Sacred Smokes Read online

  Hold still, he says.

  He takes the cuffs off.

  Turn around, he says.

  I turn around.

  Snick, go the cuffs back on my wrist.

  Goddamnit. Now what?

  You’re getting back in the car, Lenny says.

  And we’re going to pick up one of your buddies, Squiggy says.

  Lenny goes, That fuckin’ JD.

  Yeah. He stole a gun.

  We’re going to get him, and you’re coming with, they say.

  Watch yer fuckin’ head there, smiles Squiggy.

  Shiiiiiiit, I say.

  We peel out of the alley, gravel flying everywhere. Their total dickishness is on display as they laugh when the force from the acceleration throws me into the seat and tries to dislocate my behind-the-back handcuffed arms from my shoulders and I pull a face they can see in their mirrors, and I can see their faces back, those ones that watch everyday everything everywhere. I look from one side of the front seat to the other, consider my captors, contemplate the dickery they practice and impossibly attempt to enumerate its possible causes, ’cause these two are some grand assholes. Beat up in school when they were kids? No dates, no ladies? Some kind of repressed sexual weirdness? The violence that was always lurking, always present; that’s what made me think this whole dyad we danced with the cops was just our gang versus their gang, and while they had some weapons and vehicular advantages, we had numbers and brains. And far fewer rules, if at least better morals.

  It really did seem most of the time that it was just us against them, both sides steering clear of civilians, and us probably more than them always wondering where the other was. We were mostly good natured about our animosities and antagonisms; we thought it was pretty funny that time we threw a blonde-haired mannequin fifteen feet off the viaduct down onto its head in front of a squad car and had one of the peewees make the appropriate girl screams to accompany the jump, even if they didn’t. Hahahaha. Holy shit—they were pissed. Jumped out of the squad car huffin’ and puffin’ like they were gonna kick the bucket on the spot. I thought, Shit, even I’ve seen folks die, and I’m like fourteen. What the fuck is wrong with these guys? And then they looked up and we were just laughing and laughing, crowded mouths all of us with sugar and Doritos and pop jammed in our teeth, hordes of decay waiting for us to pass out in the sun or the dark so they can get to work, strip away that one bit of whiteness we might still have, our only claims to royalty the crowns of enamel we’re soon to lose. They tried to come get us, but they were too fat, and we tried to help by pointing out that fact:

  Hahaha y’all fat motherfuckers. Come get us.

  Look. They cain’t get up the side of the tracks.

  I think that one had a heart attack when the dummy hit the tar.

  Shit. Looks like he dropped his donut.

  Y’all ain’t crying are ya?

  Finally one of them figured out how to sideways crab that shit up the hill so we had to take off running. Fucking hilarious. I’m just glad he never squeezed off no shots, even if he sounded like he was about two minutes from it. I ain’t never heard a cop cuss like that, well, maybe except for the one who crashed his car into the stanchion after we threw a mattress on him from up on the tracks. Now that shit was funny.

  But their sense of humor? Nonexistent. I do think about some of the shit we did then, now, and well, yeah. I get it, I guess. There’s a big difference between some kids skitching one-handed from the back of a CTA bus during a snowstorm, laughing at you and drinking from a gallon jug of vodka and giving you the finger while you’re trying to maneuver your squad through black ice covered by piles of grey slush, versus dodging shots from an Uzi in the parking lot of a rib joint some sunny afternoon during a bogus dope deal and wondering what your kids will tell their friends at school the day after your funeral.

  I think about that for a while. And I think about taking some notes on this exhausting day, like I should remember some of this shit. It’s a good thing, too, because I do, and I find I need it later.

  So, the English teacher says,

  Today we’ll have an in-class writing assignment.

  Sort of a what-you-did-on-summer-vacation piece; a memoir, a reflection.

  Be creative.

  Be thoughtful.

  Be handing me five hundred words by the time class is up.

