“Excellence” by Raj Davis

Excellence

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

REIGNING IT IN

It is a painful day for Todd Harrison and his two sisters, Lee and Ebony. The school bus rolls over the bumpy roads of their neighborhood while closing in on their stop. Todd counts this as a blessing. As predictable as the day has been in school, it is just as predictable now. He and his sisters are enduring the cruelty of their fellow students. A big girl, dark, dirty, and wild in the eyes, strikes him on top of his head from the seat behind him. The blow snaps his head forward while stinging at the same time. Suppressing the swell of anger that rises up to his eyes, he turns to her and tries not to allow it to release in the form of tears. It will make things worse if he cries. They will tease him all the more, seeing the pain as weakness as if they didn’t see weakness already.

“I told you to bring me your Star Wars cards today! Where were you?” she hollers.

Todd stares at her saying nothing. His eyes burn as she rises out of her seat. The bus hits a pothole and sways. She swings in the aisle but catches herself from falling. The other kids laugh after poking Lee and Ebony in the head and then act as if they didn’t when the two turn around.

“If you don’t bring them tomorrow, you are going to get some more of this.”  She rushes to sit next to him in his seat and slaps him across the face. Todd puts his hands up in front of his face to block her next volley of blows. She pummels him.

“I heard he does it to his sisters. He be boning them in the bathroom,” a knotty-haired boy says laughing in the back. All eyes flick to him, and he puffs out his chest a little more. The driver is either too focused on the road or too ambivalent to intervene; still, he’s peeking in his rearview mirror. Todd knows that he must be aware.

“Yeah, he gives it to them fast and quick.”  He does the hump motion with his arms going up and down in sync. Laughter explodes.

“You had enough, Todd?” The big dirty girl asks.

“Yes, Franky, I don’t want anymore.” Todd says, gritting through his teeth making sure not one tear escapes.

The bus pulls up to Frazier Street by Dan Marino Field. With a hiss the doors open. Todd gets out of his seat, and with his head down, exits the bus. When on the street, he turns and waits for his sisters. Franky comes out next and pounds her left hand with her fist. “Better see you tomorrow. Your grandma bought you the best ones, and I want them. You’re nothing but a punk!” She fakes a swing at him.

Todd, rigid, holds the balloon of rage that threatens to erupt, “Sure, Franky.” You can slap me every day, but you’re not getting my cards. My Grandma didn’t buy these anyway; I just say that. Mrs. Thompson from down the street bought them.

Lowering his head, he is joined by his sisters, and they begin the five-minute walk home. He is glad that he is in his last year of middle school; being in eighth grade, and thirteen years old, he will be walking to high school next year. He will no longer have to deal with Franky and her entourage. His sister Lee is twelve, and Ebony is eleven.

The sun is behind the clouds, which are full of grey. The wind feels cool against his neck. It might rain tonight. I have to get out on the porch. It will be worth it. That’s where the peace is.

Once inside, Todd calls his father at work, letting him know they made it home, and then he and Lee sit down to watch TV. Ebony goes into the kitchen to do her homework. Todd flips through the channels and settles on MTV. They watch music videos for hours, and the time passes by without them noticing.

Thunder rolls, and they hear the squeak of the old rickety screen door open, and the bass as it bangs shut, then a key in the lock—Jim’s home. He comes into the musty hallway and steps into the dark of the unoccupied living room. They use the dining room to watch TV and lounge. Jim hangs up his coat on the back of the living-room door. His black slacks and yellow dress shirt have the creases of a long day in them.

Groaning, as Todd and Lee get off the couch and sit on the dusty brown carpet, stained with age, Jim plops into his usual seat and holds out his hand. Todd places the remote in it. He turns on the six o‘clock news. “Todd get in the tub.”

