Part 15 (1/2)
Clyde tried to stay calm. But handling his habit was not an experience that lent itself to calmness. And making the money by breaking into houses, apartments, and an occasional second-hand store, the kind that should not have alarms, only added to the tension. No wonder he always felt tired-except when he was riding the blow, of course. Then he could do anything, anytime, anywhere. Make love to the most beautiful woman. Pull off the most outrageous heist in thief history. Kick a.s.s. Be the man.
Ripping off old Ray's sax didn't exactly fall into the historical category. Stealing the cripple's instrument, Ray's source of income, probably ranked as outrageous, pitiful but outrageous.
He tried to explain to Linda but she didn't get it.
”I can get twenty, thirty bucks for the sax. Ray keeps it in good shape. Take me five minutes to get it, maybe. His lock's gotta be a joke. And what can Ray do about it if I get in his crib and yank the sax? Not a d.a.m.n thing. Nothin'.”
Linda arched her eyebrows.
”But c.r.a.p, Clyde. It's Ray. He don't harm no one. He's a little weird, but who around here ain't? And you know him, man. He knows you, too. What if he sees you? What if he turns you in to the cops? You ready for that?”
Clyde knew there was one thing he definitely was not ready for, and that was another lockup. He refused to consider the possibility.
”No way there's any risk. Ray drinks himself to sleep every night. Calls the juice his Oblivion Express. I heard him talkin' about it one day when he was on the corner playing for handouts, explainin' to that Jesus Saves preacher why he can't get up early for the coffee and doughnuts and sermon at the center. Goes out like a match in the wind. And in his chair, you think he's goin' to pull any hero stuff? Come on, it's a setup. Made for Clyde the Glide, smoothest second-story pro on the West Side.”
Linda shook her head but she knew it was hopeless. And maybe Clyde could sc.r.a.pe enough together for a line or two, if he did an all-nighter and hit at least a half-dozen places. Ray's sax by itself wouldn't pay for a taste, much less a good time. It was stupid but it was Clyde's lifestyle, so to speak. To each his own.
Ray slept curled in a ball in his chair, clutching the saxophone he dreamed was his rifle. The street below his room shook with the noise from buses and taxis, ambulances screaming their warnings to the dealers, pimps, and winos prowling Ray's neighborhood. He slept through it all. He prowled, too, but the thick jungle that surrounded him held more terror than the actors in the midnight street scene could conjure up in their wildest drug-induced fantasies. He moaned and twisted his blanket into a sweaty, crumpled rag, but he slept.
The door creaked and Ray's eyes jerked open. For a horrible, ridiculous second, slant-eyed killers hovered around him, poked at him with their weapons, and Ray whimpered. The door eased shut and a shadow moved around the room. Streetlights bounced off the gleam of a knife blade.
”Get the h.e.l.l out of here!”
Before the guy could react, Ray wheeled into the back of the intruder and knocked him over.
”What the . . . !”
The knife flew across the room. Clyde crawled on the floor, looking for the weapon, trying to regain the advantage. Ray ran over groping hands. A feeble scream mixed with the loud crunch of fractured bone. The thief struggled to his feet, turned around in circles, lost in the darkness, defenseless against the crip he thought would be easy. Ray moved smoothly, effortlessly. His strong, solid fingers grabbed the first thing they touched and flung it at the man.
Dazed, Clyde stumbled out the door and collapsed at the top of the stairs.
Ray's neighbors flicked on their lights, threw open their doors, some with guns in their hands, and kicked the intruder sniveling on the stained, muddy carpet.
Ray wheeled to the hallway and picked up his baseball. The ink had been smeared by the impact on the burglar's greasy skin.
He held the ball with his viselike grip and carefully, slowly, used a Sharpie to fill in the words Roberto Clemente Roberto Clemente over the smudge. over the smudge.
Someone nudged his shoulder.
”Better get that door fixed, Ray. I walked right in. You okay?”
”Yeah, Art. Guess I still got my throwing arm. I think I know that guy. You recognize him?”
”No way. Dirty creeps around here. About time one of them got it. You really clobbered him. What the h.e.l.l you hit him with?”
”This ball. Check it out. My old man gave it to me, about the only thing I got from him. It's worth some money, but it means more to me, it's kind of special. Sentimental value and all that.”
Rich Alderete
DETRICE JONES DETRICE JONES was born and raised in San Francisco and is currently an African-American Studies major at the University of California, Los Angeles. This story is her first published work, and is based on her own life experiences. was born and raised in San Francisco and is currently an African-American Studies major at the University of California, Los Angeles. This story is her first published work, and is based on her own life experiences.
just surviving another day
just surviving by detrice jones
There was a knock at my door. Then a jingle and he was in.
Cheap-a.s.s lock. I looked at the clock and it was 3:36 a.m.
He turned on the light and began his search. I watched him, hoping he wouldn't find it.
”Let me get that money and I'll pay you back in the morning,” he said.
”No. I need it for lunch.”
”I'll give it back to you in the morning.”
Yeah right. How was he going to do that? If he didn't have any money now, he wouldn't have any in the morning. He came over and searched near me and around the bed. It wasn't next to me. I learned quickly that it was one of the first places they looked. They had just given me the money no longer than six hours ago. I guess they had smoked up the little cash they already had. Which meant if he found the money, I wouldn't have any for tomorrow or the next couple of weeks when somebody got paid again. He found it in the little chest on my dresser.
”I'll give it back to you in the morning,” he said as he left the room and turned off my light, as if I would be going to sleep anytime soon. I lay there and worried about food and eating for tomorrow. I had to get hunger off my mind. When I finally fell asleep, it seemed like it had been two minutes before the alarm clock went off. I hit the snooze and went back to sleep. This repeated five times. I finally woke up an hour later. I knew even if I missed first period, I would have to make it to my next cla.s.s because we had a quiz that I couldn't make up.
After I got dressed, I looked for my dad. Like always he was nowhere to be found. My mom was in the kitchen. She pressed her blackened fingers on the stove looking for crumbs, little rocks or anything that was round and white. I made some toast so I wouldn't starve for the whole day. I didn't say a word as I tried my best to maneuver around her.
”Where Ronnie at? I gotta go to school.”
”He'll be back soon.”
Denial. I knew better. I took my time to eat and looked for some loose money around the house. I found fifty cents in the big couch. Beatrice saw that and had a slightly jealous look in her eyes.
What the h.e.l.l could she smoke with fifty cents? I went outside to see if I could find my dad, Ronnie. He was in the driver's seat of our van. At that moment I wished I wouldn't have talked so much in drivers ed, stopped procrastinating, and got my license sooner.
”You gotta get to school?” he asked in a mumbled, half-sleep voice, without turning his head at all.
”Yeah, I'm late, but I gotta go to second period, at least.”
”I'ma have to give you that money this afternoon,” he said, still looking straight ahead like he was unable to move his neck in either direction.
He drove like I was Miss Daisy. It took at least thirty minutes to get there when it should only take fifteen. I went to the attendance lady to get a tardy note. She knew my name, homeroom number, and grade by heart. Sometimes she would already have my note ready for me when I got there. I was there in time for the quiz I didn't study for. n.o.body could convince me that I got anything less than an A, though.
During our nutrition break, I bought a Snickers from the student store. I was . . . kinda hungry.
”How was Mr. Springsted's quiz?” my friend Jessica asked.
”Pretty easy. Make sure you know about the Great Depression.