"Well," he said, slowly, quiet-like, "I guess I did. I kind of thought about it."
"That was real smart," I said. "I wouldn't of been able to think of something like that."
"I know," he admitted. Then he said, "Rusty-James, if there was still gangs around here, I'd be president, not you."
I couldn't believe that. I was the toughest guy in the neighborhood. Everybody knew that.
"You'd be second lieutenant or somethin'. See, you might make it a while on the Motorcycle Boy's rep, but you ain't got his brains. You have to be smart to run things."
I just sighed. I wondered where my temper was. I had a mean temper. I just didn't seem to be able to find it anywhere.
"Nobody'd follow you into a gang fight," he went on. "You'd get people killed. Nobody wants to get killed."
"I guess that's true," I said. Nothing was like I thought it was. I had always thought that one and one made two. If you were the toughest, you were the leader. I didn't understand why things had to get complicated.
"Do you really like Patty?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Even if she wasn't your chick I'd still like her."
"Okay," I said. He went back into Benny's. He was the number one tough cat now. If I wanted to keep my rep I'd have to fight him, whether I was in any shape to or not. He had been counting on that. Everything was changed.
I sat there awhile. B.J. Jackson came by, saw me, and sat down. I was glad to see him. He didn't know everything was changed. I could still talk to him like always. Once he went into Benny's, it would be Smokey he'd listen to. It would be Smokey that everybody would be listening to and watching. It was like this would be the last I could really talk to B.J.
"Guess what," he says. "You know who we had for a substitute teacher today in history? Cassandra, the Motorcycle Boy's chick."
"No kiddin'?" I asked. I guess she had been right, about not being hooked.
"Yeah. Man, we really gave her a hard time, too. You couldn't pay me a million dollars to be a sub. She was pretty good about it, though. I stayed after class and talked to her some. I says, 'I'm surprised to see you again.' And she says, 'Did you think I'd throw myself off the bridge, or O.D. on a roof or something?' And she told me to tell you something. She said, 'Tell Rusty-James that life does go on, if you'll let it.' Do you know what she meant?"
"Nope," I said. "She was always talkin' crazy. She was a real dingbat."
"I always thought she had a lot of class," B.J. said. He didn't know anything about women.
"You seen the Motorcycle Boy around?" I asked him.
"Yeah, he's in the pet store."
"Pet store? What's he doin' in there?"
B.J. shrugged. "Lookin' at the fish, as far as I could tell. I heard he messed up a couple of guys across the river last night."
"Yeah, he stomped these two creeps that jumped me an' Steve. Almost killed them."
"I heard that. He better be careful, Rusty-James. You know that cop Patterson is just looking for an excuse to get him."
"He's been after the both of us for years."
"You know," B.J. said, "Patterson has the rep of a good cop. I mean, the Motorcycle Boy is his only bad point. He's never gone out of his way to hassle the rest of us."
"He beat me up once," I said. "And got me thrown into Juvenile Hall for a weekend." I figured Patterson was the only person in the world who thought I looked like the Motorcycle Boy. "Anyway, he's never done so much as say a word to the Motorcycle Boy. He'll never get anything on him."
"Come on," B.J. said. "Let's go get a Coke."
"Naw," I said.
He got up, and started across the street. "Come on, Rusty-James," he said.
I shook my head, and watched him disappear into Benny's. I didn't care if I ever went in there again. And that was a real funny thought, because I never did.
I found the Motorcycle Boy at the pet store, just like B.J. said. He was up at the counter, looking at the fish. They were some new fish, not regular goldfish. I never saw fish like them before. One was purple, one was blue with long red fins and a red tail, one was solid red and one was bright yellow. They all had long fins and tails.
"Hey," I said. "What's up?"
He didn't even look at me. I pretended to be interested in the fish. I mean, they were pretty and everything, as far as fish go.
"How come they each have a bowl to themselves?" I asked. "I never seen pet fish kept one to a bowl."
"Rumble fish," said the Motorcycle Boy. "They'd kill each other if they could."
I looked at Mr. Dobson behind the counter. He was a nice old guy, a little nuts to keep trying to run the pet store, since all he had were some scroungy puppies and kittens and a parrot that he couldn't sell because we'd taught it all the bad words we knew. That parrot could come up with some interesting sentences. Mr. Dobson looked worried. I wondered how long the Motorcycle Boy had been in there, to scare Mr. Dobson that much.
