Armstrong and Charlie Page 3

  “Oh, yeah. You the Rules Boy.”

  I bounce the ball a few times to rest my arm. Besides, I got a hunch about this kid, so I say, “You a mama’s boy too, Rules Boy?”

  Whisper of a voice comes from behind.

  “Leave him alone, Armstrong.”

  There goes Otis, acting like that old coat.

  “Say what?”

  “Just leave him alone and play.”

  “I see,” I say. “We’ve got one white boy sticking up for another.”

  “I ain’t white.”

  “Then how come you got that pasty skin like the rest of them?”

  Otis’s eyes droop. My fist shoots out. Stops an inch from his jaw.

  “That,” I say, “is the color black.”

  Now I’m ready for this Charlie Ross.

  Charlie

  Armstrong serves and I slam the ball clear to the back of the court. I slam it for Alex, who got swindled out of his place in line. Armstrong’s there in a flash and hits it back. I do my best slicey for Shelley, who whomped herself in the face. And for Otis—​well, for Otis I send Armstrong halfway across the yard on a slammer. That ought to teach him to insult someone.

  No matter what I give, Armstrong gives back. He runs down my slammer and sets me up for the perfect slicey. I angle it sharp to the left, hoping to catch him on his weak side. But Armstrong Le Rois doesn’t have a weak side. He gets there just as the bell rings and waterfalls my slicey.

  Now, when the bell rings during a schoolyard game, it’s an automatic tie. That’s the universal rule. So I let the ball bounce and walk away.

  “Say, Ross …”

  I turn around. And the last thing I see is a blue handball flying toward my head.

  INCIDENT REPORT

  Submitted by: Edwina Gaines, Yard Supervisor at Wonderland Avenue School

  Date of Incident: Tuesday, September 10, 1974

  Time: 10:30 a.m.

  Location: the handball court on the lower yard

  After the end-of-recess bell had rung, I noticed a crowd gathered near a boy who was kneeling and clutching his head. I blew my whistle to scatter the children, then made my way down the steps to the injured party. There I saw Charlie Ross with a handball not far from him, rolling on the ground. Evidently—​and I don’t know if it was accidental or intentional—​that ball had just traveled at considerable speed from the hand of Armstrong Le Rois into the head of Charlie Ross. I asked the boy named Armstrong, “Did you throw the ball at Charlie?” “Mrs. Gaines,” he said, “I cannot tell a lie. I did throw the ball at him, but in a friendly after-game sort of way.” I wondered out loud and to this boy whether or not he understood the strength of his own arm. And he said, “Well, ma’am, it’s possible that it sometimes exceeds the situation.”

  I then gave my full attention to Charlie, and I must say my heart goes out to that boy who lost a brother. Poor child. It’s only been since last spring, and Lord, how he looked up to Andy.

  I go on simply to add that this is the first time in my memory that we have had an incident to report on the first day of school.

  Charlie

  “Charlie, what happened to your head?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? One side is twice as big as the other.”

  “I got hit by a handball, Mom. It’s no big deal.”

  “Are you sure?”

  What does she think I am, a mama’s boy?

  · 3 ·

  Training

  Armstrong

  MY DADDY’S ALWAYS TALKING ABOUT when’s the last time you earned a dollar ninety-nine? It’s not like I haven’t tried. Where I live—​Pueblo del Rio—​we might get the opportunity to jump on a bus, but we don’t have much opportunity for a job.

  Friday after school, I’m walking home from the bus stop when I notice old Mr. Khalil sitting on his porch behind a dusty yard.

  “Mr. Khalil,” I say, “looks like you could use some help with your front yard. I can pull those weeds for you.”

  Mr. Khalil’s been around here since the 1940s, when the Pueblo del Rio was built. His house is on Morgan Avenue, outside the projects, but I walk by every day after school. He’s probably near ninety years old. Got them soapy brown eyes can already see into the next world. White beard damp with drool. Always an ice pack on his knee.

  “Mr. Khalil?”

  His raggedy dog starts rah-rah-ruffin’ at me. That wakes the old man.

  “Huh?”

