Tony had been walking for hours, making dozens of unsolicited offers, rejection waiting at every stop.  Now he knew what it was like for Jehovah’s Witnesses after countless doors had been closed in their faces.  Upon sighting the Help Wanted sign in the window of Jensen’s Supermarket, he felt like a dying man in a desert who had just spotted a water fountain.  He only hoped it wasn’t a mirage.

The store manager, Mr. Jordan, was a stout balding man with the stub of a cigar protruding from the corner of his mouth like a natural extension of his two day’s growth of beard.  His facial expression could only be interpreted as a frown, but it appeared to be a permanent characteristic, such as a mole or dimple, rather than an indicator of his mood.  He took the cigar from his mouth and blew out a puff of what smelled like vaporized sewage.

“You don’t mind me smoking, do you?”

“No, sir,” Tony replied, sensing that honesty would not be the best policy in this situation. 

“Good answer.  All you have to do is lift boxes, unpack ‘em, and shelve what’s inside.  If you show up on time and do what I just said, things should work out fine.”            

Tony wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold his breath, but would break the world record if that’s what it took to get the job.            

“The only people I got a problem with are jerk offs who go around complaining about other people smoking.  The surgeon general can warn me all he wants, but if he ever came down here and tried to take away my stogie, he’d be the one needing a surgeon.  What’s your name, son?”

“Tony Johnson.”

“Which school you go to?”

“Lincoln.”

“Nice and close, that’s good.  The job pays seven dollars an hour.  I need someone to work from four to eight on weekdays.  That sound okay to you?”

“It sounds great, sir.”

“In that case you got yourself a job.  Can you start tomorrow?”

“Sure can.  Thanks a lot, sir.” 

“You can thank me by being a good worker.  Hey Howard, come here.”

The guy headed towards him put Tony in mind of beautiful, tanned people downing soft drinks on a California beach, their gleaming white teeth like freshly painted picket fences.  He was the embodiment of Madison Avenue’s most enduring creation, the All-American boy.  His demeanor exuded a brand of self-assurance possessed by those accustomed to having the world handed to them on a platter.

“Howard, this is Tony.  He’ll be working with you starting tomorrow.” 

“Good to meet you,” Howard said.

“Same here.”

“I better get back to work.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

He would have to rearrange his schedule, studying at home rather than the library.  A few all nighters would probably be necessary on the days before exams.  Nevertheless, Tony did not doubt that he would be able to keep up his grades.  And once his father started working again, he would have extra spending money.  He would update his wardrobe, buy a used computer, put money away for college, and if he started dating Janet, when he started dating Janet, be able to take her out in style.  His pace quickened.  He couldn’t wait to get home and share his good news.

The time-beaten easy chair was vacant, so he walked into the kitchen where his mother was almost a permanent fixture.  She was a modestly pretty woman, but when in certain moods that caused her expression to change just so, a deeper form of beauty would sneak up on the eyes which beheld her.  As many years as Lionel had been gazing upon her, this still happened when least expected.  Signs of middle age were just beginning to appear on Caren’s face.  The faint lines around her eyes were ironically named, for life had given her too little to laugh about.

“Hi, Mom.”  Tony planted a kiss on her forehead before heading to the refrigerator in search of food with minimal prep time required.  He found some cold cuts and decided on a sandwich.

“You have a good day at school today?” asked Caren, pleasantly surprised by the demonstration of affection.  Her children would never know how much she cherished such moments.  At least not until they had children of their own.

“It was okay, but I had a better day after school.”   

“Why is that?  You have any luck job hunting?”

“If you call getting a job that I start tomorrow luck.  Personally, I call it skill.”

“You got a job?  That’s great.  Doing what?”

“I’m a stockboy at Jensen’s supermarket.  With Dad on strike, I figure every penny is going to count.”

Caren pinched his cheek, a habit she had acquired years ago when his cheeks were considerably fuller and never quite managed to shake. 

“You’re a good son, you know that?  I’m very proud of you.”

“Aw Mom, you’re making me blush,” said Tony with a laugh.  He headed out of the kitchen with the bologna and American cheese sandwich he had assembled.  His unwillingness to wait until dinner was due to the inedible quality of what his school’s cafeteria presented as lunch earlier that day.