  Be handing me . . . I’m not gonna lie to you. She was a little bit crazy, but I think most high school English teachers should be, or will be. She always smelled perfumey. I never knew if it was incense or what, but I could see her hitting that weed and tryna cover it up for class. For sure. She had a crazy white lady fro and tons of big jewelry, probably a macrame owl in her kitchen too. Next to the harvest-gold fridge, right by the avocado stove. Above the pot plant in the windowsill. That she bought from some hippy at a festival in the park. Who she later had sex with. And was disappointed by.

  So this is what I wrote. Five hundred words. Exactly. I was bored, so I went second person:

  The rickety wooden rollercoaster makes you want to vom it. The sweat on your forehead doesn’t even have time to dry, this thing is flying so fast. After the fucking bumper cars and the log ride, you’re glad you drank whiskey instead of beer for breakfast. And at least you can smoke, if you sit in the last car.

  Your ma and the rest of the class are tilt-a-whirling, or zippering, or skipping, or whatever the fuck you do at an amusement park. Playing hide-and-go-seek. You have your sights set on Alejandro, that fucking punk, that Corona. You can’t believe your good luck that they decided on a field trip for all the classes, even for the gangbangers, Royals, , Hooks, GDs. Normally you just glare at each other across the hall.

  Awesome. BugsfuckinBunny. It looks like America exploded all over his face. This ridiculous outfit.

  What’s up, doc?

  My foot in your ass, rabbit. Scram.

  Awwww. Wittle wittle man has a big, bad attitude.

  I mean it, jagballs. Keep it movin’.

  A couple of the moms stare at you, but you head for the boat rides, give ’em the stinkeye and the hairflip. Light another smoke. It feels like you have bubble yum pulled over your face. Everything smells pink.

  Halfway to the boat rides you stop by the food joints, hoping to raid a table or two. Grownups always leave their shit ’cause they never remember to get napkins. Or ketchup, for whatever the fuck those people eat. Sometimes there’s a beer or two to be had. Just gotta be quick. Don’t wanna have to turn on the waterworks unless you have to.

  Well, well. It’s Alejandro.

  Hotdogs, cabrón? I knew you liked the weenie.

  He doesn’t see you yet.

  Shit.

  You can’t let him see you.

  You duck behind . . .

  . . . this person. The aquanet/dippity-do/hairspray rolls off their head. You pull out your lighter, and . . .

  Distraction.

  Pandefuckinmonium. The flames must be eight feet high. The initial flash catches some greasy napkins and a bag of french fries. Fires start to pop out everywhere, and polyester sizzles in the midday sun. That fuckin’ Tasmanian Devil spins by, fully engulfed. Hahahaha.

  Rawr.

  (Please don’t let the Big Red Monster catch me.)

  You snag an Old Style and kick back for a minute. This is better than the Three Stooges.

  Alejandro looks things over, grabs some lady’s purse, and heads for the edge of the park. It’s either the Model Ts or the train. Fuck, you think. I love trains. I hope it’s the train.

  You light a smoke and lope along, never taking your eyes off him.

  Here’s where it gets interesting for you. You could always do the shift thing—there’re enough fuzzy costumes here, and with the food court on fire, you could do him and so easily slip back into your human skin.

  But that would be too good for Alejandro. You decide on the knife, because eighth grade, a lot like your teacher, is a real bitch.

  I got an A, and the weirdes
t looks you can imagine for the rest of the school year.

  Fuck, man. We’ve been driving around seems like forever. I’m getting the grand shithole tour of my own neighborhood. We’re like stopping to visit folks. Sure, I’m getting some great insights into how very deeply sad Lenny and Squiggy’s lives really are, but these fucking cuffs are on way too tight. Goddamnit.

  We pull over quick like on Clark Street near Chase. I can see Claudia out of the corner of my eye, and apparently my captors can too. Claudia is, of course, on the rag. I can see her paper bag from here. Inside that paper bag is an old towel soaked in Toluene, and she holds it to her sometimes-pretty face and inhales nice and deep so she can get nice and high. And that is what they call being on the rag around here. Not what you were thinking. And I think Claudia being on the rag is what actually keeps Lenny and Squiggy from buggin’ her for blowjobs, because that Toluene’ll make your eyes go all Barney Rubble, sure, but it’ll also make you drool and lose control of your mouth and most of your face and all of your brain.