  “I say, looks like you could use some help weeding this yard.”

  Mr. Khalil sits up a little taller in his chair. Squints the nap from his eyes.

  “You know how to pull weeds?”

  “It’s not that complicated.”

  “There’s a right way and a wrong way. Where do you grab them?”

  “At the top,” I say. “Then I tug.”

  “That’s the wrong way. You have to grab them down low, wrap them around your hand, and twist them out of the ground. You should hear the roots crack. If you don’t hear the roots crack, you’ll see weeds again after the next rain.”

  “I’ll grab ’em down low, then. How much you pay an hour?”

  “I don’t pay by the hour.”

  “You pay by the weed?”

  “Not by the weed, either.”

  “How do you pay?”

  “By the job. And I pay in advance.”

  This looks like my first opportunity to put some honest money in my pocket. “When would you like me to start, sir?”

  “How about right now?”

  I give him a big smile and walk through the gate. Raggedy dog comes running up, tail wagging but mouth still rah-rah-ruffin’. Friendly or fierce, I can’t tell.

  “That’s Patches. Let him sniff your hand.”

  This is one ugly dog. Probably named for his missing fur. He sniffs my hand, then licks off what’s left of the peanut butter from my PB and J sandwich today.

  I go on up to the porch, smile at old Mr. Khalil, and put out my hand to get paid.

  “Why are you not getting to work?”

  “Well, sir, you said you pay in advance.”

  “I already did pay.”

  I look down at my hand. Not just clean, but empty.

  “What I paid you with is in your head, not your hand.”

  “How am I supposed to buy candy with what’s in my head?”

  “By going around to the other residents of this neighborhood and offering your services as a qualified weed puller. And be sure to let them know you get paid by the yard, not the hour.”

  “How will I know how long each yard will take?”

  “You have to calculate. This one, for instance, is fifty by twenty-five feet. How many square feet is that?”

  “One thousand two hundred fifty.”

  Mr. Khalil looks at me. Sometimes you look at a person long enough, you can see into their future. That’s how he’s looking at me now, like he can see into mine.

  “Did you do that math in your head?”

  Math in your head is easy if you know your Schoolhouse Rock! Twenty-five times fifty is the same as twenty times fifty plus five times fifty. That’s a thousand plus two fifty.

  “Sure I did. Why?”

  Mr. Khalil nods. “This’ll be your test yard. See how long it takes. Then when you negotiate, you’ll be in a better position. Most kids—​and you aren’t the first to try—​come around here and say, ‘Mr. Khalil, I can weed your yard for twenty-five cents an hour.’ What they’re thinking is, they’ll take the whole damn day and earn two fifty. Now, suppose you come round and say, ‘Mr. Khalil, I can weed your yard for two fifty.’ But you get the job done in two hours’ time. How much do you get paid an hour?”

  “Dollar twenty-five.”

  “That’s five times what the other boys make. Now, what are you going to do with the other six hours in your Saturday?”

  “Weed more yards?”

  “Three more, to be precise. At the end of the day
you will have earned ten dollars.”

  “What if I can’t get it done all in a day?”

  “Then you hire some of those other boys. And guess what you pay them?”

  “Twenty-five cents an hour?”

  “A dollar a yard. That way you’re making a dollar fifty for doing nothing. Plus—​and I’m not finished paying in advance—​you get a reputation around here as an entrepreneur.” (That’s a word I know!) “Then you add skills to your repertoire.” (That’s one I don’t.) “How to fix a rotted plank of wood. How to set a post and paint a fence. How to cook a warm meal for an old man. And how to read aloud to one whose eyes are growing cloudy with age.”

  “How am I going to learn all that?”

  “I’ll teach you. Soon as you finish weeding my yard.”

  That’s how I start volunteering for Mr. Khalil. My daddy says going to him is like going to college.

  Charlie

  Glazed doughnuts. Fire Stix. Razzles. Pixy Stix. Wax bottles. Bazooka gum. Tootsie Pop Drops. Space Food Sticks. Candy necklaces. Licorice strings. SweeTarts and Appleheads. On Mondays and Fridays, at exactly four in the afternoon, the Helms Man drives his big yellow truck, a bakery on wheels, into Laurel Canyon. He sells fresh bread, cookies, doughnuts, and candy. And when his whistle sounds, my hand somehow finds its way into my mom’s purse.