"That's right, Rusty-James," he told me. "Siamese fighting fish. They try to kill each other. If you leaned a mirror against the bowl they'd kill themselves fighting their own reflection."
"That's really neat," I said, even though I didn't think it was really neat.
"Wonder if they'd act that way in the river," the Motorcycle Boy went on.
"Nice colors," I said, trying to keep up the conversation. I had never seen the Motorcycle Boy look so hard at anything. I thought Mr. Dobson was going to call the cops if I didn't get him out of there.
"Yeah?" he said. "That makes me kind of sorry I can't see colors."
It was the first time I'd ever heard him say he was sorry about anything.
"Hey," I said. "Let's go boppin' around again tonight. I can get some more wine. We can get some chicks and have a really nice time, huh?"
He went deaf again and didn't hear me. That pet store gave me the creeps, with all those little animals waiting around to belong to somebody. But I stayed there anyway, fooling around until Mr. Dobson said he was closing up. The next day was Saturday, the closest thing to a busy day he ever had, so he closed up and just left the animals there. The Motorcycle Boy stood outside, watching Mr. Dobson close up, until the shades were pulled down over the windows and the door.
And when he finally left the place, I followed him the best I could, even though he didn't even see me anymore. It seemed like the only thing I had left to do.
11
We went home. The Motorcycle Boy sat on the mattress and read a book. I sat next to him and smoked one cigarette after another. He sat there reading and I sat there waiting. I didn't know what I was waiting for. About three years before, a doped-up member of the Tiber Street Tigers had wandered over onto Packer territory and got beat up and crawled back. I remember waiting around in a funny state of tenseness, like seeing lightning and waiting for thunder. That was the night of the last rumble, when Bill Braden died from a bashed-in head. I'd been sliced up real bad by a Tiger with a kitchen knife, and the Motorcycle Boy had sent at least three guys to the hospital, laughing out loud right in the middle of the whole mess of screaming, swearing, grunting, fighting people.
I'd forgotten about that. Sitting there reminded me. It was much harder to wait than to fight.
"Both home again?" The old man came in the door. He liked to stop in and change his shirt before he went out to the bars for the night. It didn't matter that the one he changed into was usually as dirty as the one he took off. It was just something he liked to do.
"I want to ask you somethin'," I said.
"Yes?"
"Was--is--our mother nuts?"
The old man stopped right where he was and stared at me, amazed. I had never asked him a thing about her.
"No. Whatever gave you that idea?"
"Well, she left, didn't she?"
He smiled slowly. "Our marriage was a classic example of a preacher marrying an atheist, thinking to make a convert, and instead ending up doubting his own faith."
"Don't give me that," I said. "You was never a
preacher."
"I was a practitioner of the law."
"Say yes or no, willya?"
"You don't suppose a woman would have to be nuts to leave me, do you?" He just stood there, smiling at me, looking through me like the Motorcycle Boy did. It was the first time I ever saw any resemblance between them. "I married her, thinking to set a precedent. She married me for fun, and when it stopped being fun she left."
And honest to God, that was the first time I came anywhere near to understanding my father. It was the first time I saw him as a person, with a past that didn't have anything to do with me. You never think of parents having any kind of a past before you were there.
"Russel-James," he went on, "every now and then a person comes along who has a different view of the world than does the usual person. Notice I said 'usual,' not normal.' That does not make him crazy. An acute perception does not make you crazy. However, sometimes it drives you crazy."
"Talk normal," I begged him. "You know I don't understand that garbage."
"Your mother," he said distinctly, "is not crazy. Neither, contrary to popular belief, is your brother. He is merely miscast in a play. He would have made a perfect knight, in a different century, or a very good pagan prince in a time of heroes. He was born in the wrong era, on the wrong side of the river, with the ability to do anything and finding nothing he wants to do."
I looked at the Motorcycle Boy to see what he thought. He hadn't heard a word of it.
And even though I didn't have much hope that the old man could tell me something in plain English, I had to ask him something else.
"I think that I'm gonna look just like him when I get older. Whadd'ya think?"
My father looked at me for a long moment, longer than he'd ever looked at me. But still, it was like he was seeing somebody else's kid, not seeing anybody that had anything to do with him.
"You better pray to God not." His voice was full of pity. "You poor child," he said. "You poor baby."
The Motorcycle Boy broke into the pet store that night. I was with him. He didn't ask me along. I just went.
"Look, you need some money? I'll get you some money," I said desperately. I knew he didn't need any money. I just couldn't think of any other reason for what he was doing.