Todd gets up, rolls his eyes, and heads up the creaky stairs, running his hands along the dingy walls. While lathering up his washrag, the activities of the day infiltrate his brain. Rolling the anger around on his tongue like a chocolate square, his shoulders drop. I’ll never be happy. That’s for special people—people with nice cars, big houses, and nice tennis shoes. He whispers out loud, “the popular girls in school, who have the best clothes and the biggest smiles, could never like me. I wish I could kill every person in the world who did me wrong.” His bath takes fifteen minutes, not having a showerhead. He towels off and walks down the steps, naked, to rub on lotion and be smelled by his father, who makes sure he washed everywhere. “A thirteen-year-old should not be naked in front of his sisters; it’s unnatural,” he is wringing his hands together speaking in a ragged whisper.

While lounging and watching TV, his sister, Lee, comes down next, naked breasts swelling from puberty. There is no interest in her female parts, like he has for the girls at school, but still he feels dirty. His attention turns back to the television because Jordi Laforge is speaking to Captain Picard on “Star Trek: The Next Generation,” and it sounds critical.

Ebony is in the dining room after her bath, a half an hour later, clothed in a nightgown. Todd snaps to see his father’s reaction. Jim frowns, “What are you doing with that on? You know we have no secrets in this house. Take it off!”

Ebony cries as she pulls the robe over her head. Her sobs send a spike of pain cutting through Todd, his heart being rolled over glass. Clenching his fists under his blanket, where his father can’t see them, she puts lotion on like every day since they moved in with the man they did not see for most of their young lives. Their mother died two years ago—then “he” shows up. Children and Youth Services found him. He was their biological father, though they knew little about him at the time.

At least they are not in an orphanage, Todd says to himself to assuage his guilt for not fighting his father, and for not protecting his sisters. His eyes get big from the realization that he is too scared of what may happen if he tries to change this situation.

After that, Jim bathes and comes down nude like his children. It is much too close in here. Then he drifts off to sleep as the patter of raindrops splatter on their roof…first slow, then fast and copious.

***

The sun is full in the morning as Todd looks up and feels its warmth upon his face. The blue sky, cloudless and serene, defies Todd’s mood. He stands at the bus stop, arms folded with his spine feeling like a steel rod. Franky gets a ride to school but has to catch the bus home. Her friend, Big, which is a nickname because he is a tower of a young man, is also in the eighth-grade, and he is staring at him. Todd assesses that Big is taller and broader than he is. This is the only reason Franky gets away with tormenting him.

A few of the other kids are playing “it” tag. The sun shines just as bright for them as it does for him, and they are pure evil. “How fair?” he mutters. Sneaking a look at Big, their eyes meet. The desire to make a face at him, saying something like, and “what are you looking at?” rises. Big is well connected with the drug dealers in the neighborhood. If he beats up Big, then there will be retribution. A beating, pure and simple, may be death if they get excited enough.

***

The bus ride is intolerable as usual. Lee and Ebony get off and head to their homerooms and so does Todd. After homeroom, Todd strolls to his first class. The busy halls are clustered with students making noise that is a mixture of laughter and sarcasm. He slides by a couple of kids snickering by their lockers and stealing glances at a girl with tape in her hair, makes a left, and enters his reading class.

The fluorescent lights are bright white, and the tile floor is black and brown. Mrs. Roland looks at him as he enters the room, then goes back to her novel. She is always reading before class. The title to this one is the “Tale of Two Cities.” Stopping beside Mrs. Roland’s desk, he takes in the full scope of the class. The desks are in neat rows. There are posters advertising different books. His usual buddies, who he cracks jokes with, are on the right side of the classroom. Mark is leaning over his desk, spilling out into the aisle, balancing his desk sideways on two legs, while Phil is whispering into his ear. Todd sits behind Phil. Phil is black and Mark is white. The both of them are tall. Mark is chubby, but you can see Phil’s ribs when his shirt is off.

The bell rings, and Mrs. Roland closes the door. Anyone after this is marked late. She moves herself in front of the class, stomach fat jiggling.

“Today, class…since this is Tuesday, we will do what we do every week. Read the book on our yearly list, to ourselves. As you know, we are reading “Excellence” by Wilford Brandt. Get your copies out and get started.”

