Friends Forever and Never Again

by Akindeli Tushinde

I remember when I was little, kids in school used to always be picking on me. They would come around and take my books or knock my hat off or something. Then, every time, they would start picking on me to make me fight ’em. I didn’t care ’cause I would bust ’em upside the head with a stick or something, if I had one. But most times I didn’t.

Anyway one day Reggie and his friends, they were all in the fifth grade, y’know, came around and started messin’ with me. I knew what was going to happen already ’cause they were standing by the fence to the schoolyard and laughing and pointing at me. Then they came over.

I was looking for a stick or a bottle or something, but there wasn’t anything around. So then Reggie started calling me names and pushing me.

So I said, “You better quit.” And I grabbed him and we started raslin all over the ground. Then Reggie’s friends jumped in.

They had me on the ground. They were punching me in my head and stomach and everything. They made me tear my school pants. That meant I was going to get another beating when I got home. So I was mad, real mad. I started swinging wildly. I was fighting like a girl but I didn’t care.

I was crying and swinging, then one of them hit me in the nose and it started bleeding.

I was through. I started to look for my books and hat. Tears and blood streamed down my face onto my clothes and onto the ground. They kept on hitting and punching me; I didn’t care no more.

Then I heard a crack, a loud one. Then another and another. I heard Reggie scream. He was grabbing his head, turning, covering, crying. He was bent over trying to fend off the blows while covering his head. With a bloody hand I wiped the tears from my bloody face in time to see Reggie go down under a hail of blows from a stickball bat. The stick rose and fell again and again as he curled and covered up on the ground.

I rose up throwing my book at Reggie’s friend Butch — I was like Popeye on spinach. I grew two feet. I became an avenger. I was the attacker now. As I grabbed the ugly buck-toothed Butch, I kicked him with all my might. Then I pushed him down next to Reggie to get his fair share of stickball whacks.

The last one, Jimmy, broke and ran, but I was on him like a leopard on a deer. In ten steps or maybe two, I was digging my nails into his neck and shoulders, dragging him down from behind wanting to snap his neck. He crumpled to the ground with me on top of him. He was beneath me and as I was swinging and pummeling, punching and beating, years of humiliation were packed into every blow.

I beat and punched until I was out of breath, sitting astride him, exhausted, I paused and looked up to see my ally and new best friend for the first time. He was just standing there beside me, leaning on that stick like a knight on his sword. He looked so cool, calm and confident. I looked up smiling, approvingly he nodded.

“Thanks ,man,” I said, “M’name’s Jason. What’s yours?”

“Hi. I’m Mark. I just moved here.”

“Oh yeah, cool. Thanks for helping me out. They knew I was going to kick Reggie’s ass — that’s why they all jumped me.”

“I don’t give a damn,” he said, “I didn’t like seein’ no three on one.” Mark was a little shorter than me, but he was solid and tough looking.

Just the kind of friend I had been looking for. As I got myself together we started to talk. We were friends immediately. I invited him home. But Mark said, “I’m supposed to go to my uncle’s house and call my dad at work. He’s going to pick me up.”

“Where does he live, your uncle?”

“Somewhere on Ridge Street. I got it written on something.”

“Cool. Don’t worry. I live on Ridge. C’mon to my house while I clean up and I’ll walk you to your uncle’s.”

That settled, we returned to reveling in our victory, and filling in the details with each other.

“What grade you in, Mark?”

“Fourth.”

“Me, too. Do you go to my school? How come I never seen you before?”

“We just moved here this weekend,” he said, “and my dad just signed me up at school this morning. They were really kickin’ your ass, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, I know. But we kicked their ass instead.”

As we slapped high and low fives, we turned and started walking up the driveway to the side door of my house.

“That’s my dad’s car,” I said, with obvious pride and pointing, “it’s a ’67 Malibu W/396, midnight blue metallic. Ain’t it bad?”

“Yeah, it’s cool. You ever ride in it?”

“Hell, yeah. My dad takes me to the track with him sometimes when he and his friends race on Saturdays.”

Of course, the truth was that I had gone to the track with him once cause my mom wasn’t home that day. I didn’t even ask much anymore.

“Where did you used to live?” I asked.

“In Germany.”

“In Germany.” My expression begged for details.

“Yeah, my dad was in the army. He just got out. That’s why we’re moving here. I was born there. My dad named me after their money.”

“What cha mean?”

“In Germany, they call their money marks not dollars.”

“No shit.”

“We’re going to stay with my uncle for about a month — ’til we get settled ‘n stuff.”

“Damn, that’ll be cool, Mark.” That was great news, we were gonna have fun.

I’d lost my door key in the fight. As I knocked, my father’s voice came through from inside. He was talking loudly and laughing. This was definitely a good sign. With my clothes all torn up as they were, I needed him in a good mood. But we had won that would make him happy.

