The Jenuine Junk-yard Dog
Susan Sowerby
Young Adult
The Graffiti King
Joel Denby knew the ‘Junk-yard Dogs’ were just around the corner. The gang usually made a nuisance of itself in front of the hot dog shop where he wanted to go. If only they’d move! He squeezed the hard earned coins in his hand till they cut into his palm and his empty stomach growled as loudly as any junkyard dog’s.
Pushing a wary eye around the corner, he spied Tom Pratt, their esteemed leader, locked into his routine, putting on his tough show. Pratt liked to hang out late at the Hot Dog joint because he thought it made the Junk-yard Dogs look cool. Ever since Sally Grey, the cutest girl in school had taken a liking to Joel, the gang had given him a hard time whenever he crossed their path. Joel knew she had no idea of the pain she caused, and he wasn’t prepared to tell her.
‘Mangy lot,’ he grouched to himself, ‘no wonder she doesn’t like them, especially Pratt,’ but then again, he didn’t know why she’d settled on him. Often he wished she hadn’t because it thoroughly confused him. He didn’t understand why he felt so driven to please her even though he barely knew her.
In his own judgment, Joel didn’t see himself as a better catch than any of the Junkyard Dogs. In fact, he had a record of petty theft, while Sally came from the up side of town. Without knowing, she had already begun to reform him. Because of her, he didn’t steal food anymore, because of her, he’d got a job unloading trucks after school, and because of her, his body ached, covered with bruises inflicted by the Junk-yard Dogs. Every time he talked to her at school it inflamed the gang, but he did it anyway, and despite wanting to look tough, he’d let his hair grow for the simple reason that she loved the resulting riot of curls.
‘Unfortunately, he mourned to himself, ‘it makes me look like one of those cherubs out of the weird old paintings. If you don’t look tough, life gets tougher around here.’ Even jealous girls said they’d ‘rip his head off’ to get his thatch of hair, but make no mistake, Joel had grown up rough and that made him stronger than any of them - including The Junk-yard Dogs.
The gang had succeeded in isolating him from his friends. They thumped them so thoroughly they wouldn’t be seen talking to him at school. Only one soldier, Joey Ainsworth paid the price, yet kept on. In Joel’s eyes Joey scored higher than all the others put together. Popularity was one thing, but having one real friend was worth much more.
He crouched down by the wall, hoping enough customers would come along so he could use them for cover. He knew well that seven savage ‘Dogs’ to one underfed kid was not a great ratio for survival and he had no wish to add fresh blows to the fading set of bruises he’d collected the week before.
First came three young teenagers talking among themselves, furiously avoiding eye contact with the Dogs. Wimps, thought Joel, they wouldn’t be much help in a crisis. Then an elderly, moustached gentleman with a cane followed them. As a street vagrant, Joel had already learned these old gents could behave more fiercely than any delinquent when suitably annoyed. He might be useful. Then, bonanza! A tall lean cop in uniform sauntered casually towards the door. Made brave by hunger, Joel shinnied up fast behind him and slid in.
‘Denby!’ the Dogs hissed, ‘We’ll pulp you when you come out.’ and they meant it.
Summing up the situation, Joel knew he’d find it hard to jump queue with only four customers and the cop in there, but he certainly didn’t want to leave last and alone. He eyed the cop warily. The guy towered about six foot four and bore a strong resemblance to Clint Eastward. Joel thought he looked out of place in a hot dog shop. A James Bond movie would be a more suitable setting. Though he didn’t consider cops his friends, he decided to swallow his pride in the interest of survival.
‘Excuse me,’ he said as politely as possible, ‘There’s some low-lifes out there who want to bash me. Can you please wait and walk out with me?’
The cop’s blue eyes searched him for a moment, roving from the bruise on his forehead all the way down to the spray paint smudge on his left sand-shoe. The corner of his mouth twitched.
‘Yeah, I heard what they said,’ he responded.
Joel sighed with relief. Hunger and adrenaline had not been comfortable amigos in his protesting belly. He could relax now - and feel smug. The cop didn’t know he was the notorious ‘Graffiti king.’ No one did. He found it irritating that his one claim to fame forbade him from claiming it.