There is a collective groan, and the sound of desktops creaking open and pages being ruffled fills the opening seconds of the assignment. She goes back behind her desk, opening her own book. Silence hangs, becoming a quick revealer of anyone who is trying to start a conversation.

A note lands on Todd’s book. He looks over at Mark, and Mark nods with a smile. Todd unfolds the paper and reads the message:

“There’s this rumor around school that you are getting busy with your sisters. I know who started it—Reggie Black. He’s asking for it. You got to step up and handle this one, because if you don’t, you’re done next year if this follows you to Langley High. We got your back, me and Phil. Otherwise we can’t help, if you don’t knock this dude out. You gotta show that you are a real man—scared or not.”

Todd’s nostrils flare as he crumples up the paper with shaking fingers. Leaving his desk, he stomps to the garbage can and glides back, realizing he doesn’t want to draw Mrs. Roland’s attention to himself. Mark gets a thumbs-up as he sits back in his desk.

Todd grinds his teeth and reads more of “Excellence” but not taking any of it in, thinking on how tired he is of being taken advantage of. In the next class, he gets to talk to his best friend, Alyssa. She sits next to him in that class. That’s how they met. They had assigned seats, and hers was right by his. In this class, she is on the other side of the room. She will have something good to say. He steals a look at her ponytail of straight black hair and her light brown skin. It’s like she can feel his eyes on her. She lifts her head, turns to look at him, and their eyes lock. She rolls them with a smile then points down at her book telling him to get back to their assignment. He rolls his eyes back with a smile and picks up where he left off. This book is good, and he did not expect that. How can a poor, abused, boy like me become excellent?

***

The bell rings, and Todd is up. It takes no time to fall in stride with Alyssa as they make a left down the hallway and a quick right into their English class. Todd notices that her sundress is clinging to her curves more every day. Nodding “what’s up” to Mrs. Snyder, his teacher, she winks back while putting a clip in her hair, pinning it up. Alyssa slides into her desk, and Todd slips into his, noticing how graceful her moves are. She is so delicate. Girls are so delicate, or is it just her?

Kids stream in, and as they get settled the late bell rings, and Mrs. Snyder closes the door. Her copper glow defies her age. Todd cannot figure out how old she is. She rebuffs him every time he asks, remaining polite when she does it though. She raises her hand, and everyone stops speaking except for a couple of open rebels who don’t care about authority, though their voices drop to a whisper.

“Class, you were told to write your short stories over the weekend. You had yesterday as a backup. Now you will pick a partner. You will write a summary of your partner’s piece and a review, including what was good about it, and what you think needs work, and then your recommendation. You should consider the grammar, commas in the right place, and if the story has a solid beginning, middle, and end. We will do this today and tomorrow. Go ahead and get started.”

The desks clatter as students start switching chairs to sit by their preferred collaborators. Todd brings his desk closer to Alyssa’s.

“Lyss, I did my homework this time,” He pulls his book bag onto the top of the desk and pulls out a folder. His story is covered with canary yellow construction paper with binder clips. “I tried to write something happy, but I just couldn’t, you know; life is too real for me sometimes.”

She opens her desk and slides out her story on white paper with a cover of pink construction paper and binder clips. “Okay, I’ll read it anyway. I hope this doesn’t make me sad. You know how you can get.” She offers him her story held with slim fingers and manicured fingernails. He likes her pretty title in black calligraphy. He just printed his with pencil—didn’t have the nerve to ask his father for calligraphy pens. They cost twenty dollars, but to his dad that is a fortune…or one less case of beer. Alyssa looks at the title of Todd’s story “Day of Blood.”

“Todd, this is a crazy title. What do you mean “Day of Blood?”

“One day a guy, who gets picked on, gets enough of it and goes berserk. He lights up everybody who ever hurt him.”

Alyssa sighs, prim lips come together, and eyebrows drop into a frown. “This isn’t any good. I don’t want to read it.”

“Please, Lyss…just this once? I don’t want to find a new partner. You know how I am. I’m comfortable with just a few people. Besides, if you lived my life you would understand.”