"Anyway..." I kept on talking, saying anything so I couldn't feel the deadly silence,"...if you want money, liquor stores are the best bet."
I stood there, zipping my jacket zipper up and down, wiping the sweat off my hands on my jeans, watching him jimmy the lock of the back door, waiting for something terrible to happen.
"Listen," I said again, "everybody saw you hangin' around here today, like you was casing the place. And a million people musta seen you comin' here. Will you listen to me!" My voice cracked upwards, like it had a year ago when it was changing.
The Motorcycle Boy had the lock on the back door jimmied and he went on in. He turned on the light in the stockroom.
"What are you doin'?" I nearly screamed. "You want the whole neighborhood to know?"
He stood there for a second in the bright glare of the light. He looked calm, his face as still as a statue. He was seeing something I couldn't see. But my father was right, he wasn't crazy.
I watched him let out all the animals. I made one move to stop him but changed my mind, and after that I just leaned against the counter and watched. I had to lean; my knees were shaking so bad I could barely stand up. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life. I was so scared I dropped my head down on the counter and cried for the first time I could remember. Crying hurts like hell.
He let out all the animals and was on his way to the river with the Siamese fighting fish when I heard the siren. I was wiping my eyes and trying to quit shaking. I ran for the door. There seemed to be thousands of red flashing lights in the street. Doors were slamming and people were shouting. I had started for the bridge when I heard the shots.
They tell me there was a warning shot. How did they expect him to hear a warning shot when everybody knew he was deaf half the time? The man who shot him knew it. I was at a dead run at the first shot, and almost to the river by the second. So I was there when they turned him over, and he was smiling, and the little rumble fish were flipping and dying around him, still too far from the river.
I don't remember what happened just after that. The next thing I knew I was thrown up against the police car and frisked. I stared straight ahead at the flashing light. There was something wrong with it. There was something really wrong with it. I was scared to think about what was wrong with it, but I knew, anyway. It was gray. It was supposed to be flashing red and white and it was gray. I looked all around. There wasn't any colors anywhere. Everything was black and white and gray. It was as quiet as a graveyard.
I stared around wildly at the growing crowd, the police cars, wondering why it was all so silent. It didn't look quiet. It looked like TV with the sound off.
"Can you hear me?" I shouted at the policeman next to me. He was busy with his report and didn't even look up. I couldn't hear my own voice. I tried screaming and I still couldn't hear it. I was that alone. I was in a glass bubble and everyone else was outside it and I'd be alone like that for the rest of my life.
Then a pain sliced through my head and the colors were back. The noise was deafening and I was shaking because I was still alone.
"Better get this kid to a hospital," I heard a policeman say. "I think he's in shock or something."
"Shock, hell," somebody replied. I recognized the voice--Patterson. "He's probably on dope or something."
About that time I slammed both fists through the police car window, and slashed my wrists on the glass that was left, so they had to take me to the hospital anyway.
12
"I never went back," Steve was saying. "Did you?"
"No," I said. The sun was shining warm on the sand, and the waves kept coming in, one after another.
"I made up my mind I'd get out of that place and I did," Steve went on. "I learned that. I learned that if you want to get somewhere, you just make up your mind and work like hell till you get there. If you want to go somewhere in life you just have to work till you make it."
"Yeah," I said. "It'll be nice when I can think of someplace to go."
"Come on. Let's go over to the Sugar Shack and I'll buy you a beer."
"I got dried out in the reformatory. Lost my taste for it."
"No kidding? Good for you. I used to worry about that, I remember. I was afraid you'd end up like your father."
"Not me."
"Well, we'll get together for dinner tonight and really go over the good old days. Sometimes I can't believe I've come so far."
I looked out at the ocean. I liked that ocean. You always knew there was going to be another wave. It had always been there, and more than likely it always would. I got to listening to the sound of the waves and didn't hear Steve for a second.
"...right about that. I never thought you would, but you do. You don't sound like him, though. Your voice is completely different. It's a good thing you never went back. You'd probably give half the people in the neighborhood a heart attack."
I looked at Steve again. It was like seeing the ghost of somebody you knew a long time ago. When he started off across the sand, he turned and waved and shouted, "I still can't believe it! See ya!"
I waved back. I wasn't going to see him. I wasn't going to meet him for dinner, or anything else. I figured if I didn't see him, I'd start forgetting again. But it's been taking me longer than I thought it would.
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S. E. Hinton, Rumble Fish
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