says,
“ ‘I ain’t your warden, li’l brother. I ain’t gonna show you to no jail. I’m just
talkin’ to ya—one black man to another one. If you don’t hear me there ain’t nuthin’ I could do.’ ”

I’m pretty sure I could sit here for the rest of the day listening to Samson read. And although he stops at the end of the first chapter, the words of Socrates Fortlow (about the old rooster’s crow that was hardly a whisper) stay with me for a long time:

But at least that motherfucker tried
.

After dinner I wait in line at the Ping-Pong table to get a shot at Double X, who still hasn’t lost. I am in luck, because today he’s off his game, distracted by the other guys’ talk about Moses Rivera, a gangbanger from Brooklyn who is supposedly going to be a famous boxer.

Wilfred, who is ahead of me in line, says, “That dude’s bad, like Mike Tyson bad.”

“I heard of him,” says Bobby. “He’s a killing machine when he gets going, like one of them berserkers.”