“Alright, dope. I hope this isn’t going to come true, you know. You have been fuming. You’re breathing heavy, right now. Don’t think I didn’t hear about the little rumor going around class. What are you going to do?”

“I am going to do what I should have done years ago. I am going to get some respect around here.”

“Whatever, Todd. You’d better be careful…my mom tells me that vengeance is poison, and if you get caught up in it, it will leave you unhappy. She said broken and hollow to say it verbatim. That means empty like when we didn’t see each other for a whole month because you got sick. Verbatim means word for word. I worried about you until you came back.”

“Lyss, this isn’t vengeance. This will set up something—making every person who goes to school here realize what’s up.”

She bows her head while shaking it, opening up the book’s crisp, warm-yellow cover. Todd does the same with hers. He looks up, time to time, to see if she is still reading. Her story is so imaginative. It is about secret friends who help children. He feels no pain as long as she is with him. He can’t wait, though, for lunch because he has something to say to Lee and Ebony.

“This is terrible,” Alyssa says to Todd, “but well written. You did everything the teacher said to do.”

The next two classes pass by with Todd and Alyssa trading insights.

***

Lunchtime is announced by a bell ending fourth period. Todd heads straight to the recess grounds, not even stopping to drop his bag in his locker. Alyssa standing still, watches him move like a corvette down the hall.

Lee and Ebony are at their usual spot by the football field, sitting on the concrete steps next to it. It’s easier to stay to themselves than to be picked on. They look up and see Todd hurrying over to them with his backpack still on. He sits down with a shuffle.

“Lee, Ebony, today is the ‘day of blood.’ We are going to take control of the situation.”

“What are you talking about?” comes Lee’s response, her brown eyes burning.

“I mean we are not going to take anymore disrespect. We are going to beat some sense into our enemies. They’ll have no choice but to respect us or leave us alone. I’m tired of it, and I know the two of you are tired of it.”

“We are, but what if we lose?” Lee asks.

“So what. They won’t want to fight us again. I promise.”

“It’s about time you made some sense,” says Ebony, “all this ‘we don’t want the drug dealers to get us,’ is the issue holding us back. I am not fearful about that at all. We will take ours. I just read a biography “Streets Disciple,” by Ellwood Woods. He was a major league drug dealer, and he took no stuff. We’ll keep these hoes in line.”

“Ebony, how can you even understand a book that big?” Lee frowns.

“I just can. Why you asking anyway?”

“Whatever it means, we can do it. We need to break out and turn some heads,” says Todd.

“What’s the plan?” Lee asks.

“Pure and simple—I am going to beat up Reggie. Then on the way home, you two are going to beat up Franky on the bus, and I am going to take a chance with Big. In fact, who cares—I’m a tank—you see how I play football with the guys; I can handle a lot of pain. So if I lose, it won’t matter. He’ll remember not to mess with me, ‘cause he’ll have to fight me, every day, and every drug dealer who are his friends, before I let him bully me anymore.”

“Then what about, Dad, Todd? What about that negro? We can call the police on him,” says Ebony.

“Negative, Ebony. Are you crazy? We might end up in worse conditions. Those foster homes are horrible. We will outgrow him,” says Todd.

“Imma kill him one day.” Ebony says

“Stop reading those hood books.” Lee says, “He is still our father.”

“Yeah, don’t get happy, Ebony. Let’s just handle this one for now.”

Todd turns his head and catches a glimpse of Reggie coming out of the cafeteria onto the blacktop.

“It’s time.” Todd says and gets up. He takes a deep breath and lets the rage flow through him down into his fists, for the first time, with action as its goal. His frown is sobering, and he calls out while walking up to Reggie with balled fists.

“What did you say about me, Reggie; I do it to my sisters?”

Kid’s heads snap to their direction of the conflict.

“You know what you do to your sisters. You better back up before I give you something to remember.” Reggie is a head shorter than Todd, but is known for being able to fight. He doesn’t miss Todd’s intent. Breaking from his circle of buddies, he puts his fists up just in time to block because Todd has run up to him swinging.

