Part 43 (1/2)

BY DAVID WRIGHT.

Because Darryl, at thirteen, was too young to work, his stepfather, Jack Mitch.e.l.l, found him odd jobs when he could. That way Darryl would have his own pocket money, Jack Mitch.e.l.l would explain; it would teach him responsibility. One Wednesday in June, Jack Mitch.e.l.l found work for Darryl and his friend Two pulling weeds outside the new post office.

Jack Mitch.e.l.l and the postmaster, Wiley Edwards, both held seats on the Fitzgerald Town Council, and as fellow councilmen, they did each other favors. For Jack Mitch.e.l.l, such amiability was a political move. For Darryl and Two, though, his political jockeying meant twenty dollars, quick cash in their pockets.

The new post office had been built on a dry, dusty lot on Mesquite Street, just down the road from the county courthouse in downtown Fitzgerald, Texas. Darryl and Two were to pull up the weeds and shrubs to prepare the ground for sodding. It was mindless work, but the sun was demanding, and the roots had dug stubbornly into the rock-hard soil. Whether the boys did the job in four hours or six or ten, the work was worth twenty dollars each. After an hour and a half, they had finished more than half the lot.

The boys had taken their T-s.h.i.+rts off, and the sun scorched their already bronzed skins. Walking bent at the waist strained their lower backs, and the mindlessness of the work wore on their minds. So they started singing.

”You know Chuck Berry?” Two asked.

”Yeah, I know Chuck Berry.”

”My daddy's got a lot of Chuck Berry alb.u.ms.” Two straightened, stretching out his long back, then bent back to work. ”He's got this song, 'School Days.' You know it?”

”How does it go?”

Two's head danced on his neck to the rhythm on the inside. He sang: ”Up in the morning and off to schoo-ool . . .”

”Yeah,” Darryl smiled, ”I know it.” His head started its own dance, like a camel's in stride, to the beat beating inside.

Two sang as they pulled: ”Teacher be teaching the Golden Ru-ule.”

Then Darryl: ”Bell rings, time to go home,/ Grab some white boy's change and get 'long on.”

They erupted with laughter as they clapped garden-gloved hands, steadily moving down the row.

Two continued: ”Boy hollers, crying in his pla-ate . . . Slap 'im upside his head and don't be la-ate.”

Then Darryl: ”Cops, coming, so fast,/ They gonna get your black a.s.s!”

But Darryl's palm-slapping laughter stopped when he didn't hear Two slap-laughing beside him. He glanced over and saw Two staring straight ahead, and then he saw what Two was staring at: a silver-suited pink balloon-Wiley Edwards-sucking a cigar and looming over them.

Wiley Edwards, his red face puckered around the protruding cigar, glared at the boys a long time. His belly surged over his belt and hung there, almost a separate, threatening ent.i.ty. Darryl and Two straightened, a clump of pulled weeds in each hand.

”Yes, sir?” Darryl asked.

”You boys can go on home,” Mr. Edwards said.

”Sir?”

Mr. Edwards pulled a wallet from his inner jacket pocket. ”We didn't hire you boys to sing,” he said. ”We hired you to clear this lot.” He gave each a ten-dollar bill. ”Now, if y'all want to come out here and be disrespectful and play, well, y'all can just go on home.” He turned. ”You explain to Erskine why I sent you home.” Then he waddled around the building and inside.

Darryl looked at the half-cleared lot, then at Two. ”What was that about?” he asked.

”I don't know,” Two said, ”but I got me a ten-dollar bill, and I know what that's about. That's about seven dollars an hour.”

”Jack Mitch.e.l.l's going to kill me.”

”'Cause we got the ax?”

”Yeah.”

”Can't do nothing about it,” said Two. ”We was working and white man told us to go on home.”

”Still . . .”

”Can't do nothing about it,” said Two.

Darryl put the bill in his pocket and followed Two onto Mesquite Street. They walked toward the Flats, where Two lived and where Jack Mitch.e.l.l worked and would be waiting to drive Darryl home to Oakbrook Heights.

Two turned. ”Hey, who's Erskine?”

They pa.s.sed the Dairy Queen and crossed the street toward the bowling alley. ”My stepdad,” Darryl said. ”Jack Mitch.e.l.l.”

”Erskine Jack Mitch.e.l.l?” Two asked.

”Erskine Elie Mitch.e.l.l,” said Darryl. ”They just call him Jack.”

”Huh,” Two said. ”Er-skine, Ee-lie.” Then he added, ”Y'all Northern n.i.g.g.ahs sure is some poetic folks.”

”Must be a black thing then,” said Darryl, ”Bernard Ferdinando Lamar Waymans the second. What, couldn't your folks decide on a name?”

”Yeah,” he said. ”Two.”

Two crossed the parking lot toward the Nite-Owl Lanes. ”Let's go in here and spend some of this hard-earned cash.”

”All right,” said Darryl, but he was still preoccupied with how to explain getting fired to Erskine Elie Mitch.e.l.l.

After getting change, they pumped quarters into video games. They played each other in a football game with such fury that their palms blistered.

”You see that pa.s.s!” Darryl said.

”I saw it.” Two's team regrouped in a huddle on the screen while he selected one of the four defensive options. But his best option, it seemed, was to try to distract Darryl from his tactic. ”So, what's your middle name?”

”I told you ten thousand times already,” said Darryl, never looking up. ”I don't have one.”

”And I didn't believe you then neither.”

”Well, it's true,” he said. ”I don't.”

”You a lie.”

”I don't.”

”You know you a lie.”

Darryl said, ”What d'you want my middle name to be?”