There was a snap, click and the door swung open.

“Boy where’s your…What the hell happened to you?” His smile shrank as his eyes opened, frowning he said, “Damnit, they kicked your ass again, huh?”

“No! No! We won. We won.” I quickly announced our victory, groping for approval I rarely received.

“This is Mark. He jumped in an’ we kicked Reggie and his boys’ asses.”

But my dad was looking past me at Mark.

“Hi, I’m Mark.”

My dad looked puzzled, then smiled. Have you ever noticed how grownups know everything sometimes but won’t tell kids nothing?

My dad looked at Mark for a moment.

“Hey, Mike,” he shouted into the house. “This your boy?”

Mark and I stared at each other for a long moment. Then my uncle’s voice came booming down the hallway. “Is that Mark?”

“Yeah, it’s him.” They both laughed again.

“I guess he and Jason managed to catch up with each other.” My uncle appeared at the door.

“Uncle Mike?” I said.

“Hey, Dad,” Mark said, “You didn’t tell me I was going to Jason’s school this morning when we signed up.”

“I didn’t know then. Y’all come on in and get cleaned up. We’re all going out to eat. Hey, Jason, what happened to you? Were you guys fighting?”

“No, we were kicking butt.”

Smiles all around as the door closed behind us. Mark and I locked arms. I didn’t have a brother or many friends but at that moment I had it all.

My mother and sister, Denise, were out shopping for Denise’s wedding which was coming up soon. It was a houseful of men and I was one of them — not just there.

Denise’s was the first wedding I ever went to. It seemed like it was coming up forever. My mother and Denise shopped and planned and ordered and canceled shit for months. I was 9 1/2, Mark was 10, Denise was 17 and pregnant. She was fat and had big ole titties. I never liked her.

As for her boyfriend Bobby — I hated him even more. He was big and fat too, and stupid as dirt. My dad liked him ’cause he knew ’bout cars. They were always watching the races on T.V. or going to the junk yard to look for motors and stuff. He looked like he needed a haircut and shave all the time. He was soooo yucky. Bobby had gotten kicked out of the army and now he worked at the A & P.

That’s where he met Denise. Now she’s big as a house; he’s as big as a house. Maybe after they’re married they’ll go live in the A & P so they can keep on eatin’ forever and ever.

Her wedding was also my first real drunk, and I’ll never forget it. Mark and I got caught draining those little plastic champagne glasses. We would go from table to table, and when no one was looking, we’d pick up the half empty glasses, toast each other, and knock ’em back.

Some of the folks thought we were cute. For a minute. Then, someone noticed that we were systematically working the room. By the time we got caught we were both so drunk, we were laughing hysterically. Then we threw up.

Mark wasn’t just my cousin, he was my best friend. Nobody messed with us. Not even 5th and 6th graders, ’cause they knew we would get ‘em.

One Saturday morning my dad had to go to work, and my mom was out shopping. So when Mark rode over on his bike, we got the idea to take a ride downtown, even though our dads had told us that it was off limits. Usually, we never went more than a few blocks from home, but today we were out for adventure, or just hardheaded.

We rode about a mile or so, and our quiet tree lined neighborhood streets became the busy streets of downtown Newark. Cool! We stopped in front of White Castle, our dollar allowances on fire in our pockets. Just then a huge, beautiful, jet black limo pulled to the curb across the street.

“I bet that’s a movie star!” shouted Mark excitedly.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s some gangsta,” I said with no less excitement.

“Wanna go see?”

That question needed no answer. We stood on our pedals, pulled our front tires off the ground and whipped our able steeds around. A break in the traffic and we were across. We pulled in a parked car or two behind the limo. The driver was already out. We watched him move around the back of the black streamliner turning sharply, reaching for the door, pulling it open.

We held our breath. As it swung open, our mouths opened as wide as the door. First the legs came out, then a large hand, arm, torso…Who? Who was it? We were afraid to breathe or look away. We were sure we’d miss him. We chanced a glance at each other. When we looked back he was out of the car, standing there. He was smiling and talking to the driver. Just then an old churchy-looking woman walked up to him smiling and patting his hand as they spoke.

We didn’t believe it, but we did. We were pulled towards the car, walking slowly astride our bikes. He noticed us and waved, beckoning.

The next second we were both standing in front of him. He put a hand on each of our heads; we were transfixed. Then, he spoke and we became unstunned.

“How are you boys doin? Those are some nice bikes you have,” he said.

Mark spoke before I could. “You really Muhammad Ali?”

“Yes, I am. And who are you?”

“My name’s Mark and this is my cousin, Jason.”

“I’m glad to meet you boys. You don’t fight with each other, do you?”