Trying to push off and swing back, he finds this to be a mistake. Todd’s knuckles crash against his cheek through the opening left by his missed punch, then another one in the head, then another one on the nose. He starts feeling faint as the punches keep coming. He can’t get a breath or get a pause to center himself.

Todd unloads on Reggie like a wild cougar. He feels powerful—his muscles taut and energized by the adrenaline. Reggie is no match as Todd busts through every defense, pounding him without tiring. Reggie falls down. Todd starts to pummel him while he is on the ground, but gets caught up in the grip of school security and several teachers. He bucks, trying to break free. He never felt so strong in his life, and he can’t calm down, can’t control his desire to make Reggie pay for every wrong he experienced. Anger is pumping through his muscles, making him difficult for school security to control, but they get him on the ground pinning his limbs till he can’t move—it takes six of them.

“Nobody messes with us! Try it, and see what happens to you!”

The noise starts up again as Lee and Ebony pound two girls, a little ways up, inspired by Todd’s fury. It’s Franky and Fantasia they are fighting. Lee head butts and Ebony jumps into the two surprised girls. Franky and Fantasia scream as they get hit by unrelenting barrages of rock-like fists. It takes a while before the teachers know what is happening to subdue them, too. They fight just as intensely as their brother.

***

 The next day, Jim is sitting in Principal Jordan’s office with School Counselor Jane Smith-Braxton. Principal Jordan speaks first. “It is such a shame that we have to bring you here Mr. Harrison. There was never a problem with Todd, Lee, or Ebony until now. It took some time, but we spoke to all their teachers, and they were unaware of how deep this goes. Your children have been bullied by some of our students. With regret, we tell you that we had no idea they were being tormented like this, and that we are talking to the other parents to make sure that this stops. As far as we know, they have been enduring this as long as they have been in school here, and, well, they just exploded. Reggie was treated at Mercy Hospital for broken ribs and a broken nose. Franky has bruises, and her friend is bruised as well.”

Jim is smiling on the inside while his face shows nothing. “Well, Mrs. Jordan, I will talk to my kids and get to the bottom of this. They are good kids, so I just want them to have good schooling. An environment where they can learn without fear is important. They are tough; I will see them through any turmoil. What I need from them is to not fear me. I wished they would have come to me about the bullying. I will make sure they don’t get into the habit.” Jim says.

“That is good to hear Mr. Harrison. You don’t know how many parents don’t even show up to meetings like this. We will work hard on our end. You will do your best on your end, we can tell.”

“That is my goal. Since their mother died, I have been the one there for them. I know it’s hard on them. They are still not adjusted since she passed two years ago,” he is saying anything right now, he realizes, to smooth over the disinterest he has. He wants to finish up so he can meet someone at the bar around the corner from his house. A spanking and a month of grounding should do the trick. Besides, these teachers don’t want me suing. They kiss butt well.

“There is another matter that we want to speak with you about, Mr. Harrison,” says Counselor Smith-Braxton, “we have tested your youngest daughter, Ebony. You’ll be pleased with this. She has always excelled in her classes, but we had to see how far she could go. We gave her the Road Scholar test. She is a genuine genius—a child prodigy. She is ready for college.”

 

“The Timkers” by WR Vaughn

51qrUS5D5BL._AA160_The Timkers Chapter One — A Rocky Start

Sam Harkins’ breath punctuated his steps with misty clouds as he power-walked past boarded storefronts in downtown Seattle. The bank sign nagged “Jan. 15, 2016, 7:36 a.m.

Late and still ten blocks to go. His pace quickened to a jog as he jammed his hands into his Vietnam-era flight jacket. He knew he shouldn’t have stayed up to watch The Sting again for the twentieth time—but he loved it so: the music, the thirties and the great actors—Redford and Newman and his favorite, Robert Shaw. Dodging a bike messenger, Sam crossed against the light, his mind occupied with grandiose plans that would all fall into place like the orchestrated steps of an elaborate sting if he got the job. Right now, that was a capital “IF.”

