Parts & Labor (15 page)

"Well,
with sneakers, you just don't buy them."

"I
won't, because I saw Kim-Ly. But other kids don't know about her. How can we
get them to stop buying Legends?"

"A boycott."

"What's
that?"

"You
tell people about Kim-Ly, convince them not to buy Legend sneakers because
they're made by people getting paid only pennies an hour. If enough people
stop buying them, the sneaker company will have to pay better wages."

"A
boycott, huh?"

 

 

"
'To combine in abstaining from, or preventing dealings with, as a means of
intimidation or coercion.' "

Sunny
was reading the definition of "boycott" from the Webster's dictionary
on her laptop. We were eating lunch under the table in the cafeteria. A food
fight had broken out, so we bailed. Food landed around us, but not on us. You
didn't want to get nailed by an errant pudding cup. I did one time; it took me
ten minutes to lick it all off my face.

"Is
a boycott legal?" she asked.

"I
don't know. But we're kids. They can't send us to jail. Can they?"

"If
I get arrested, I won't get into Stanford. I want a legal opinion from a
lawyer."

"I
can ask Andy."

"Close
enough."

"We're
in fourth grade, Sunny. We're not going to get arrested. We're going to stop
something bad."

"Max,
I'm from Asia. I know all about sweatshops. But it doesn't matter. Kids aren't
going to stop wearing Legend sneakers."

"I
am." I held up my feet. I was wearing my red flip-flops. "Made in America. My mom checked. She thinks a boycott is a great idea. She called it social
activism."

"Why
do you want to do this?"

"Before
my dad deployed, I asked him why he had to go. He said, 'Max, I'm going over
there to make a difference for those people.' Well, I'm doing this to make a
difference for Kim-Ly."

"Who's
Kim-Ly?"

"A
girl in Vietnam who makes Legend sneakers."

"How'd
you meet her?"

"I
didn't. Norbert showed me a video of her working in the factory."

"Everything
we wear is made in those places."

"From
now on, I'm buying all my clothes at St. Vincent de Paul," I said.

"You're
gonna wear used clothes?" Dee said.

"Except
underwear. But I'm going to look at every label first to make sure it didn't
come from those places."

"I'll
do that, too," Dee said.

"Me,
too," Eddie said.

"Count
me in," Sunny said.

"Okay.
We'll organize a boycott."

"I
thought we were going to save the world."

"We're
going to do that, too."

"And
stop global warming in our spare time."

Just
then a big muffin landed on the floor next to Dee. He snatched it up.

"Five
second rule."

He
picked it up and examined it.

"Aw,
man, someone took a big bite out of it. And it's chocolate, my favorite."

He
held it up for us to see.

"Just
eat around it," I said.

Dee shrugged. "Good idea."

"Looks
good," I said.

Floyd
T. was painting Ramon's storefront window frame. He had decided on red. I had
stopped by after school.

"Thanks."

I
pointed up. "Is Andy in?"

"Yep.
You got a traffic ticket?"

"Law
question."

"Well,
he's a lawyer … sort of."

Andy
Prescott was picking his nose when I climbed the stairs and entered his little
office above Ramon's tattoo parlor.

"You
got a permit for that?" I said.

Andy
laughed. "Hey, dude. What's up?"

"I'm
organizing a boycott."

"Against
what?"

"Sneakers
made in foreign factories that pay the workers twenty cents an hour."

"You
mean against every sneaker sold in America?"

"That's
what I mean."

"You
want me to sign a petition?"

"I
want you to answer a legal question."

"Shoot."

"Will
we get arrested, for boycotting sneakers?"

"You
won't get arrested, but you could get sued."

"If
they sue me, what can they do?"

"If
they win, they can take your assets."

"What
are assets?"

"Your
stuff."

"I
don't have much stuff. Just my Ripstik and some DVDs."

"If
that's all you own, you don't have to worry about getting sued."

"Still,
I'd hate to lose my Ripstik."

Andy
waved at his office. "Tell you what. If they sue you, you can hide your
assets here."

 

 

The
first target of our boycott was Legend Jones.

