pain.
I kneed him in the groin and pounded two quick punches into his gut.
He bent over, trying to suck air. I took hold of the back of his belt, walked him away from the front door, across the porch to the edge of the broken steps, then ran him into the door. I rotated him at the last moment so that he wouldn’t break his neck. He hit shoulder first, and the door blew open, splintering the jamb. The man fell on the floor and curled into a fetal position.
I looked at Paco. His eyes were wide.
“Go get what you wanted to show me,” I said.
Paco looked at the man on the floor, then said something in a small voice.
“I’m sorry, Paco, I didn’t hear you.” I bent down, my ribs screaming.
Paco spoke again, nearly a whisper. “I don’t want to walk past him.”
I reached under the man’s shoulders, grabbed handfuls of shirt, and dragged him outside. His hips and feet bounced hard as we went over the two broken steps. As I dropped him in the dirt, he still couldn’t breathe. If his diaphragm didn’t loosen up soon, he’d start turning blue. I patted him down, rolling him on the ground. I went through his pockets, pulled out his phone, keys, and wallet, and walked over to his truck. The window was open. I set the pocket stuff on the dash.
I walked back over to the man and stopped near his head so that he could see my shoe near his face.
“You can go in, now,” I said to Paco. “He won’t touch you.”
Paco took small, tentative steps, looking at the man, then he disappeared into the house.
The man wheezed, getting a spoonful of air into his lungs.
The principal’s comment about being a role model for Paco came back to me. I’d just used a man’s body to break down a door. It was the worst kind of example to set, resorting to physical violence to solve differences. I began to rationalize it by thinking that I wasn’t used to having a small boy observe my actions. Then I realized the folly of that thought. The actions were questionable regardless of whether or not they were observed.
Spot had come closer, curious about what was going on. He sniffed the man in the dirt, put his nose on the man’s face. The man stiffened.
Spot turned and trotted away. After a couple of minutes, the man was breathing a bit, sucking air in small, desperate gasps. Paco was still in the house.
The landlord made a little jerk and swatted his hand at his head. He jerked again and reached down to scratch at the small of his back. Then, still unable to breathe well, he started writhing. He swatted at his legs, gasped a tiny breath, rolled over onto his stomach, did a feeble oxygen-starved pushup, his body jerking.
It was then that I saw the ants on his back. They were tiny and red and swarmed over him, their movement fast and frantic.
I lifted the man up by his belt, steadied him on his feet. He was bent at the waist, still struggling to breathe, swatting and doing a little dance step.
“Time to go, Garnett,” I said. I gave him a push.
One of the ants bit my hand. Then another. It wasn’t like getting stung by a wasp, but it was a sharp attention-getter.
I brushed ants off my sleeves and legs as the landlord stumbled toward his pickup, swatting as he went. He slowly got inside, grabbed his keys off the dash, and started the engine.
Through the reflection off the windshield, I saw a burning look of hatred on his face. He revved the engine, spun a fast circle, and shot back up the dirt path toward the house.
I went inside Paco’s house. I heard soft noises back in one of the bedrooms. I went down a short hallway and looked into what must have been his room.
Paco’s bedroom had generic boy stuff, a Transformers movie poster on the wall, an old skateboard lying upside down on the top of a green dresser. On top of the skateboard perched a dirty softball. The paint on the dresser had chipped in many places showing the previous coat of pink paint. Along one wall was a mattress on the floor. The bottom sheet was
I kneed him in the groin and pounded two quick punches into his gut.
He bent over, trying to suck air. I took hold of the back of his belt, walked him away from the front door, across the porch to the edge of the broken steps, then ran him into the door. I rotated him at the last moment so that he wouldn’t break his neck. He hit shoulder first, and the door blew open, splintering the jamb. The man fell on the floor and curled into a fetal position.
I looked at Paco. His eyes were wide.
“Go get what you wanted to show me,” I said.
Paco looked at the man on the floor, then said something in a small voice.
“I’m sorry, Paco, I didn’t hear you.” I bent down, my ribs screaming.
Paco spoke again, nearly a whisper. “I don’t want to walk past him.”
I reached under the man’s shoulders, grabbed handfuls of shirt, and dragged him outside. His hips and feet bounced hard as we went over the two broken steps. As I dropped him in the dirt, he still couldn’t breathe. If his diaphragm didn’t loosen up soon, he’d start turning blue. I patted him down, rolling him on the ground. I went through his pockets, pulled out his phone, keys, and wallet, and walked over to his truck. The window was open. I set the pocket stuff on the dash.
I walked back over to the man and stopped near his head so that he could see my shoe near his face.
“You can go in, now,” I said to Paco. “He won’t touch you.”
Paco took small, tentative steps, looking at the man, then he disappeared into the house.
The man wheezed, getting a spoonful of air into his lungs.
The principal’s comment about being a role model for Paco came back to me. I’d just used a man’s body to break down a door. It was the worst kind of example to set, resorting to physical violence to solve differences. I began to rationalize it by thinking that I wasn’t used to having a small boy observe my actions. Then I realized the folly of that thought. The actions were questionable regardless of whether or not they were observed.
Spot had come closer, curious about what was going on. He sniffed the man in the dirt, put his nose on the man’s face. The man stiffened.
Spot turned and trotted away. After a couple of minutes, the man was breathing a bit, sucking air in small, desperate gasps. Paco was still in the house.
The landlord made a little jerk and swatted his hand at his head. He jerked again and reached down to scratch at the small of his back. Then, still unable to breathe well, he started writhing. He swatted at his legs, gasped a tiny breath, rolled over onto his stomach, did a feeble oxygen-starved pushup, his body jerking.
It was then that I saw the ants on his back. They were tiny and red and swarmed over him, their movement fast and frantic.
I lifted the man up by his belt, steadied him on his feet. He was bent at the waist, still struggling to breathe, swatting and doing a little dance step.
“Time to go, Garnett,” I said. I gave him a push.
One of the ants bit my hand. Then another. It wasn’t like getting stung by a wasp, but it was a sharp attention-getter.
I brushed ants off my sleeves and legs as the landlord stumbled toward his pickup, swatting as he went. He slowly got inside, grabbed his keys off the dash, and started the engine.
Through the reflection off the windshield, I saw a burning look of hatred on his face. He revved the engine, spun a fast circle, and shot back up the dirt path toward the house.
I went inside Paco’s house. I heard soft noises back in one of the bedrooms. I went down a short hallway and looked into what must have been his room.
Paco’s bedroom had generic boy stuff, a Transformers movie poster on the wall, an old skateboard lying upside down on the top of a green dresser. On top of the skateboard perched a dirty softball. The paint on the dresser had chipped in many places showing the previous coat of pink paint. Along one wall was a mattress on the floor. The bottom sheet was
Similar Books