  The wax bottles are my favorite. Five for a dime. I always bite off the cherry one first, spit the top into the gutter, tilt my head back, and let the cool sweet liquid dribble down my throat. Then I chew the wax all day long. Especially on the left side of my mouth, where my last baby tooth is taking forever to come out.

  “Boo!” a voice calls from behind. I turn around and jump back, but it’s just Keith. “Two for flinching,” he says, and gives me a pair of not-so-soft slugs on the arm.

  “C’I borrow a quarter?”

  I flick him one. He says he’ll pay me back, but I tell him to forget about it. My treat. (It’s really my mom’s.)

  “How are things at Carpenter?” I ask him after he buys some candy.

  “Bitchin’,” he says. “It’s three times as big as Wonderland. And they’ve got a huge grass field where we play football at recess. But the best part is the girls.”

  He grins and gives me two more slugs.

  “There’s this one,” he says. “Oh, my God! Charlie Ross, you’d think you’d died and gone to heaven if you sat where I sit in class. Right behind Jodie St. Claire. A total fox. She’s got blond hair that smells like the Canyon after it rains. You think I should ask her to go steady?”

  “I don’t know. I guess—”

  “I’ll ignore her for a few weeks first. That keeps them interested.”

  He tears open a bag of Razzles and shakes some into his mouth.

  “How’s it going with those new kids?” he says in a candy mumble.

  “Fine,” I say. “Except maybe for this one boy. Armstrong. He’s a bit of a bully.”

  Keith puts up a hand while he works the Razzles. He chews and chews with his finger still up, telling me to wait ’cause he’s got something important to say.

  He’s chewing so long, I see Kathy Foster, Andy’s last girlfriend, ride by on her skateboard. Kathy’s in seventh grade at Bancroft Junior High, where Andy would have gone. She has straight blond hair and bright blue eyes and wears overalls with a peace-sign patch. We call her the Skateboard Queen of the Canyon. Her feet hardly ever touch the ground.

  Once a week Kathy rides by our house. She slows down, glances in the front yard, and rides on. It’s like she’s looking for something. Or someone. But she never stops to say hello.

  Finally the Razzles turn from candy to gum in Keith’s mouth. “I got three words to say to you: kick his black ass.”

  I nod even though that was four.

  “Want me to ditch Carpenter one day and come beat the crap out of him?”

  “That’s okay. I can handle him.”

  “You sure?”

  “He’s not that tough.”

  “’Cause if you don’t kick his ass in front of the whole school, Charlie Ross, he’ll boss you all year long.”

  I tell him I’ve got a plan, not to worry.

  I wish I had a plan.

  Saturday morning I find Dad in the driveway, washing the cars. He’s stooped over a back tire on Mom’s Buick Riviera. The S.O.S pad looks ready for the trash.

  “Need a hand, Dad?”

  “Sure, Charlie. You can scrub the rest of the whitewalls.” He gives me a fresh pad from the yellow box.

  One thing about my dad, he loves whitewalls. Whenever he sees a new car, if it’s got whitewalls he says, That’s a good-looking car. Sometimes he even says, Get a load of those whitewalls, Charlie. There’s an owner who takes pride in his car. My mom, on the other hand, doesn’t even know the whitewalls are there. These days she hardly ever takes her car out of the garage, but when she does, the whitewalls come home a little less white. Sometimes a lot less.

  “You’ve got to put some elbow grease into it, Charlie.” Dad lets go of the dry, stringy pad in his hand and takes the fresh one from mine. Within seconds his “elbow grease”—​more commonly known as “oomph”—​has taken all the scuff marks off Mom’s tire.

  “Now you try the next one,” he says, “and do a man’s job.”

  Which is funny because I’m eleven. But I surprise myself by how much elbow grease I can work up against my mom’s right rear whitewall. Soon drops of sweat are dripping from my forehead onto the S.O.S pad.

