The Orchid Eater by Marc Laidlaw

brilliant and original comparison.
That is pure poetry.”
    Stoner fell
silent, hiding his smirk while Hawk shook his head.
    “Sometimes I
think you guys don’t hear a word I say. I don’t know why you bother hanging
around me, let alone why I put up with you. Am I fooling myself thinking I can
make a difference in your lives? Is it totally asinine to think I can teach
you anything from my experience, or steer you away from the mistakes I made?
Am I wasting my time with you guys?”
    Edgar spoke
up. “Uh, maybe, Hawk . . . maybe we think that, you know, if we want to be like
you, we gotta go through the shit that made you what you are. It’s sort of like
a paradox, right?”
    Hawk looked
surprised and then disappointed by this logic. Suddenly Mike saw Hawk as
another typical adult saying the same old stuff: I’m so disappointed in you kids  . . . It was the same speech he got from his
mother when he’d done something wrong, now that he was too old to whack with a
hairbrush. But at least she had a right to say what she wanted, being his
mother and all. But now here was this Hawk, this nobody, trying to make Mike
listen to everything he had to say, trying to shake him up. And at the end of
the lecture, when Mike was supposed to be limp and grateful for Hawk’s
assistance, philosophical and otherwise, Hawk would finally hand over the key.
    Recognizing
the routine sapped it of all possible impact. The boys weren’t just trying to
be like Hawk—he was trying to be like one of them. Mike saw it all the time:
teachers indulging in the latest slang, pretending to be “one of the gang,” as
if that would earn them kids’ respect. It was the kind of hypocrisy that drove
him nuts. You’re not one of us! he wanted to shout at Hawk.
    Instead he
stifled a yawn and gave his mind permission to wander. Hawk seemed to have no
straight answer to Edgar’s question. It was cleverly posed, Mike thought. Chalk
one up for the boys.
    Mad-Dog
finished one avocado and began gnawing on the pit, eyes rapt on Hawk. Shreds of
whitish matter dribbled from his mouth and onto the floor, next to a pile of
green skin. Mike would have to go over the whole house later, cleaning up after
these guys, hiding their tracks. Hawk’s boots were crusted with dirt; crumbs of
it speckled the bright, freshly shampooed carpet. His mother would think he’d
led an army in here. Which was closer to the truth than he wanted her to know.
    “I’ve told
you my story,” Hawk said. “You know I understand you guys. I went through the
same shit you did, walked the same fucking streets, all right? Take it from me,
I know where the road you’re on leads. I did the drugs, the crimes, all that
shit, same as you. The drugs burned my brain, made me stupid, and the crime
just got me into jail. One leads to the other, men. And I’m not just talking
about jail. I’m talking about Hell. That’s where you’re headed. So you keep
right on truckin’!”
    Behind Hawk,
Dusty and Stoner exchanged glances. They were laughing, it seemed, but
silently.
    Somehow Hawk
heard them. He spun around.
    “You think
what I’m saying is funny, Stoner?”
    “No, Hawk!
No . . . It’s just, well, you’re always preaching.”
    “Is that all
I do? Talk? You think I don’t set any good examples by my action?”
    “I didn’t
say that.”
    “Hallelujah,”
Scott whispered.
    “What kind
of examples do you set, Stoner? What’re you going to tell Saint Peter when you
get to the pearly gates? What’s your great achievement in this lifetime?
What’re you gonna tell him? ‘Well, uh, uh, lemme see . . . duh . . . I
dunno, I . . . I swiped a crate of hand grenades from Camp Pendleton!’”
    Everyone,
including Stoner, laughed at Hawk’s Stoner imitation.
    “And what
about you, Dusty?” Hawk said.
    Dusty stiffened.
“I’m not one of your baby boys, Hawk, that you can talk to me like that. I
don’t need no preacher-man on my ass. Plenty of shitwipes sitting in jail
figure