  I guess we’re just saying hi or something, because we pull right back into traffic.

  We head north and then turn up Rogers Avenue.

  Shit.

  I know where we’re going.

  And they do too.

  Squiggy yanks the wheel hard down Honore, and then we’re headed the wrong way on a one-way street.

  JD’s house.

  And you know he’s there, too, the dipshit.

  JD (run the J and the D together and say it “Jade”) is the kind of burglar who stops every time and makes a fucking sandwich he’s so predictable. And poor. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be poor enough that you stop and eat something while you’re doing a job?

  Yup. Not only is JD home, he’s sitting on his front stoop, smoking a cigarette and eating a sandwich.

  For fuck’s sake.

  Get in the car, JD, they say over their car PA.

  JD waves like oh yeah, and then

  takes off running

  behind his house

  between his place and Rat’s.

  Lenny hops out of the car

  (Whoa, I think, this must be serious)

  and runs after JD.

  Squiggy throws it in drive and lawn jobs the little strip of barely green grass between the sidewalk and the street and drives down the walkway after both of them.

  Fuck, I think. This ain’t gonna end well.

  JD is running, eating his goddamn sandwich and taking drags off his cigarette.

  He’s almost to the alley and gone down the gangway when

  I watch him slow

  himself

  imperceptibly

  but just enough

  to get caught.

  He takes the last bite of his sandwich and prepares for Lenny,

  who huffs and

  puffs

  and

  punches JD dead in the stomach.

  This huge cloud of smoke rolls out of him.

  (Big man, Lenny, I think. We’re gonna get you, fucker.)

  JD goes down but doesn’t drop his cigarette. I love this kid.

  Lenny grabs him by the hair and shoves him toward us in the car.

  Thought you were gonna get away, he says, thought you were gonna blahblahblah, he keeps going, blustering, running his mouth.

  I tune him out. Big talk for a guy with a gun, a badge, and bad skin, I say to myself, but probably just a hair too loud.

  What? Fuckin’ punk, he says.

  Nothin’, I say.

  Nice mustache, I say.

  JD gets the cuffs, a punch in the face (after the cuffs, the big cowards), and then he’s my seatmate. Lenny and Squiggy get whatever lame satisfaction they get out of this, plus JD’s five bucks, Jimmy’s mom’s necklace, and Jimmy’s dad’s .357.

  We take off driving around some more. Lenny and Squiggy congratulate each other for a while (and probs jerk each other off too, or would if we weren’t stuffed in the back seat here) and kind of forget we’re in the car. It’s like being at home and they’re our dads or something. We settle in and enjoy the day the best we can, chitchat and whatnot.

  Did you really steal Big Louie’s gun, you dumbfuck? I say.

  Shit, Teddy.

  Well?

  Yeah.

  What the fuck is wrong with you, man? I say.

  The violations are piling up on you, JD.

  You’re gonna take a hundred to the chest.

  You’re heart’ll fuckin’ stop, I say.

  I’m sorry, man, JD says.

  I forget his other nickname is Li’l Klepto, but that don’t make it okay.

  What the fuck, man.

  They are gonna beat your ass, I say.

  Shit, man, you still owe them fifty to the chest for that purse snatch the other day.

  You’re fucked, man.

  I know, Teddy.

  What am I gonna do, he says.

  You’re a crooked little fucker, that’s for sure.

  I don’t know what you’re gonna do. Shit. I don’t know what you can do, I say.

  I really fucked up, man, he says.

  Did you at least shoot anyone? I say.

  I did, Midget, he says.

  Who? I say.

  Alejandro, he says.

  Fuck you, I say. Nay. You did not.

  Ya, I did, init, he says.

  No way, I say.

  Where at?

  In the back, he says.

  Shut up, I say. No, where at, where did you see him?