A cold chill ran down Sam’s spine when he spotted, Penalso, a wiry Tex-Mex boldly selling shit through car windows like a drive-up espresso stand. Sam ducked behind a Metro bus and waited, but just for a moment. He didn’t have time to deal with that asshole, not this morning. How the fuck did he find me? He must have followed me from Austin. But why?

Sam felt like an idiot believing he could catch a break, but he was not all that surprised at Penalso’s pit-bull tenacity. When Sam lost his job as a computer tech, he understood it wouldn’t be long before he would be pulled back to rejoin the gang’s sullen ranks—like a hungry dog follows along behind a pack of strays. His job interview in California might be his last chance to keep from getting entangled. Sam kept his head down and headed for the diner at the end of the block.

“Sammie boy!” Penalso shouted.

Shit. Sam didn’t turn to look or change his pace. He jaywalked across 6th Avenue, breaking into a full run once he was out of sight. Dealing with someone like Penalso was like stumbling upon a rabid Doberman. Unless you were packing a 9 mm with a full clip and one in the chamber, you walked away slowly until you had a chance to run like hell. While Penalso himself was not that dangerous, he had a tendency to cut his way out of tough situations with a hooked carpet knife. Sam had only his wits to defend himself. Sure, he had a few moves, learned the hard way—behind bars back in Texas, but he usually tried to avoid the rough stuff. As for his wits, he had twice as many as Penalso: most folks did.

When Sam reached the diner, he looked through the window at the clock—his breath fogging the glass. 7:40. He wasn’t sure if he had time to go in. At least I’ve got to say good-bye.

Inside, he was greeted by the usual breakfast smells of coffee, bacon and burnt toast. He took one of the red-topped seats, and only Doris, his mom, looked up. Wiping wet hands on her apron, she looked like she’d had a tough morning.

“Morning, Sam. You’re a bit late. You’d better watch the time.” She poured him a cup of coffee.

“Hey, Mom.” He put his pack down at his feet. “I know. The concierge didn’t wake me and draw my bath.” She doesn’t need to know about Penalso.

“Don’t be smart with me, Samuel,” Doris chided with a thin smile and a raised eyebrow.

“I just came to say good-bye. I don’t have time—”

“Sit. You have time for a hot meal…the bus station’s just around the corner.”

He rechecked the clock. For a moment, it looked like the hands were moving in double-time. Nearly 7:42.

“Your usual, Sam? I can ask José to rush it.”

Sam glanced up again. 7:43 “Yeah. I guess . . . if it’s fast—make it to go.”

“Sure, hon,” she said, turning to the order window and placing the order in gringo Spanish.

An unintelligible reply came from the kitchen.

“I’ll make sure your eggs are done this time,” she said with a wink.

Sam was impressed with her Spanish. Ironically, it was getting better since they had come up from Texas, thanks to the undocumented cook.

“Gracias.” Sam dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a month-old breath mint (he ate it), a red USB memory stick, his bus ticket and a crumpled schedule. Asking casually, “Have you seen Francine this morning?” he pushed the stick deep into his pocket and scanned the booths in the mirrored wall.

“It’s a bit early for her.”

Sam returned his attention to the schedule. For motives Sam didn’t understand, his absentee dad had arranged an interview with his new company in California. He suspected it was just another attempt to screw with his mom. Yes, it was a long way, but Sam looked forward to getting out of this cold, damp city that seemed to be dragging him down into the sewers, along with the brown leaves and endless rain. And now that Penalso had found him, he had another reason to skip.

“Today’s the big day.” Doris refreshed his coffee.

Sam heard the worry in her voice. She had been supportive ever since he was laid off—but he knew she was afraid he would never find another job and end up with the likes of Penalso. She might be right on both counts.

He looked up. 7:45. “Yeah, if I make the eight o’clock bus.” Is that clock right?

“Then we need to get you fed. ¿José, los huveos?”