Which
was like picking a fight with Godzilla. Legend Jones was only the biggest star
in the NBA. He had his own line of apparel and sneakers. His jerseys sold for
a hundred dollars, his sneakers for up to one hundred fifty dollars. His stuff
was real popular with kids all across America, but in Austin he was like a god
because he lived here and played for the Armadillos, the local NBA team. We
figured if we could embarrass Legend, he might stop endorsing stuff made in
sweatshops.

"Fat
chance," Sunny said.

She
pointed at her laptop.

"It
says here that he makes fifty million a year endorsing sneakers. He's not
giving that up just because they're made by poor people in Vietnam."

Legend
had grown up really poor in East Austin out by the dump, but now he was really rich
and lived in West Austin on the lake. Like most kids, I admired him because he
scored a lot of points and he seemed like a really cool dude in his commercials.
But that was before I knew about Kim-Ly.

We
altered our Legend Jones posters from "Buy Legend sneakers, be a
star" to read "Buy Legend sneakers, starve a Vietnamese child."
We brought them to school and taped them to the cafeteria wall next to the big
blow-ups Norbert had made from the video that showed Kim-Ly and other kids her
age making Legend jerseys and sneakers. Sunny researched the Internet and
printed out articles about those factories—they were called
"sweatshops" because the workers didn't get paid much and had to work
long hours—to hand out. By lunch on Friday, we had a table in one corner of
the cafeteria fixed up with pictures of the factory and the kids working there
… and the biggest picture had one of the workers wearing a Legend "1"
jersey and holding up a brand new pair of black Legend Jones All-Pro
"1" signature competition sneakers. We wrote a caption:
I made 5
cents making these sneakers. You paid $150. Legend Jones made $50 million.
Cheap foreign workers: priceless.

We put up a big banner that read: NO SNEAKERS FROM
SWEATSHOPS! And a sign over a barrel that read: DUMP YOUR LEGEND JONES
SNEAKERS HERE! Mrs. Broadus said the boycott could be our community service
project, which was a lot more fun than picking up trash in a park.

"Legend's
gonna call the cops and get you arrested for putting this stuff up," Vic said.

We
were working our boycott table when Vic and his posse walked over during
lunch.

"He
can't," I said. "I consulted my lawyer."

"Who?
Andy? He's a traffic-ticket lawyer."

"He's
still a lawyer. And he said they can't do anything to us."

"Legend
can. He's liable to send his people over."

"What
are they gonna do? Beat us up? We're just kids."

"If
he doesn't beat you up, I will."

"Dude,
we gotta do something about your clothes. You look like an alien."

Norbert
was waiting on our front porch when I got home.

"My
father examined your clothing catalogs to determine our attire."

"Well,
humans don't really dress like that. Come on, Mom and Maddy and Scarlett won't
be home for a while, let's go over to the thrift shop, find you some real
clothes."

We
walked the few blocks over to St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store on Congress Avenue down from the Home Slice pizza shop. I had to drag Norbert away from the
smell of fresh pizza. He loved human food. Norbert bought brown baggy cargo
shorts that hung almost to the floor, a yellow "Keep Austin Weird" T-shirt,
green clogs, and red sunglasses. He no longer looked like an alien from
another planet, but just another tourist from New York.

"Norbert,
I like your new look," Mom said.

We
had just returned home when Mom pulled into the driveway with Scarlett and
Maddy.

"I've
got to run over to Whole Foods. You boys want to come?"

"Sure."

We
piled into the Suburban and drove north on Congress across the river into
downtown and then over to Whole Foods. The downtown store is huge. We parked
in the underground garage then took the escalator up into the store.

"You
boys can each get one treat," Mom said.

Mom grabbed a big cart; she hefted Maddy into the seat. Mom, Maddy, and Scarlett headed over to
the produce department. Vegetables didn't interest me, so Norbert and I dodged
the tattooed-and-pierced shoppers and walked to the bakery on the other side of
the store where we found the cupcake counter. Cupcakes interested me a lot.

"Cupcakes,
Norbert," I said.