“Don’t even think you’re leaving without cleaning up this mess.”  

Tony made a mock groan of displeasure before doing as he was told.    

On the way to his room, he decided to drop in on Tanya.  Fortunate enough to be the only member of the family with a bedroom to herself, she treated it as a sanctuary.  He knocked on her door and she called out for him to enter.

It was unnecessary to ask how she was feeling.  Heartache resonated in the air.  Tony knew about the punishment she had been put on and realized that Tanya was paying a dear price not so much for her tardiness, as for their father’s fear of what her boyfriend might tempt her to do once the sun went down.  Her crime was sullying the image of Daddy’s little girl.

“Cheer up.  The world hasn’t ended just yet.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were the one being held prisoner.”

“No, I suppose not.”

It was easy to sympathize.  Tanya had held out the longest, but none of them was beyond their father’s clutches.  When he saw joy, he was determined to squelch it.  If he couldn’t take pleasure from life, why should anyone else?    

Tony took in the sight of his sister’s walls.  Almost every square inch was covered by pictures of who she thought were beautiful, black men.  They were taken from her massive magazine collection that she began acquiring nearly as early in life as her first literary encounters with seeing Spot run and Dick hanging out with Jane.  Michael Jordan in his youthful Chicago days soared over Denzel Washington and Wesley Snipes in full vampire slaying mode, her tributes to the old school alpha male.   They were sandwiched by Tyson Beckford and L.L. Cool J.  A few other rapper/singer/actor/athlete hybrids held court at the head of her bed along with the host of a music video show whose name Tony could not recall, but if memory served he was the only one amongst them with a first and last name, plus he was the only one wearing a shirt.  If Lionel ever ran into any of these guys they would be well advised to make a hasty exit, for they had stirred up the hormones of his virginal daughter.  

“I better go do my homework,” Tony said.  “And you have to figure out how to see Eric without Dad knowing about it, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Tony left his sister alone to sulk.  She was the latest victim of their father’s refusal to accept the choices made by his children. But the time would soon arrive when they got to decide for themselves.  At the age of sixteen, Tanya still had to accept his final say.  Not so with Tony, who was on the verge of emancipating himself.      

***

A congregation of twenty waited restlessly behind McKinley High School.  Rusted and rimless backboards loomed above, pillars supporting their own private section of sky.  Shards of glass from broken beer bottles shimmered to rival the stars that watched over them. The school C.J. attended was only a fifteen minute walk from where his brother and sister went, but the differences were striking.  Both were public schools, but one had to do well on a test to get into Lincoln while anyone who cared to could attend McKinley.  Whereas McKinley was firmly nestled in the projects, Lincoln stood at a border line between a lower class neighborhood and one proudly bearing the mantle of middle class.  McKinley high school was no place for children at night, nor for law abiding adults.  

The youngest of the group was thirteen, the oldest twenty.  Despite their youth, or perhaps because of it, they were dangerous. They hungered for power.  Not the kind gained through politics or from money.  That was beyond their reach.  So they strove to earn it in the streets.  If they couldn’t get out of the ghetto, they would rule it.  People knew who they were, and to stay out of their way.  As long as they stood unopposed, they got whatever they wanted.

But now they were being opposed.  Not by the mayor putting more cops on the streets, judges handing out stiffer sentences, a community patrol, or anything of that nature.  The only danger that mattered to a gang was another one who laid claim to the same territory.   

The Kaos Krew did not like sharing power.  They refused to accept that there were now people who couldn’t be pushed around so easily, and certain things it was best not to take.  They missed being untouchable. 

“I think I hear them coming,” said Tyrone, the baby of the group in age but no less savage than the others when occasions called for it.

“Yeah, that’s them all right,” said Louis.  “I can smell the rice and beans from here.”

Louis was the leader of the Krew and the rest of them looked up to him with awe.  He had done things very few would dare try, for money, reputation, or just for kicks.  Fear was a stranger to him and life of minimum value.  So he risked his own with little regard, and for those in his way he held none.             

He stepped forward and watched the Raw Dawgs approach.  They stopped five feet away except for their leader, who walked right up to Louis, nearly close enough for the sweat on the tips of their noses to merge.

“Let’s do this,” Felix said.