  “Dad,” I say, giving my brow a manly wipe, “did you get in many fights when you were a kid?”

  “Oh, a few.”

  “What about?”

  “The usual things. Sports, money, and girls.”

  “Did you ever stand up to a bully?”

  “Once, yes. I was in the navy, and a guy on ship called me a kike.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The worst possible word you can call someone who’s Jewish. It’s the equivalent of calling a black person the n-word. Which stands for never to be used. Got that?”

  “Got it. So what happened?”

  “Well, it all started with the Neverfail …”

  Our family cake. When my dad was in the navy, he got so homesick that he sent a letter to his mom asking for the recipe, which she sent the next week. He quadrupled it, then quadrupled it two more times, to make a Neverfail that would feed seventy-five men at sea. The scent of butter, eggs, sugar, and vanilla woke the commanding officer from a nap. He wanted to know if they’d struck a bakery in the middle of the Pacific.

  The bakery was my dad. He didn’t have any powdered sugar, so he mixed cocoa powder and butter and granulated sugar, cooked it for three minutes, and cooled it for seven. Then he poured it on top of the cake, and it made a pretty good fudge frosting.

  The commanding officer got the first slice. He told my dad that if they gave promotions for baking, he’d go from radioman to admiral in one bite. “Now share it with the rest of the men,” the CO told him.

  My dad sliced up that cake fast, like it was for a kid’s birthday party. He passed around pieces—​sailor to sailor, navy style—​to every man on ship.

  I’d heard this story before. But there was another part of the story my dad had never told.

  “Every man but one,” he says now. “When I offered a piece to this one sailor from Alabama, he said, ‘No, thanks. I don’t care for any cake made by a kike.’

  “I asked him to repeat that. And he did. The two k’s in the word hit me like fists.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I was angry, Charlie. It had been a banner day until then. Now I had to ruin it by getting into a fight.”

  “And?”

  “I decked him right then and there.”

  “One punch?”

  “That’s all it took. Your old man learned to box in high school.”

  “But, Dad, isn’t it wrong to get into a fight?”

  “Most of the time, C
harlie. But some things are worth fighting for.”

  Armstrong

  I sure hope we don’t get an earthquake, because old Mr. Khalil has so many books they would bury him alive. A whole wall full, and the ones that don’t fit inside the shelves are stacked on top, all the way to the ceiling, all the way to the sky if the roof would get out of the way. He’s got stacks against the other walls, too. And a ladder to reach them.

  A ladder, and he’s past ninety years old!

  After I tell him about my first two weeks at the new school, including how Charlie Ross forgot to duck, Mr. Khalil raises himself up from his chair and climbs that ladder like a possum heading up a tree. Then he eases back down with a book of poems in his hand. Turns a few pages and hands the book to me.

  “Read that one,” he says.

  “May your playmates be a song,

  may your friends just skip along

  laughing you into their game

  letting you remain the same

  in their hearts and on their lips

  even when their fingertips

  have to let you go your way–

  glad they saw Alix today.

  “Who’s Alix?”

  “A young French girl who helped the poet, Mr. James Emanuel, to write again after a long time when his words wouldn’t come.”

  “Why wouldn’t they come?”

  “He was disheartened, Armstrong, by all the prejudice here in America. It stopped up his pen.”

  “And the little girl got it to flow again?”

  “She made him a drawing and, in return, asked him to make her a poem. That’s the one he wrote for her. ‘Wishes, for Alix.’ But it could be for anybody looking to make new friends.”

  The poem makes it sound easy.

  “What if they don’t laugh me into their game?” I say.

  “Then laugh them into yours.”

  “How, Mr. Khalil?”

  “By being who you are, Armstrong. Not who they expect you to be.”

  Charlie

  For the rest of September I give Armstrong as much room on the schoolyard as I gave him at our table the first day. On the basketball court, if he says I double dribbled, I hand over the ball. If he says he was sitting there first, wherever there happens to be, I give up the spot. If he tells me my white ass is in his way, my white ass moves out of it. My goal isn’t to avoid a fight but to put it off long enough to get in shape.