Rumble Fish

"What are you talkin' about?"

  "If my father had to come to the jailhouse and get me, I'd rather stay there. I mean it. I'd rather stay in jail."

  "Aw, relax," I said. "Nothin' is gonna happen." I lit up a cigarette and put my feet up on the back of the chair in front of me. Could I help it if somebody was sitting there? The person in the seat turned around and gave me a dirty look. I looked back at him like there was nothing I'd rather do than bash his face in. He moved over two seats.

  "That was pretty good," said the Motorcycle Boy. "Did you ever think of trying out for a chameleon?"

  "I don't know them," I said, kind of proud of myself. "Where's their turf?"

  For a minute I heard Steve trying to smother his laughter. Hell, I could hear both of them laughing, but the movie got started, so I didn't pay any attention.

  The very beginning of the movie was just some people talking. I figured it wouldn't be too long before we got to the good stuff, and it wasn't, but by that time Steve wasn't looking at the screen anymore. See, the Motorcycle Boy never watched movies. He watched the people in the audience. I'd been to movies before with him, so it didn't bother me, but now Steve was looking at the people, too, to see what was so interesting. There wasn't anything interesting, just some old men, some college kids, some people who had drifted in off the streets, and what looked like some rich kids from the suburbs, slumming. It was the usual people. I knew that was one of the Motorcycle Boy's weird habits, but I hated for Steve to miss parts of the movie, especially since I was sure he hadn't been to a skin flick before. So I poked him in the ribs and said, "You're missin' out on somethin', kid."

  When he looked at the screen he froze. It was my turn to laugh.

  "Are they faking that?" he asked in a strangled voice.

  "I doubt it," I said. "Would you?"

  "You mean," his voice rose slightly, "that people film that?"

  "Naw, this is live from Madison Square Garden. Sure, they film it."

  He sat there for a few minutes more, then jumped up hurriedly.

  "I gotta go to the john," he said. "I'll be right back."

  "Steve!" I hollered at him, but he was gone. After about ten minutes I knew he wasn't coming back.

  "Come on," I said to the Motorcycle Boy. Outside it was almost as dark as in the movie house, until you got used to the colored lights. I found Steve plastered up against a wall, a sick look on his face.

  "Well," I said. "What happened?"

  "Nothing. I don't know. A guy just asked me if I liked the movie. What's scary about that?"

  It was like he was talking to himself.

  "I was gonna tell you." I took the wine bottle out of my black leather jacket. "You never go to the john in those places. I mean, never."

  Steve gave me a startled look. "So it was scary? I didn't just make it up--I mean, is there really something to be scared of?"

  "Yep," I said. Steve looked like he was going to throw up. I thought another drink might help him. It did seem to perk him up some.

  "I didn't mean to make you guys miss the movie," he said.

  "We ain't missin' nothin'. I seen better."

  We went down the block. The Motorcycle Boy turned to walk backwards a few steps.

  "Sin City," he read the theater marquee cheerfully. "Adults Only."

  We went bopping on down the street. The street was jammed with cruising cars. You could hear music blasting out of almost every bar. There were lots of people.

  "Everything is so cool..." I waved my cigarette at the noise. I couldn't explain how I felt. Jivey, juiced up, just alive. "The lights, I mean, and all the people."

  I tried to remember why I liked lots of people. "I wonder--how come? Maybe because I don't like bein' by myself. I mean, man, I can't stand it. Makes me feel tight, like I'm bein' choked all over."

  Neither one of them said anything. I thought maybe they hadn't even heard me, but all of a sudden the Motorcycle Boy said, "When you were two years old, and I was six, Mother decided to leave. She took me with her. The old man went on a three-day drunk when he found out. He's told me that was the first time he ever got drunk. I imagined he liked it. Anyway, he left you alone in the house for those three days. We didn't live where we do now. It was a very large house. She abandoned me eventually, and they took me back to the old man. He'd sobered up enough to go home. I suppose you developed your fear of being alone then."

  What he was saying didn't make any sense to me. Trying to understand it was like trying to see through fog. Sometimes, usually on the streets, he talked normal. Then sometimes he'd go on like he was reading out of a book, using words and sentences nobody ever used when they were just talking.