Most didn’t see the punch that followed, for its swiftness allowed Louis to draw first blood with the subtlety of a mosquito. But everyone saw Felix fall to his knees, and with that the battle officially began.

The fighting was fast and furious, and despite the unity they tried to embody, once the blows started coming it was every man for himself.  The younger ones who were less experienced flailed wildly.  The elders circled each other, looked for an opening, then struck with chilling ferociousness.  The prize at stake was honor. They felt victory would mean supremacy.  But all it really meant was something to gloat about until the next time.  For losing only made them angrier, and anger made them stronger.  Death alone could stop them.    

They rarely thought about dying, though.  Each of them felt surrounded by an aura of invincibility.  And as long as they stuck to damage inflicted by hands, which the gangs had sworn to do tonight, they were relatively safe. 

C.J.’s opponent was a heavyset kid who threw windmill punches intended to decapitate.  After ducking safely under a flurry, C.J. blocked a right cross headed towards his temple and retaliated with a roundhouse right that connected flush on the jaw, dropping his adversary on his back.  C.J. pounced on him and landed a few follow-up punches for good measure.  He then looked around for someone new to take on.

Seeing that Louis had Felix up against the fence and was whaling on him with a passion, C.J. took a moment in the midst of the chaos to admire his gang’s leader.  Muscled arms pumped like pistons, pounding their target mercilessly, dredlocks dancing like the mane of an enraged lion.  It surprised C.J. when Louis suddenly backed away, until he noticed the knife Felix bared.  The fair fight agreed upon had grown decidedly unfair.      

Louis reached towards his pocket, but was deterred by the knife’s blade slicing across his forearm.  As he clutched at the wound, Felix moved forward like a starving alley cat with a broken legged pigeon in its sights. 

Without thought, C.J. withdrew his own knife and raced to Louis’ aid.  He moved swiftly, but someone else managed to arrive before him. 

C.J. stopped and stared in horror as Felix thwarted his attacker by slashing at the blur caught in his peripheral vision. Tyrone lurched back and fell hard to the ground.  A stream of blood sprayed past the blade now imbedded in his chest.

As one, the members of the Krew rushed at Felix, who wisely did not wait to greet them.  The Raw Dawgs followed closely on their heels.  Oncoming traffic was brought to a halt as they overtook the street. 

Only two people remained in the schoolyard.  One was C.J., who stood motionless while watching the unimaginable.  The other was his best friend, Tyrone, who at the ripe old age of thirteen lay writhing in pain, his eyesight blurred by tears as he did the only thing he could think of, call out for his mother.

***

 It was a quarter past eight and Lionel had still not come home.  Caren was trying to keep busy.  Her fingers nimbly interacted with knitting needles to create form from the ball of yarn beside her, a hobby she had abandoned years ago and recently taken up again.  Her initial goal was to make a blanket, but she had scaled down her ambitions and settled for a scarf.  Even so, she had been at it almost two weeks and was only halfway finished.  Between her part-time job and full-time role of housewife, she was not a woman with a great deal of leisure time. 

Tony could see she was worried.  His father was usually home well before this time and could reliably be found before the television with a beer in hand.  He favored old westerns, old game shows, sports and infomercials.  There was no way to reach him, so Caren did what she could to distract herself, a task she was failing at miserably. 

Someone struggled to put a key in the lock of the front door, accompanied by the sound of frustrated cursing.  After several seconds passed with no sign of success, Caren could no longer refrain from getting up and opening it herself.  Lionel stumbled into the apartment. 

“Are you crazy, woman?  Never do that again.”           

Caren wasn’t listening to him.  She wasn’t even concerned about his being drunker than usual.  Drunk was drunk.  Her attention had been grabbed by the fact that his clothing was drenched. 

“What happened to you?”

Lionel walked unsteadily to his chair and sat down.  “I had a slight difference of opinion with someone at McCann’s.”

“With who?”

“Phil.”

“Phil?! He’s your best friend.”

“Was my best friend.  Until he tried to be Mr. Big Shot and started offering handouts.”  Lionel yanked off his shirt and explained that Phil’s teenager assistant had accepted another job. When offered the vacated position, Lionel expressed in a manner that left no room for doubt what he thought about being treated as a charity case.  A brief and sloppy shoving match followed, and an unfortunately placed pitcher of beer ended up as the lone casualty.      