Good as his word, the policeman waited, and together they strolled past the Junk-yard Dogs, chatting as though they’d known each other for years. The gang paced like dangerous zoo animals curbing primitive instincts.
‘Where you off to?’ The cop asked as they continued down the street.
‘Er home,’ Joel lied.
The man took a bite of his hot dog and then asked an unexpected question - one the boy least wanted to hear from a cop.
‘You the Graffiti King, kid?’
A sting shot through Joel’s body as he scrabbled to collect his splattered wits,
‘Er, no one knows and no one tells around here,’ he muttered. Those blue eyes were boring holes in him. Uh oh, he thought, perhaps there is a price to pay for everything in this world, even a little bit of protection.
To his immense relief, the man shrugged dismissively, ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s bloody good,’ he took another a bite. ‘He’s just got to learn to put it in the right places.’
Joel knew he should play disinterest and not betray himself. His internal warning bell went off, but he couldn’t resist,
‘Right places?’ he repeated, curious. As far as he was concerned the whole slum could use a face-lift. The possibilities were endless, the panoramas terrific, could any place be more ‘right?’
‘Yeah – signage, murals, that sort of thing. He could get paid for it. Vandalism is a chargeable offence you know.’ With that, he turned to go, ‘Catch ya, kid.’ He waved and walked casually away. Along with a scorching mouth full of hot dog, Joel gulped down a medley of confused emotions. He didn’t like those departing words, "catch ya", least of all, from a cop. If the guy really suspected, he hadn’t been direct about it. Why? Probably because he needed to catch him in the act! Never the less, he’d offered an encouraging compliment. That meant the world to Joel who felt rather starved and isolated in his artistic endeavours. Some cops were idiots. That one obviously wasn’t, so he’d better be careful. He’d have to control the crazy impulse that drove him to transform ugly walls.
Crossing over to the Jack Hatch'es Junk-yard, he sat down against the tall wire fence to scoff the rest of his hot dog. He’d bought the biggest one possible, but still could have eaten more. Dam the growth spurt, it made him ravenous.
Suddenly, something hit the fence like a torpedo, and shanghaied off like a rocket. He turned and saw a black demon with savage teeth and a tunnel throat that howled like the horrors hell. Joel sprang to his feet in one leap, shooting the sausage skywards with his sharp reflexes. With a desperate grab, he caught it again, before it hit the dirt.
‘Got me!’ he laughed as he saw it was just the poor junk-yard dog. At first he thought he’d have to move to eat in peace, but then glanced at the thin, hungry creature and felt sympathy. A few weeks earlier, he’d taken a snoop around the junk-yard when it was open and he’d seen the poor thing tied on a short chain with no water. He overheard the unpleasant proprietor.
‘Starve ‘em a bit. That keeps ‘em mean. Mean is what I like.’ The question had crossed his mind, why does a worthless old junkyard need such a ferocious dog. Humph! Being underfed had not made Joel vicious, only small. The dog wasn’t small, but it was far more under privileged than he was. That unfortunate prisoner couldn’t nip down to the pub for a drink or grab a hot dog when its owner didn’t feed it. Joel broke the end off his precious hot dog and pushed it through the wire. The dog wolfed it with one greedy gulp. The tail wagged just a little bit as the big soulful eyes begged for more. He broke off a
nother chunk.
‘That’s all you get mate, I’m hungry too.’ The dog lay down against the fence, its skinny ribs warm against the boy’s back. A sense of kinship passed between the two at the point of bodily contact. The boy bravely put his hand through the wire and stroked the dog’s coarse hair. It gently licked his fingers.
‘I’m going to name you JD because you’re the genuine junk-yard dog, not fakes like those guys around the corner. Guess what. We’ve got the same initials, see?’ Initials were easy for Joel. He always had a hard time with spelling, which sometimes spoiled his graffiti. On other occasions, it looked deliberate and cool with a letter or two turned back to front.
From that day on, Joel brought JD food or scrounged it for him from various bins. Within a couple of weeks the dog’s hair became sleek until he looked quite reasonable. After dark, he would bound to the fence to meet the source of his sustenance, the god-like object of his adoration.