Christopher Paul Curtis (8 page)

She was fed up with me. She said, “Look, just make sure Little Chicago has everybody in bed with their meds by seven-thirty tomorrow. Put on your suit and tie, that'll make you look a little older, you're already freakishly tall for someone your age, you can do this. Once you have the papers saying you're eighteen, that's what you are. I'll get you a birth certificate to confirm your age just in case.”

She saw I didn't like the sound of that.

“If it makes you more comfortable why don't you look at it like this, do you have any idea what a difficult period of time the ages of fourteen through seventeen are for most boys? Consider yourself lucky, you'll be zipping right from thirteen years old to eighteen years old, you will officially miss the majority of the turmoil of adolescence and the incumbent nastiness that it inevitably brings.”

That was the first shoe of the Sargeism. The second shoe dropped when she said, “I've also decided that starting
Monday you'll take over running the men's home. You'll move over there and be in charge of getting them where they need to be. And don't think you're doing this as a charitable contribution to our business either, I've decided I'll pay you ten dollars an hour for the first forty hours of your work week and, since you'll be putting in considerable time beyond that, you'll get the state mandated time-and-a-half fifteen dollars for everything over forty hours. We'll set up an education fund for you and I'll deposit your wages directly into it so that when it comes time for university you'll be set, you won't be a hostage to a usurious student loan. Taking this over is a big responsibility but I know you can handle it.”

It wasn't until later that I found out she'd caught the men's home manager stealing medications and had fired him. That meant she had to come up with someone to run the home pretty quick. Who better than me? Even though I was only thirteen at that time I already was doing most of the work over there and knew the routine, and the men did like me.

But I didn't see it like that back then, I only saw that I was man enough to be driving and in charge of four or five grown folks, plus I'd be moving out of the Sarge's house into a place where I'm the boss!

I'd been so excited I didn't sleep at all that night. I should have known that the next day would be the Day of a Thousand Dropping Second Shoes.

The Secretary of State's office manager, Peter Thompson, turned out to be another victim of the Sarge's Friendly Neighbor Loan Program.

In return for getting a little something knocked off his loan Mr. Thompson was dying to sneak me into the office after hours, photograph me for a driver's license and also order personalized license plates for the bus that said
BBY FACE.

“That way it looks like you're known for looking younger than you are, that will deflect a lot of questions,” the Sarge told me.

It took about two weeks for the fun of running the home to wear off. Two weeks for all the excitement to turn to dust. Just two little weeks before the thing that I'd been so geeked up about that I couldn't sleep turned into nothing but hard work, boredom and a whole bunch of cartoons and late night TV.

Once you get some years on you and a little experience under your belt it turns out that those things you have great expectations about are just as tired and played out as anything else in your life. I don't know why so many of the fools I go to school with can't wait to get older, it seems like with age fewer and fewer things are exciting. And it seems like the more excited you are about something, the more time you spend dreaming and wondering and fantasizing what it's going to be like, the more disappointing it turns out to be.

Which has got me seriously worried about sex.

But one thing that age and the Sarge have taught me is how to fall into a routine to make things go smoother. I try to make everything predictable and comfortable for the Crew. Change bothers them and makes more work for me
so we do everything the same way every day. From shaves to lunches to television, I keep it all smooth and flowing.

Of course these are the life and times of Luther T. Farrell so nothing ever goes all the way smooth, I had just got all the men settled into the dayroom and was starting in on my science fair project again when my worst nightmare happened. One second I was getting research off the Net and the Crew was watching cartoons and the next second Nickelodeon flickered twice during
Little Lulu
, then disappeared, leaving nothing but the blue screen of death. The weatherman had put out severe weather warnings and the winds outside must've really started kicking up.

All six of us in the dayroom groaned.

I turned off the blank-screened TV with the remote and pulled the curtains back to look outside. I could see that the television and computer were probably through for the night.

Branches on trees were slapping at the wind like they were slapping at a million flies. Every once in a while their leaves would zip away as if they'd been shot out of a gun. Someone's garbage can thumped and bumped up the street, a green plastic tumbleweed.

I knew what had happened. That illegal satellite dish that Darnell Dixon had hooked up on the roof was probably blowing around in Detroit by now, being mistaken for a UFO.

Mr. Baker said, “You gotta fix it, Luther, you gotta fix it now.”

I had to get control of the situation before Mr. Baker
got anyone else riled up. “All right, gentlemen,” I said, “it's story time. Tonight we're going to hear …” I walked over to the shelves and looked at the books.

Mr. Baker stuck his arm out like he was directing traffic and shouted, “Amber Brown! Amber Brown! It's been a good while since we've heard Amber Brown.”

Mr. Foster rolled his eyes and said, “Not again.”