“Like I’m gonna hand him paint brushes for minimum wage.”

He reached for the TV remote control.  When in his chair, Lionel routinely held a beer can and the remote - his throne and his scepters. 

“What’s for dinner?” he asked as Caren walked to the kitchen.

“Stew.”

“Again?”

“I’m trying to conserve our money.  The last time you went on strike it lasted over two months.  If we hadn’t borrowed...”

Lionel slammed his hand down on the coffee table.  His flashes of temper, especially when drinking, were something Caren and the coffee table had long grown accustomed to.  Both however, were worse for the wear.

“I don’t owe Manny a damn thing.  I paid him back every cent, with interest.  So don’t go making him out to be our savior.  Just get me something to dry off with.”

He took aim at the television and searched for a program that might soothe his nerves.  Caren went into the kitchen, emerged seconds later with a dish towel which she tossed to him, then retreated like a turtle darting in and out of its shell. 

Tony had been patiently waiting for an opening to speak.  His good news would surely serve as antidote to his father’s agitated state.  Every father wanted to be proud of his son, and at long last, Tony was providing the perfect opportunity.
 
“Guess what, Dad.  I got a job.”

Lionel stared ahead as if completely engrossed in the commercial for women’s deodorant on the television screen.  Tony was confident that he had been heard, but the lack of response forced him to repeat himself.

“I said I got a job.  At Jensen’s Supermarket.  I start tomorrow.”

Lionel turned and looked at Tony curiously, seeming uncertain for a moment of what language had been spoken to him.

“Well ain’t that something,” he said finally.  “Caren, bring us out a couple of beers.  Our son is a working man.”

His tone of voice was difficult to translate, perhaps because the alcohol in his system blurred the line between sarcasm and genuine satisfaction.     

“What do they have you doing there?” Lionel asked.  “Are you managing the place or what?”

“I’m just working in the stockroom a few hours after school.  I figured we could use the extra money.” 

Tony wanted it understood that his motivation had been the best interest of the family.  He wanted credit.  Although unwilling to abide by many of his father’s wishes, a part of him could not help but seek approval.  He was of the same flesh and blood, not some objectionable outsider, and this deserved to be acknowledged.  It was long overdue.

“With me out of work, right?  Boy, I don’t know how we ever got by before.  But now everything’s going to be all right.  I figure between you and your mother, I might as well retire.  Caren, hurry up with those beers.”

The now obvious ridicule made no sense to Tony.  But why should it?  When it came to pleasing or at least appeasing his father, there was no right and wrong to choose between, only wrong and dead wrong.

“It’s time to make room for the new generation,” Lionel continued.  “Women and children first.  Shit, I never thought that would apply to getting paychecks.”      

He threw the soaked towel across the room.  “Where the hell are those beers?  I know she heard me.”  He stood up, took a moment to make sure of his balance, then started towards the kitchen.  “Go on strike a couple of days and no one listens to a word you say.”

Tony jumped up to prevent what his father’s frustration was leading to.  He gently put a hand on Lionel’s shoulder.        

“Dad, relax.  I’ll get the beer.” 

Not gently enough.

“Look at this.  You telling me what to do?  You figure your new job gives you that right?  Well, you figured wrong.  Now get off me, boy.”   

Lionel shoved his son back as if Tony was an irritating fly on his rough hide.  Then he entered the kitchen.

“Didn’t you hear me?  I asked for two beers.”

“You’ve had enough to drink, Lionel.”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

Caren realized she was positioning herself in a path that might soon be steamrolled.   But she refused to play barmaid, would not provide her husband with fuel for his fire.  Lionel had never needed much help getting drunk, and he wouldn’t be receiving any assistance from her today.           

“Neither your legs nor your hands look broken to me.  You want more beer?  Get it yourself.”

Lionel raised his hand, but was unable to bring it forward.  He turned back and looked into the eyes of his son.  Tony had found the courage to go this far solely on instinct, but once his father faced him, he could will himself to do nothing but remain standing. Lionel, having forgotten about Caren, the beer never received, and the smack he had been set to deliver for her insolence, yanked his wrist free and backed Tony into the living room.

“Lionel, no!”

Caren’s plea was ignored.  “You want to take me on?  Let’s see what you got.”  Lionel clasped his hands behind his back in invitation.         