All Sam could do was wait, and worry, and watch out the window for Penalso—and Francine. And now, the erratic hands on the old clock made it seem like time was moving at half-normal speed. He swallowed another slug of Doris’s simply awful coffee, the cup rattling against the saucer.

Watching people come and go in the mirror, Sam admired a young redhead taking one of the stools. Cute. Have I seen her before? She ignored him, like most of the women his age. A couple of strangers came in and went to the back table where Mr. Zeitnehmer had set up his office. The couple quickly exchanged cash for something handed back in an envelope and settled into a booth. Whatever he’s selling seems to be popular. Some kind of stock deal? Discount tour tickets? Exotic drugs? Mom sure didn’t care. Mr. Zeitnehmer brought in a lot of hungry breakfast customers, and Sam knew the diner sure needed the money.

The cop sitting further down the counter didn’t seem to notice or care. Sam turned briefly toward the windows to see if Penalso was hanging around outside. There was no sign of him, but he noticed that the cop was studying him—he probably knew about Sam’s run-in with the for-profit judicial system back in Texas. Maybe everyone did, as if he were wearing a “Convicted Felon” tattoo on his forehead.

Doris refilled his cup. “You weren’t up all night again watching TCM, were you?”

“No choice. I had stuff to finish.” Like “The Sting” and “The Untouchables.”

“Did you finally get Mrs. Carpintero’s computer fixed?”

“Yeah…yes, ma’am. She had a blown memory stick. I told her she needed a UPS.”

“A UPS package?”

“An uninterruptible power supply, Mom—UPS, a power line conditioner.” He slowly shook his head.

“Oh. What about the other stuff?”

“You mean the malware? That’s her own fault. She and her son wade through the Internet as if it were an elementary schoolyard. The websites she browses are more like gator swamps in Cambodian minefields.”

Sam heard the clock hands snap forward as cold air pushed up his pants legs. 7:44. Geez.

Glancing up, Sam saw a striking brunette come in wearing a short wrap dress over black tights. Francine. Finally. Sam swiveled around and tried to catch her eye. As usual, she didn’t look up. Eyes down with thumbs tapping away at her fancy phone, she found her way toward the booths near the window. Sam’s stomach tightened. Lately, his nocturnal fantasies had featured her in long moonlight walks followed by intimate snuggling and slow, passionate sex. But he hadn’t mustered enough courage to ask her out. And now he was leaving. It was too late. Say something!

“Hiya, Fanny.” The smartass in the back had beat Sam to the punch. “Care to join me?” He offered his table with a flourishing gesture and a leer.

The look she gave him would freeze a Hawaiian volcano in full eruption. “It’s Miss Dancing, to the likes of you.” She took her seat with her back to the boor—but facing Sam.

“You’ll succumb eventually to my charms, darlin’” The interloper slumped back into hiding.

“He must have learned a new word,” Sam mused under his breath. This sleazeball reminded him of the owner of the down-and-out bar in Flashdance, who constantly hit on the pretty, topless dancers. Sam dreaded Francine having to settle for the likes of that creep, and he regretted the way his life was playing out. Perhaps when I get back. If I come back.

Sam knew he wasn’t leaving much behind—just his mom and a tiny two-room apartment. They both really needed and wanted each other to succeed on their own—even though they had been living on their combined incomes for some time—not to mention the symbiotic moral support. Of course, there was the remote prospect of Francine, but he knew no girl would even consider going out with a boy still living with his mom. He caught Francine giving him a passing glance over her menu.

“Here ya go, hon. Eat it while it’s hot.” Doris handed Sam a brown paper bag with spots of grease bleeding through the sides.

“Thanks, Mom.” He checked the clock. 7:52 Shit.

“Good luck. Do you have everything? Clean underwea—”

“Mom! I’ve got it covered.” His cheeks turned pink as he tucked the sack under his arm like a football. Sam wished she would stop treating him as if he were five and off to his first day of kindergarten.

“You know, I love you.” She smiled—her eyes, brimming with tears, said she would miss him.

