“Well then, what is it? We play in their home and disrespect them like they did to us? Or we just call them out? Any more ideas?” Stevie C. asked.
As the group mulled over the options among themselves, Paul offered, “How about sending a messenger with a protest and a demand for some kind of compensation to make things right?”
“Protest? Compensation? Are you joking?” blasted a voice from the group as laughter broke out across the room.
“No! No! Wait! Let me finish,” Paul implored. “Then if they don’t do what we say, we disrespect them and kick their butts.”
Stevie C. surveyed the room to read the faces before saying, “What’s the point? Why not just cut to the chase? They’re not gonna make amends. Hell, they’re the Apostles. They hate us and we hate them!”
“Stevie, think about it. They took it to us. They came into our home and made it theirs for a day. Yeah, we could do the same, but we’d just be doing what they’d want because we’d be following their lead. Who’re the real leaders, them or us? See? That’s why we need to send a messenger who tells them kiddies what they did wrong and what they gotta do to make it right. We’d be calling the shots.”
“OK I get you. It’s cool,” Stevie C. replied.
“Yeah, either way, we’ll get a piece of them. This way we make them squirm before we do it,” said Big Frankie.
“OK. Everybody who wants them to do some squirming before we teach them to respect us, raise your hand,” Stevie C. said. Hands shot up around the room, tallying a unanimous vote.
“Done,” declared Stevie C. “So, who’s our messenger? What’s he going to say?”
“It was Paul’s idea, so he should go,” suggested Johnny.
“Sure. I’ll do it,” affirmed Paul.
“You go, but I want to cover your back,” said Big Frankie. “Just in case ...”
“Just in case what? Nobody is gonna mess with a messenger,” Paul told him.
“You don’t know. Maybe they don’t like the deal and take it out on you. Maybe they got somebody like Crazy Jimmy who loses it,” replied
Big Frankie, tongue-in-cheek.
“Hey, like me? Nobody’s like me!” shouted Crazy Jimmy in mock offense as he threw the rubber ball he was squeezing at Big Frankie.
“Makes sense, Frankie,” Stevie C. said as he smiled at Crazy Jimmy.
“Maybe we should send Jimmy with you,” Stevie C. added with a laugh.
“Here’s our message to them. ‘You ever come into our home and disrespect us again, you die!’” Jimmy blurted.
“No! Not a good idea,” Stevie C. said in response while shaking his head in disbelief. “Just you, Frankie, as Paul’s backup,” Stevie C. said while glancing over to Big Frankie.
“We got to write down the laws about what they can and can’t do in our home, and what happens if they break our laws,” Paul advised. “Then we’re in control. I’ll take them the laws so they don’t have any excuses if they piss us off again.”
“That’s the only law we need, ‘Don’t piss us off,’” declared Stevie as he took the hammer in his hand and swung it down hard, hitting the scrap of wood on the table next to him with a loud bang! “And then they won’t have any excuses for what they do because they’ll know it would piss us off!”
“OK, then we need to tell them everything they can’t do ... everything that would piss us off,” Paul said as he ripped a blank sheet of paper out of Al’s high school notebook and picked up a pen from the table. “So our first law is, ‘Don’t hang out or party in our home,’ right?”
“Yeah, even though they should have known that one already,” said Stevie C. “But now we’ll tell them what happens to them if they break it again. What say you?”
“We throw an even bigger party in their home,” Big Frankie added.
“And we do it to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Disciples,” Little Frankie chimed in. “To let the Apostles know we’ve had our territory longer than they’ve had theirs.”
Clapping, hoots, and hollers filled the room in affirmation.
“OK. But we keep the day and the time as our surprises,” said Stevie C.
“Yeah, but don’t we want to teach them a lesson, to really punish them for what they did?” asked Paul.
“You guys didn’t let me finish. We make them pay for our party,” explained Big Frankie with a big grin.
“Oh yeah,” Paul responded as more hoots and hollers broke out.
“So we’ll need to tell them what we’ll do if they don’t give us the money,” advised Stevie C.
“If they don’t pay, we’ll hit them hard,” Charlie offered.
“That’s right, and that’s all we’ll tell them. We’ll let them worry about just what we’ll do and when,” Stevie C. said. “OK. Law number two?”
“Hey, man. Remember a couple months ago on Steinway Street when one of them pulled a knife on some kid, took his bicycle, and shouted out that he was a Disciple as he laughed and peddled away?” Charlie reminded everyone.
“Yeah, that pissed me off because the cops came around here looking for that guy and the bike. It hurt our reputation. We didn’t need that,” Stevie C. affirmed.
“So let’s make a law that says Apostles can’t pretend to be us,” Charlie recommended. “And that they have to wear their Apostles sweaters whenever one of them is in our home so everybody knows who they are.”
“I don’t like them wearing their sweaters in our home,” Stevie C. noted.
“OK. Then what about making them wear their sweaters inside out whenever they’re here,” Charlie suggested with a laugh.
“Yeah, that’s better. I like that. They’ll break that law a lot, so we got to have a good punishment,” said Stevie C.
“I got another law. They can’t take a job in our home because that would be one less for us,” Eddie said.