  I took a long swallow of wine. "You..." I paused, then started again: "You never told me that."

  "I didn't think it would do you any good to find out."

  "You told me now." Something nagged at the back of my mind, like a memory.

  "So I have." He stopped to admire a cycle parked on the street. He looked it over very carefully. I stood there fidgeting on the sidewalk, zipping the zipper of my jacket up and down. That was a habit I had. I had never been afraid of the Motorcycle Boy. Everybody else was, even people who hated him, even people who said they weren't. But I had never been afraid of him till now. It was an odd feeling, being afraid of him.

  "You got anything else to tell me?"

  The Motorcycle Boy looked up. "Yeah, I guess I do," he said thoughtfully. "I saw the old lady when I was out in California."

  I almost lost my balance and fell off the curb. Steve grabbed hold of my jacket to steady me, or maybe himself. He was swaying a little, too.

  "Yeah?" I said. "She's in California? How'd you know that?"

  "I saw her on television."

  For a second I looked around, trying to make sure everything was real, that I wasn't dreaming or flipped out. I looked at the Motorcycle Boy to make sure he hadn't suddenly gone nuts. Everything was real, I wasn't dreaming, and the Motorcycle Boy was watching me with the laughter shining dark out of his eyes.

  "Yeah, I was sitting in a comfortable bar, having a cold beer, minding my own business, watching one of those award shows. When the camera went over the audience, I saw her. I thought I could find her if I went to California, and I did."

  It was hard for me to understand what he meant. Our mother--I couldn't remember her. It was like she was dead. I'd always thought of her as being dead. Nobody ever said anything about her. The only thing I knew was the Motorcycle Boy--my father telling the Motorcycle Boy, "You are exactly like your mother." I thought he meant she had wine-colored hair and midnight eyes and maybe she was tall. Now, all of a sudden I thought maybe he didn't mean just look like her.

  I felt the sweat break out in my armpits and trickle down my back. "Yeah?" I said. I think, maybe, if the street had caved in under me, or the buildings around us had exploded, I would have stood there sweating and saying, "Yeah?"

  "She's living with a movie producer, or was then. She was planning on moving in with an artist who lived in a tree house up in the mountains, so she may be there now."

  "She glad to see you?"

  "Oh, yeah. It was one of the funniest things she'd ever heard of. I'd forgotten we both had the same sense of humor. She wanted me to stay out there with her. California was very funny. Even better than here."

  "California's nice, huh?" I heard myself asking. It didn't seem like me talking.

  "California," he said, "is like a beautiful wild kid on heroin, high as a kite and thinking she's on top of the world, not knowing she's dying, not believing it even if you show her the marks."

  He smiled again, but when I said, "She say anything about me?" he went deaf again, and didn't hear.

  "He never told me about her," I was saying to Steve. The Motorcycle Boy was ahead of us, slipping through the crowd easily, nobody touching him. Steve and me pushed and shoved at people, getting sworn at, occasionally punched. "I never bugged him about it. Hell, how was I to know he could remember anyth
ing? Six ain't old enough to remember stuff. I can't remember anything about being six."

  An old drunk guy was creeping along in front of us. I couldn't stand for him to be blocking the way like that. It made me mad, and I slammed my fist into his back and shoved him into the wall.

  "Hey," Steve said. "Don't do that."

  I stared at him, almost blind from being so mad. "Steve," I said with effort, "don't bug me now."

  "All right. Just don't go pounding on people."

  I was afraid if I hit him or something he'd go home, and I didn't want to be left with the Motorcycle Boy by myself, so I said "Okay." Then, because I couldn't get it out of my mind I went on: "You'd think it'd cross his mind to tell me he saw her when he went to California. I woulda told him, if it was me. That is something he shoulda told me."

  The Motorcycle Boy had stopped to talk to somebody. I didn't know who, and I didn't care. "What is the matter with you?" I asked him. I didn't see why he had to go around messing everything up. I felt like the whole world was messed up.

  "Nothing," he said, walking on. "Absolutely nothing."