“I love you too.” He reached over the counter and gave her a one-armed hug, kissing her on the cheek. “It’s only for a week or so. I’ll call you.” He lied on both counts.

Sam turned to steal one last longing glance at Francine. She looked up, as he made a break for the door. Her lips said nothing, but her eyes told him everything his imagination wanted to believe.

“Bye,” Sam said as he bolted out into the cold. He scouted up and down the block, but didn’t see Penalso. He hadn’t gone five steps before he heard Francine’s voice calling after him.

“Sam, you forgot your pack.”

Sam ran back and took the rucksack, gazing into her big, melting chocolate eyes. “Thanks. I would be lost without…” You.

“Have a safe trip, and good luck with the interview. That job has your name on it.” For the briefest instant, their hands touched; hers were strangely cold, but her smile seemed warm.

“I…sure. Thanks again. I…need to run,” he said, walking backwards. As the distance increased, he smiled again and turned, only to run into someone. Penalso.

“Didn’t hear me back there, Sammieboy?”

“Fuck off, Penalso; I have a bus to catch.” Sam pushed the tough away.

“That ain’t no way to treat an old amigo from home.”

“You’re no pal. Now get out of the way.”

“Trying to vamoose again? I’ll bet you figured I wouldn’t find you up—”

“What do you want?” Sam edged toward the street, but Penalso blocked his path again.

“Folks ‘round here tell me you’re flush—carrying a couple of C-notes, at least.” Penalso twirled his knife on a leather lanyard. “Is that all you have left from the heist?”

Sam turned to Francine. “Get back inside.” He didn’t want her to see him gutted or what he was going to do to Penalso. Fewer witnesses.

Francine just stood there, perhaps too frightened to move—but she didn’t look frightened—she looked angry.

“Let’s have it. Yo creo, you owe me.” Penalso pulled in his knife and wrapped his bony fingers around the handle.

Judging by the look in his jaundiced eyes, Sam figured Penalso was probably high on his own dope. Stupid and high—a bad combination. “How do you figure?” Sam kept his distance, but Penalso soon had him cornered, and he didn’t have time to go around the block.

“Start with my fare to follow you up here. Y compadre, you still owe la mordida por Waco,” Penalso swept his blade in a wide arc to cut off Sam’s attempt to dart past him.

“You’re full of shit as usual, you jackass. I was nowhere near Waco; I was still in Austin—entiendes?” Sam had seen Penalso fight before—he usually won, so Sam made it a point to keep the pack between his body and Penalso’s blade.

“Sí, entiendo, but I heard it was you, Sammie. You owe me.” Penalso charged again, but Sam danced out of the way.

Sam knew he was out of time. “Then come and get it,” Sam wrapped the pack’s strap around his fist.

Penalso charged again, but he slipped, leaving the back of his head open for a roundhouse blow from Sam’s pack. Penalso ended up facedown on the pavement, but unhurt. As he scrambled to his feet, his blade slashed out, slicing through Sam’s jeans at the knee.

Sam managed to parry with a soccer penalty-kick to Penalso’s jaw. Sam heard a sickening crack, and Penalso fell like a rag doll. Fixing sick computers was not the only thing he had learned in juvie.

Inexplicably, Francine ran to Penalso and knelt beside him, cradling his head—it didn’t seem to be connected to his neck.

“You bastard—you killed him!” She started to scream and wail as if she had lost her first true love.

Sam couldn’t believe his eyes; his mind swirled with what had just happened. He had never killed anyone before. With a single impulsive blow, he had slid headlong into the morass he had been trying so hard to escape. Francine’s accusing screams tore through his soul like Penalso’s knife was going to. Why did she care about this creep? Nothing made sense.

A heartbeat later, it was almost as if Sam could hear the bus’ brakes squeal “Run! Run!” Sam broke into a limping jog and didn’t look back.

 

More about WR Vaughn 

Amazon:http://www.amazon.com/Timkers-Stitch-Time-WR-Vaughn-ebook/dp/B00QOGLHH4/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1421709163&sr=1-1&keywords=The+Timkers

 

 

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