  That asshole was robbing T’n’T Liquors. I went in there to rob it, but that fucker was already doing it.

  Hahaha, I laugh.

  So what did you do? I say.

  I let him finish, he says. And then I got the drop and robbed him.

  I say, Nice. How did he get shot then?

  After he gave me the money, I told him to leave the store.

  Yeah?

  And then when he was walking out I was like, well, I’ll never get this chance again, so I shot him.

  Is he dead?

  He is now, he says.

  What do you mean?

  Well, after I shot him, I took off running, but the owner, that little Jamaican dude—

  He’s from Tobago, I say, T’n’T means—

  Whatever, he says. The owner came out from behind the counter and blasted like five holes in him. If he ain’t dead he’ll wish he was.

  Damn, I say. And then you just came over here and ate a sandwich?

  Yeah, he says.

  You’re a cold-blooded motherfucker, I say. How much did you get?

  Lenny and Squiggy perk up, look at us in their mirrors.

  What are you two talking about? they say.

  These fools can’t understand our accents at all.

  Nothing, I say, in theirs.

  The price of tea in China, I say.

  They pull over in an alley off Damen Avenue.

  Probably talking about books, huh, perfessor? they say.

  Yeah. That’s it, I say.

  What book now? they say.

  Alvin Toffler’s Future Shock. I like the premise.

  Alvin what? they say.

  Golding’s Lord of the Flies.

  I always look forward to the arc of the kid with the glasses, I say.

  Pudgey! they say. We’re going to get his fat ass, too. Take all three of you fuckers to jail. The first one of your moms who agrees to go out with us tonight—you get out of jail. You other fuckers can rot ’til morning.

  Dessssssperation.

  We’ll be right back, they say, and get out of the car.

  JD.

  JD. Let’s get the fuck out of here, I say.

  Fuck you, Teddy. We’re stuck, he says.

  Whaddaya talking about, I say.

  Do this, I say. Hop up off your ass and scootch your hands up under your legs.

  Then you can bring your hands in front of you.

  Not even, he says.

  Watch, I say.


  And I do it.

  Hahaha, he laughs.

  But yeah, dumbass, he says. We can’t go nowhere no way.

  Bullshit, I say. What do you mean?

  The fuckin’ doors are locked from the outside, Teddy.

  You can’t open the back doors in a cop car, he says.

  I say, You’re right, asshole. But this is a narc car.

  It has regular doors.

  See ya, I say, and open up my door and get out.

  Holay. Wait for me, he says. JD does the hopscootch trick too, and then he’s out in the alley standing next to me.

  I reach in my pocket for my smokes and pull out my lighter.

  Fuck, Teddy. Just hold on a minute. Let’s get the fuck outta here first.

  Fuck that, man, I say. Savor the moment, I say, getting my cigarette billboards all fucked up as I light a Kool. I say “savor,” but I’m picturing the Newport one: “Es el sabor . . .”

  Whatever, I say, to myself and JD both.

  We take off down the alley, hustling a little but not running, because I refuse to be rushed.

  Wait, JD says. How are we gonna get these cuffs off?

  I ask him if he remembers Cool Hand Luke and the kid with the ax.

  What, he says, his eyes all big and wide.

  Nothin’, I say, too tired from this day even to fuck with JD.

  I say, Jimmy’s got a key.

  ON ICE

  I remember when Clint killed this King on the Tracks. I say / we said “the Tracks,” but that was really a name for this big section of the Chicago and Northwestern tracks from about Big Pit down to the stop at Lunt or so and meant all of this ground in between too. The Cinder Path, Pottawattomie Park, 3-D, all that, even the A#P’s or the Aldi’s or the National’s or whatever it was called, the place where my brother, dusted out of his mind, took a sledgehammer to the cinderblock wall around midnight and finally broke in about four in the morning and got himself some goddamn beers. Which was better than the time he Batmanned through the skylight at the Community’s or Zayre’s or Ames or whatever because he wanted a bike and he got one and also the gumball machines that he had to throw off the roof four or eight times to get six bucks in nickels.