  Steve laughed, crazy-like. We stopped to pass the bottle back and forth again. Steve leaned on a glass store window.

  "I'm dizzy," he said. "Am I supposed to be dizzy?"

  "Yeah," I told him. I was trying to shake off my bad mood. Here I was, having a good time, having a really good time, and I shouldn't let people mess things up for me. So what if the Motorcycle Boy saw our mother? Big deal.

  "What the hell." I straightened up. "Come on."

  We ran and caught up with the Motorcycle Boy. I started clowning around, trying to pick up girls, trying to start fights, just giving people trouble in general. It was a lot of fun. I might have had a really good time, except for Steve, who was scared, giggling, or throwing up. And except for the way the Motorcycle Boy was watching me, amused but not interested. After an hour Steve sat down in a doorway and bawled about his mother. I felt bad for him and patted him on the head.

  We found a party later. Somebody leaned out of a window and yelled, "Come on up, there's a party." There was more booze there, music and girls. I found Steve in a corner making out with a cute little chick about thirteen years old. "Way to go, man," I said.

  Steve looked at me dazedly and said, "Is this real? Is this real?" and seemed terrified when he realized he wasn't dreaming.

  It did seem like a dream, sort of. Even if we hadn't been drinking so much, I think it would have seemed like a dream.

  Later we were back on the streets, and the lights and the noise and the people were more and more and more. Everything was throbbing with noise and music and energy.

  "Everything is so bright," I said, looking at the Motorcycle Boy. "It's too bad you can't see what it's like."

  8

  We were watching the Motorcycle Boy play pool. I didn't exactly know where we were, or how we got there, but I knew how long we'd been there--forever. The place was smoky and dark and full of black people. This didn't bother me, and it didn't seem to bother Steve either. Steve and me were sitting in a booth. The table was scarred and the plastic covering on the seats was ripped and leaking cotton junk. Steve was adding to the carving on the table. He was writing a word I didn't even know he knew.

  "My, my, my," said the guy who was playing the Motorcycle Boy. "Ain't he fine?"

  The Motorcycle Boy was winning. He walked around the table, measuring his shot. In the dim smoky light he looked like a painting.

  "Yeah," I said. "And I'm gonna look just like him."

  The black cat paused and looked me over. "No you ain't, baby. That cat is a prince, man. He is royalty in exile. You ain't never gonna look like that."

  "Whadda you know?" I muttered. I was tired.

  "Pass me the wine," Steve said.

  "There ain't any more."

  "That," he said, "is the most depressing thing I have ever heard."

  The Motorcycle Boy won the game and they started in on another.

  "Isn't there anything he can't do?" Steve grumbled. He dropped his head on the table and held on to the edges, like he was trying to keep it from spinning around. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, the Motorcycle Boy was gone. It occurred to me that this wasn't a particularly cool place to be, if he wasn't there.

  "Come on," I said, and shook Steve. "Let's go."

  He staggered out with me. It was dark. Really dark. There wasn't any lights or people and very little noise. That was kind of spooky, like things whispering around in the dark.

  "I'm gonna be sick again," Steve said. He had already puked twice that night.

  "Naw you ain't," I said. "You haven't drunk enough."

  "Whatever you say."

  The night air was sobering him up some. He looked around.

  "Where are we? Where's the living legend?"

  "He musta took off," I said. It wasn't any more than I expected. He probably forgot we were with him. I could feel the hairs of my neck starting to bristle, like a dog's.

  "Hell," I said. "Where'd everybody go?"

  We started moving down the street. I wasn't sure about where we were, but it seemed like we ought to be going toward the river. I had a good sense of direction. I was usually right about what direction to go in.

  "How come we're walking down the middle of the street?" Steve asked after a few minutes.

  "Safer," I said. I guess he thought we should be trotting down the sidewalk, when God knows what was waiting in the doorways. Sometimes Steve was really dumb.

  I kept thinking I saw something moving, out of the corner of my eye, but every time I turned around, it was just a shadow laying black against a doorway or an alley. I started through the alleys, looking for shortcuts.

  "I thought we were sticking to the streets," Steve whispered. I didn't know why he was whispering, but it wasn't a bad idea.