“What are you waiting for?  You want to show the world how much better you are than your old man, right?  Well fuck the world.  Show me.” 
            It was as if Lionel had attained the power of Medusa.  Tony was unable to take a breath or blink an eye.  

“Come on, stockboy.  Show me!”

Lionel would not get his wish.  Tony’s brain finally succeeded in transmitting its message to his legs.  He stepped back and continued doing so until reaching his bedroom.  Caren looked on in shocked silence.  She had witnessed many of her husband’s lows, but this one bottomed them all.

Tony slammed the door behind him and fell onto his bed.  He wanted more than anything not to cry, but couldn’t help it.  Here he was eighteen years old, less than a year away from starting college and perhaps even moving out on his own.  Yet when push came to shove was he really anything more than a little boy?  His father was right.  It didn’t matter how well he did in school, what kind of job he ended up with, or how much money he may earn someday.  One either stood up for who he was and what he believed in, or else he ran away, cowered beneath his pillow, and asked himself why tears fell. 

Was it because he was angry?  Was it because he was scared?  Or were they shed because he hadn’t been able to show his father that he was a man, and doubted he ever would be?

***

In the dream, Tony ran as fast as he was able.  Though his lungs were at the point of bursting, he didn’t dare stop.  Close behind was a vicious beast of monstrous proportions, each of whose plodding steps equaled ten of his own.  The face of the creature was the grotesquely deformed but still recognizable visage of his father.             

The ground beneath Tony vanished and he found himself hurtling through an abyss, just beyond the outstretched claws of the beast.  His mother, sister and brother came into view.  If he could only get to them, he was certain he would be safe.  Drawing nearer though, he saw that each of their throats were slit, and they were not standing on firm ground but sinking into quicksand.        

He plunged in.  Only his head remained above the surface.  Looking around desperately for help, he spied Janet.  She was dressed in a white gown that danced about her in the wind, her hand extended.  When he reached out, the movement caused him to sink deeper.  Now only the upper half of his face was above the surface of the murderous slime.  He stretched again, but Janet was just outside his reach.  He went under and waited for death to overtake him. 

Suddenly he was pulled to safe ground.  He wiped the quicksand from his eyes and looked up at the most beautiful vision ever beheld. 

Then he noticed the thin red line that marked where Janet’s throat had been cut.  Her body fell aside and in her place stood the monster.  It raised its dagger-like claws and...

Tony jerked upright, his face bathed in a cold sweat, heart beating quicker than a drum solo on a jazz record.  He looked at the clock beside his bed and saw that it was one o’clock in the morning. Having been wrenched from sleep’s grasp, he would not fall back easily.  He was contemplating a trip to the refrigerator when the door to his room opened and a familiar silhouette floated in.

“About time you dragged your ass home.”

“I was at the hospital,” C.J. said, tossing his jacket onto his bed.  

“You all right?”

“I’m fine, but I can’t say the same for Tyrone.  We threw down with the Raw Dawgs and he got stuck.”

“Is he hurt bad?”

“Well he ain’t hurt good.  He was bleeding like a mother fucker.  Sounded like a little baby, rolling around on the ground crying for his mom.  But he ain’t no baby, he’s as tough as they come.  He’s gonna make it, just wait and see.”

Tony’s concern disintegrated.  He could not understand C.J.’s determination to court death on a daily basis.  Or maybe he did understand, and this was what caused his frustration.  So many found the same solution his brother had.  Selling death to their own people.  The money was a difficult lure to resist.  Additionally, the fear elicited from their hard core posturing proved nearly as addictive.  They demanded to be heard, even though it didn’t seem they had much to say.  Perhaps the futility and smallness that characterized their lives was too overwhelming to articulate in any manner other than a primitive, incoherent scream. Maybe it was inevitable that those who felt they had no stake in society would opt to destroy it.       

Whether Tony understood or not, he had to do something.  He couldn’t change the world, or even this one ghetto neighborhood.  But perhaps it was still possible to get through to his brother. 

“You’re better than this, can’t you see that?  Why throw your life away over meaningless bullshit?”

C.J. flashed an infuriating smile.  The one that said “I know everything worth knowing, so don’t bother trying to teach me”. 

“That was beautiful speech.  Almost brought tears to my eyes.”