“Yeah, and they can’t have a girl from here for the same reason,” Crazy Jimmy added.
“Let’s keep it simple. What’s ours is ours. They can’t have anything from our home,” Stevie declared.
”Agreed,” shouted the group.
“OK. It’s time for our main event,” Stevie C. announced. “Time to see if we have two worthy men to join us, to help keep our home safe and free of Apostles. Time to pump in some new blood. Time to share our smarts and our pride,” Stevie C. said as he walked over to Tom and Al and put his arms around their shoulders. “Time to teach the Disciples’ way ....”
“Time for you to shut up and get on with it,” teased Big Frankie.
“Woof! Woof!” replies came from around the room.
“You’re messin’ this up. I’m trying to make this something special,” said an exasperated Stevie C. “These two guys think they’re ready to be Disciples,” he added while turning from the group to Tommy and then Al. “Is that right? Are you ready?”
Both Tommy and Al nodded affirmatively.
“Well, you know what? That’s not good enough. You’ve got to prove it,” Stevie C. said as he turned and walked away from them to be with his fellow Disciples, who faced Tommy and Al.
“We got to know for sure that you’re tough, brave, smart, and loyal before you become one of us. Our lives could depend on it,” Stevie C. said while staring at them. “That’s why we’ve got a test to give you, but you won’t know it’s a test. In the next month, as you go about your business, things will come up that you’ll have to deal with. You’ll have to make choices. We won’t always be around at those times, or rather you won’t see us around, but we’ll be there and we’ll see how you respond ... if you pass the test. We’ll meet back here a month from today to either welcome you as fellow Disciples or not.”
Al left the meeting determined to pass the test, to become a Disciple, a man. Throughout that month, he repeated to himself, Tough, brave, smart, and loyal, to keep them top of mind. It was good that he did because he had never been tested so much in these things. Every day t
hat month, Al had to assert his toughness, bravery, intelligence and loyalty in some way. It amazed Al that the Disciples would work so hard to test him. Of all the days, there were a few that clearly stood out, and they’re the ones that now replayed for Al.
CHAPTER 33
Bumping Into an Old Foe
“So where are you going so early on a Saturday morning?” Mr. Masterson asked Al as he headed out of their home.
“Didn’t I tell you last night? A guy at school has a friend who is selling some of his coin collection,” Al said. “He may have what I need.”
“So you’re going to meet him now?”
“Yep.”
“I thought you’re saving for a new stereo?” Mr. Masterson reminded Al.
“I am, but I can’t pass up the chance to get a good deal on coins for my collection. I’m taking just $50 so I won’t be tempted to spend anymore.”
“Fifty dollars is a lot of money. Be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
“OK.”
Al zipped his jacket to keep out the chill on this sunny, fall day as he walked quickly to the bus stop about six blocks away. By the time he arrived, he was warm from the walk and unzipped his jacket as he stood in line behind the only other person there, a blind man with a white cane in one hand, holding onto the harness of his seeing-eye dog in the other.
“Excuse me. Do you have the time?” the blind man asked.
Al looked around and realized the man was talking to him. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a watch,” Al told him.
“Me either, but people tell me there is a clock in the restaurant window across the street. Were they just pulling my leg?”
“Oh, no, I see it. It’s 8:35.”
“Thanks. That means my bus should be here in about five minutes. It better be, or I’m going to be late for work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a quality control inspector for a toy company. I make sure the toys work after they are made and before they’re sent to stores,” the blind man explained.
“But you can’t see. How can ...” an amazed Al began asking.
“How can I test the toys? Well, I can hear, I have two good hands and feet, and I can talk. My partner, Mary, has great eye sight; loves to talk, listens most of the time, but her arms and legs are paralyzed. Between us, we can test just about anything,” the blind man said.
“My dad works for Mattel,” Al informed him.
“What a coincidence. That’s where I work. What does he do?”
“He’s the marketing manager.”
“Is that right? Tell him he’s doing a great job. I’m getting plenty of overtime. That’s why I’m working on a Saturday.”
“I will. Here comes your bus. I’m waiting for the number three,” Al told him.
“Have a good day. Mine will be. We’re testing a pinball machine. I control the flippers and Mary tells me when to use them ... rather she screams her lungs out at me because she keeps trying to top our best score,” he said laughing as he boarded the bus with his four-legged guide.
Al’s bus arrived a few minutes later.
Al spent his fifteen-minute bus ride thinking about his coin collection, the satisfaction it gave him, and the anticipation of adding to it. He couldn’t say exactly what it was about the coin collection that made him happy. He knew putting his money into a bank account wouldn’t be the same. Holding coins in his hands that have a long history, that were used to buy who knows what over the years, fascinated him.
Maybe somebody famous used one of them to buy something, like a hot dog for Babe Ruth, a pen for President Roosevelt, or a paint brush for Norman Rockwell. The possibilities were endless. The possibilities connected him to people who accomplished a lot, which was what he wanted to do with his life. And perhaps through some mysterious happenstance, one of these coins would inspire him to become somebody special. If not, at least they’d grow in value as rare coins do. Only time would tell.