“Sometimes,” I’d found my voice. “But mostly we fight other kids. We try to knock ’em out like you do.”

He laughed, his booming big man’s laugh, but then he just smiled at us, maybe just a little embarrassed. “Y’all shouldn’t fight with your friends. You all stay in school and get your education, okay?”

“Okay, Mr. Muhammad, we will.”

His driver was ushering him into a building. We pedaled back to the White Castle to gather our thoughts. We had forgotten about our allowances and the burgers and fries. We were all grins and high-fives.

Wait until we tell the other kids and our dads that we saw Muhammed Ali and he talked to us. “Yeah, that’s cool. It’s so cool,” I kept saying.

We climbed on our bikes and suddenly froze. “Oh shit.” Mark said it. I thought it. “We can’t tell anybody. We ain’t supposed to be down here at all.”

“Oh, shit,” I echoed. “That’s right. We can’t tell anybody we saw Muhammed Ali or we’ll get a beatin’.”

“And punishment and grounded and maybe another beatin,” Mark added.

“Damn, whadowedo?”

“I don’t know,” my cousin answered. “We better get home before your folks…”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

We turned to leave and then it happened. He saw us, just as we saw him. It was Bobby, my sister’s fat, stupid husband. He was pulling out of the parking lot, a burger in one hand, and two more on the dash. We didn’t need to speak. As he pulled past us in his noisy, dirty car with the muffler rattling and scraping, he was smiling and shaking his finger at us.

We were through and we knew it. I hated his guts.

“Shit,” we said it once more in unison, then we started pedaling furiously.

We rode home in silence. I suddenly had to pee real bad, real, real bad. I was pedaling hard trying to hold my water and my fear. Bobby was going to tell on us as soon as he got home. We were not even thinking about Muhammed Ali anymore. We were just riding. Trying to get home. This time I knew I was going to get a real beating from my dad. I was scared, really scared. Mark rode on home as we got to my house. We waved silently, going to meet our consequences individually.

Bobby’s big, old, banged up, beige Chevy Impala was parked behind the “Bu.”

Time slowed down to a painful crawl. As much as I wanted to get to that bathroom, I also wanted to turn and run. My legs were like rubber from the ride home, my muscles quivered but my knees locked. I put the key in the door. I turned the knob slowly, hoping to enter silently and at least go pee before all hell broke loose.

I walked into the house. My dad and Bobby were in front of the T.V. laughing and talking. When they looked up and saw me, the room went cold. Silently, I stood there for a moment.

“Boy,” my dad said, “Why you so hardheaded? I can’t go to work and leave your butt home without you going off and doing what the hell you want!” My ass cheeks were clenched and my groin tight. I was fighting nature while my dad’s voice boomed all around me. I couldn’t move.

Then Bobby said, “Yeah, him and Mark both. Down at that White Castle on Chesapeake and 7th like it was the thing to do. All the way down there with them cars flying by and what not. I know he knew better than that.” Bobby was rubbing it in and he knew it. My father was getting madder and I was starting to leak. I bolted for the bathroom in relief and panic.

When I came out my dad called me, “Jason, come in here.”

As my dad was about to beat me, my only thought was my own survival.

My father pulled his belt from around his waist. I could hear it pass through each loop. Then it hung by his side and he slowly began to wrap the leather around his fist. Our eyes locked. Then my eyes went to the belt.

The leather wrapped fist closed and opened, then closed again. All expression drained from his face until I was staring into two black holes where his eyes used to be. My head was pounding from the force of my pulse inside my skull. There was nothing else in the room; no T.V., no lamp, no Bobby, just he and I. He blinked, I flinched.

Slowly, my father took one deep breath and with it, the muscles in his large forearm defined as they began to contract, pulling that large leather wrapped fist into striking position.

“Mark said it was okay!” I blurted out. I should never have done that to him. I just didn’t know what else to do. “Mark said it was okay,” I lied again. “He said we had permission from Uncle Mike for us to go.” I knew Mark would get a horrible whipping. I was usually the good one and he was the bad one. Mark always helped me out at school and saved my butt a bunch of times.

My dad went to the phone. I heard him dial, then some mumbling, then some, “Uh-huh, uh-huhs,” then he hung up. When he came back he was almost human. He didn’t look at me though, he just said, “Get your ass in your room before I change my mind.”

To this day, and we’re both grown men now, Mark has never forgiven me. We were never as close again as we were that day. We almost never talked about the champ, and when we did, it was only in passing.

That night while Bobby and my dad watched T.V. and drank beer, I snuck down from my room and went out to the driveway. I climbed into that funky, four door, beige Impala, and peed all over the front seat.

Bobby never said a thing, but I wonder to this day if he knew.

***

(Featured image from Flickr)