  "I'm in a hurry."

  "Well, if you're scared, I guess I should be terrified."

  "I ain't scared. Bein' in a hurry don't mean you're scared. I don't like creepy empty places. That ain't bein' scared."

  Steve mumbled something that sounded like "Same thing," but I didn't want to stop and argue with him.

  "Hey, slow it down, willya?" he called.

  I slowed down all right. I stopped. Two live shadows stepped out of the dark ones to block the alley. One was white. One was black. The black had something in his hand that looked like a tire tool. Actually, it was a relief to see them. I was almost glad to see anybody.

  Steve said, "Oh, God, we're dead," in a singsong voice. He was absolutely frozen. I wasn't counting on any help from him. I just stood there, gauging the distances, the numbers, the weapons, like the Motorcycle Boy had taught me to, a long time ago, when there were gangs.

  "You got any bread?" said the white guy. Like he wasn't going to kill us if we had. I knew if we handed them a million dollars they'd still bash us. Sometimes guys just go out to kill people.

  "Progressive country, integrated mugging," Steve muttered. He surprised me by showing he did have some guts, after all. But he still couldn't move.

  I thought about a lot of things: Patty--she'd really be sorry now--and Coach Ryan, bragging that he knew me when. I pictured my father at my funeral saying, "What a strange way to die." And my mother, living in a tree house with an artist--she wouldn't even know. I thought about how everybody at Benny's would think it was cool, that I went down fighting just like some of the old gang members had. The last guy who was killed in the gang fights was a Packer. He had been fifteen. Fifteen had seemed really old then. Now it didn't seem too old, since I wasn't going to see fifteen myself.

  Since Steve had said something, I had to say something, even though I couldn't think of anything besides "Bug off."

  Now here is a funny thing that happened to me--I swear it's the truth. I don't exactly remember what happened next. Steve told me later that I turned around and looked at him for a second, like I was thinking of running. That w
as when the black guy clipped me across the head. I can't for the life of me think why I was so slow--maybe it was the booze. But the next thing I remember, I was floating around up in the air above the alley, looking down at all three of them. It was a weird feeling, just floating up there, not feeling a thing, like watching a movie. I saw Steve, who just stood there like a steer waiting to be slaughtered, and the white guy who was acting like he was bored out of his mind, and the black guy who casually glanced across to Steve and said, "Killed him. Better get this one, too."

  And then I saw my body, laying there on the alley floor. It wasn't a bit like seeing yourself in a mirror. I can't tell you what it was like.

  All of a sudden it seemed like I bobbed a little higher, and I knew I had to get back to my body, where I belonged. I wanted back there like I've never wanted anything. And then I was back, because my head was hurting worse than anything had ever hurt me before, and the place smelled like a toilet. I couldn't move, even though I kept thinking I had to get up or they'd kill Steve. But I couldn't even open my eyes.

  I was hearing all kinds of noises, swearing and thumps like people were being clubbed to death, and Steve screaming, "They killed him!" Even though I was glad he was still alive, I wished he wouldn't yell. Noises went right through my head like knives.

  Somebody pulled me up, and I was half sitting, half leaning against him.

  "He ain't dead."

  It was the Motorcycle Boy. I would know his voice anywhere. He had a funny voice for somebody as big as he was--kind of toneless, light and cold.

  "He ain't dead," he repeated, sounding more surprised that he was glad about it than anything else. Like it had never occurred to him that he loved me.

  He had settled back, me against his shoulder, and I heard the sound of a match being struck. He was smoking a cigarette, and I wanted one myself, but I still couldn't move. A harsh, breathing kind of sound kept rasping in my ears, until the Motorcycle Boy said, "Will you stop that crying?" and Steve said, "Will you go to hell?"

  Everything was quiet, except for street noises somewhere, the sound of rats scratching around and alley cats fighting a block over.

  "What a funny situation," said the Motorcycle Boy after a long silence. "I wonder what I'm doing here, holding my half-dead brother, surrounded by bricks and cement and rats."

  Steve didn't say anything, maybe because the Motorcycle Boy wasn't talking to him.