“Hey, you! Where’s your money! No money, no ride!” yelled the bus driver. “You special or something?” he said as he turned around to look at a big guy wearing grease-stained overalls, who appeared to be a few years older than Al.
“Damn right I’m special,” the guy said as he sat down. “Just ask my old man,” he added as he patted the shoulders of the elderly man in the seat in front of him. The man was old enough to be his grandfather, and judging from his reaction, they weren’t related. He was clearly shaken by the uninvited attention.
“This bus ain’t movin’ till you drop a quarter in here,” said the driver as he pointed to the fare box. All ten passengers in the bus, including Al, looked at the young trouble-maker with disgust and curiosity, hoping he’d pay his fare so they could get to their destinations.
“Hey, pops. How about an advance on my allowance?” he asked the elderly man as he stood up next to him and put his outstretched hand in front of the man’s face. The tone of his voice was more a demand than a question.
“Leave me alone. I don’t have any money,” the man replied as he turned his head and looked out the window.
“I want my allowance,” the kid demanded as he put his hands on the man’s shoulders and squeezed.
Al then stood up, looked directly at the kid, reached in his pocket, and said, “Here, I got you covered,” as he pulled out a quarter, walked over to the fare box, and dropped it in. “My stop is next,” Al told the driver as he stood by the door and faced the windshield.
“Hey, man. I owe you one,” said the kid as he stood up in the aisle and accidentally spilled his cup of soda on himself. “Shit!” he blurted out as he toke off his coveralls, revealing the familiar maroon-colored Apostles sweater and blue jeans he was wearing underneath.
“Damn,” Al muttered to himself as the Apostle walked to the rear of the bus where he stretched his legs across the seat. A minute later, the bus stopped. As Al stepped to the opening door, he paused when he heard the Apostle shout, “I got your number!” Al acknowledged the declaration by nodding and pointing a finger at his clueless nemesis just before stepping off the bus.
Not sure about which direction to go for Crescent Street, Al walked over to a mailman, who was picking up a sack of letters from a mailbox on the street corner.
“Excuse me. Can you tell me where 2206 Crescent Street is?” Al asked.
“Hmm ... 2206 Crescent?” he repeated. “Oh, yeah. That’s Sal’s Place. But aren’t you too young to drink?” the mailman asked with a raised eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“Sal’s Place is a bar, and I’m guessing you’re not eighteen yet.”
“A bar? I thought it was a guy’s house.”
“Well, the owner lives on the second floor, above the bar.”
“Is he a coin collector?” Al inquired.
“I don’t know about that, but he’s got a wall full of dollar bills autographed by famous people. And just in case you can’t read their signatures, he put their photos next to them. Makes him feel important, I guess,” the mailman told Al with a wink.
“So he’s got a big head?”
“Ha ha ... and a big belly, nose, and mouth,” the mailman added as he closed the mailbox and began walking away.
“Wait a minute. Which way is it?” Al shouted.
“Oh, yeah, two blocks up and then one over,” the mailman said, directing the way with the wave of his arm and hand.
Al was just about to turn the corner after walking the two blocks. But before he could, an overweight man in a suit and tie carrying a small suitcase crashed into him. He was running as fast as he could from around the corner and didn’t have time to stop before knocking Al over, like an errant bowling ball making an improbable spare.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the out-of-breath Bible salesman told Al as he picked himself up, put his Bibles back into his bookcase, patted Al on his shoulder to comfort him, and continued running fran
tically down the street.
As Al watched him trot away, huffing and puffing, three teenagers holding baseball bats over their heads ran after him, past Al, shouting, “Don’t come back here again! We don’t want any! Ha ha hah. Look at him go.”
As they ran away, Al read “The Apostles” on the backs of their sweaters. The irony of that scene, which had been lost on Al at that time, made him cringe now as he reflected on it. Al continued walking down the street toward Sal’s Place for about a minute before he noticed that the three Apostles who had been chasing the Bible salesman were now walking beside him.
“Hey, Johnny! Where you going?” demanded the tallest one who had the body of a lineman on a football team.
A startled Al looked over and a chill shot through him. “Johnny? You got me confused with someone else,” Al replied.
“No. No. You’re Johnny. Anybody we don’t know is Johnny,” the huge Apostle corrected Al.
“My name’s Al and I’m going to Sal’s Place,” Al coughed.
“Ha ha. Al’s going to Sal’s,” quipped the curly haired Apostle who was about Al’s age.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” the oversized one asked with a menacing stare.
“Why?” Al asked as he scratched his head.
“Well, if you’re not from around here, you could get into trouble because you don’t know our laws,” the tall one explained as he tapped his baseball bat on Al’s chest. “And we don’t want that.”
Al swallowed hard and said, “Oh. No, I’m not from around here.”
“Didn’t think so, because you’re looking me in the eye when you talk. That’s against the law. Nobody looks an Apostle in the eye when they’re talking.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know,” Al said as he shifted his eyes to their feet.
“OK. Since it’s your first offense, you only owe us a dollar.”
Al glanced up to see if he was serious.
“Now, it’s two dollars for looking at my eyes again.”