Whole
Foods cupcakes aren't your mother's cupcakes. Their cupcakes are designer
cupcakes with rich chocolate fillings and tall icing in the shape of lions and
tigers and bears and even a dragon. They cost $2.99 each. We couldn't afford
them anymore, so I planned to just stare through the glass display and drool for
a while then select a $.99 cookie. But Norbert had other plans.

"That
one and that one and that one …"

He
was pointing out the cupcakes he wanted to the lady working behind the
counter. She grabbed and bagged them.

"Max,
select your cupcakes."

"I
don't have any money."

Norbert
pulled out his wad of $100 bills. "Cha-ching. I have much money, laddie."

He
was buying so I picked out three cupcakes. Norbert bought a dozen. We each
got down on one right in the middle of the food court. I loved the smell of
the food court, all the scents mixing into one big scent. Fresh bread and
pies, pizza and calzone and charcuterie (although I had no idea what that was),
breakfast tacos and burritos, soups and sandwiches and sushi, muffins and
cookies and donuts, and, of course, these delicious cupcakes.

"You're
adapting to our food pretty fast."

"I
like cupcakes—"

He
had icing all over his face.

—"and
hot dogs and pizza and ice cream … I like all human food."

He
scarfed down two more cupcakes. He had a good appetite for a little alien.

"We
need milk with these," I said.

We
walked past the breakfast tacos counter and the pizza ovens and over to the milk
cooler. I pointed at the small milks.

"These
are my favorites—vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry milk."

I
selected a vanilla-flavored milk. Norbert went for a strawberry. They cost
$1.49 each. I showed him how to insert the attached straw. I sucked my milk
down slowly so I could enjoy the moment, but Norbert sucked his down in one
continuous sucking maneuver. He smiled.

"More."

He
grabbed a chocolate milk, inserted the straw, and sucked it down. Then he
drank a vanilla milk.

"I
favor the strawberry," he said.

He
grabbed a hand basket and filled it with strawberry three-packs.

"Take
some, Max."

"Norbert,
we gotta pay for this stuff."

"Cha-ching."

I
grabbed a vanilla three-pack. We drank another milk and observed the
shoppers. Some were hippie types, like my mom. Some were the
tattooed-and-pierced crowd. Some were wearing suits and ties like lawyers
(well, not like my lawyer). Some were glamorous girls in gym outfits. Mom said they were really shopping for men, but I wasn't sure what she meant. Dad always liked
shopping with us at Whole Foods, but if Mom caught him checking out the gym
girls, she'd punch his arm (but not hard enough to hurt him) and say, "In
your dreams, lover-boy." Then they'd laugh and shop for meat. A skinny
blonde gym girl came over to the milk display and stood right next to us. Norbert
stared at her from a foot away.

"Dude,"
I whispered in his ear, "girls get mad if you stare at them that close.
They like you to stare from a distance."

"Oh."

He
took one step back. But he still stared. The blonde girl gave him a frown,
but he just smiled back.

"You
are an incredible human specimen," he said to her.

I
thought she might slap him, but instead she patted his head.

"You're
cute, too, little man," she said.

Wow.
She touched him.

Norbert
sniffed the air like those bird dogs on that hunting show then followed the
scent directly to the Bowie BBQ counter as if he were Han Solo's Millenium
Falcon caught in the Death Star's tractor beam—and we all know you
cannot
escape a tractor beam. The barbecue man behind the counter looked like a
cowboy; he had gray hair and a thick gray mustache, and he wore a plaid shirt
and jeans.

"What
can I get you gents?"

Norbert
scanned the menu.

"Two
chopped beef sandwiches, three chicken drumsticks, a sausage, and barbecued
beans."

"To
go?"

"To
eat."

The
man filled three plates and placed them in front of Norbert. His eyes got wide.
He cleaned his plate—plates—in just a few minutes. The barbecue man watched
with an amazed expression.

"Good
appetite for a little guy," he said.

"He's
an alien visiting our planet," I said.

The
barbecue man nodded and waved a hand at all the weird tattooed-and-pierced
people in Whole Foods.