Mr. Baker said, “OK then, how about
Sheep in a Jeep?
What's wrong with that one, Foster, you got a problem with
Sheep in a Jeep?”

Even though he was locked up here in one of the Sarge's homes, there were times when Mr. Foster's mind was still sharp as a razor blade. He said, “How about as a compromise, Luther, you read that touching story about mad-cow disease down on the farm,
Sheep in a Heap
?”

No one got it but me and I was too worried about Mr. Baker getting hyper to laugh.

Mr. Foster sighed and said, “Pearls before swine, Luther, the story of my life, pearls before swine.”

He pulled a book out of the case and said, “How about the white whale, anyone up for the white whale? Besides, Luther, if you read enough of this to us I'm sure most of us could forgo our sleep medication tonight.”

“OK,” I said, “the white whale it is. Sorry, Mr. Baker, we'll read Amber Brown and
Sheep in a Jeep
again next time.”

Mr. Baker said, “Since I can't hear Amber Brown how about letting me go out for a smoke?”

I ignored him and stood in the usual reading place, right in front of the TV, and began reading
Moby Dick.
I mean
they'd been conditioned to be entertained looking toward the TV, so who am I to go against that?

The Crew loves hearing me read and why wouldn't they? I throw in a lot of voices and sound effects to help make the stories more interesting, and believe you me, the early parts of
Moby Dick
need a lot of help in keeping anyone's attention.

Ishmael had just let us know who he was when the phone rang.

“Just a minute, fellas. Hello?”

“Luther?” It was Sparky. He sounded like he'd just run five miles. “Have you looked outside, bruh?” I could hear the wind howling behind him.

“Yeah, where you at?”

“I'm on the phone outside Seven-Eleven. It's like a hurricane out here!”

“Then why don't you get inside? Are you coming over?” The 7-Eleven was only a couple of blocks away.

Sparky said, “Uh-uh. I need you to meet me behind Taco Bell.”

“You need
what
?
”

“Seriously! This is my big chance, baby! Before this night is over I'm going to be calling 1-800-SUE-EM-ALL. I finally got someone to sic the big D.O.G. on.” He started barking into the phone.

“Sparky, what are you talking about?”

“I'ma put me a suit in on Taco Bell!”

“Oh, you're gonna do that old I-found-a-rat-in-my-burrito trick?”

Sparky said, “Please, they peeped out that scam a long
time ago, they even do autopsies on the rat if you claim that happened. I got the bomb, baby! But I'm gonna need your help.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-uh, Luther, this is for real. I walked by Taco Bell and all them red tiles are lifting up off the roof and knocking the mess out of everything in the parking lot! One went clean through someone's windshield!”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Which is why you gotta get down here.”

I said, “Why would I come out on a night like this to watch some roofing tiles crashing into cars…” Then I understood. “Now I get it, you want a witness that you got hit by one of those tiles, right?”

“Something like that, but I need a little more.”

“I'm listening.”

“I really do need to get hit, and you're the only one I can trust to do it right.”

“Aw, no. That ain't happening!”

“Come on, Luther, I already got one of the tiles set to do it. All you gotta do is kinda tap me in the head, then walk me into Taco Bell and have them call an ambulance.”

“What?”

“Don't worry, bruh, you know when I get paid I'ma break a little something off for you.”

“You must be kidding.”

“Luther, don't make me beg.”

“I can't do it, Sparky. Besides, you're cutting into my science fair project time. Plus I gotta put the Crew to bed, that's going to take at least half an hour.”

Sparky said, “If that's the best you can do, half an hour then, behind the Taco Bell.”

“Cool.”

He said, “I just hope the wind hasn't died down by then, it'll be on you if it has. Your half hour could be costing us a whole lotta benjamins, my brother.”

“I'll see you in half an hour, but this better be quick, I'ma just whack you in the head, then I gotta bounce.”

Sparky didn't have to worry, by the time I'd settled everyone down and started walking to Taco Bell the wind had even picked up some.

The stop sign on the corner was twisting back and forth in the wind, sounding like a rocket made out of tin cans and duct tape getting ready to blast off. The wind was hot in a way that made you want to close your eyes and tilt your head back and breathe real deep. Or maybe even howl.

Something from the roof of Taco Bell somersaulted through the air, then smashed into the parking lot. Sparky popped out from behind a Dumpster and ran toward me with a tile in his hand.

“Sparky,” I yelled, “this is insane, man, let's just go home.”

Sparky shook his head and said, “Come on, bruh, hurry up, this ain't real easy for me, you know.”

I took the reddish-brown clay roofing tile from him. I was surprised how heavy it was. He leaned toward me, closed his eyes tight and showed his teeth.

“Come on, Luther, quit torturing me,” he whined, keeping his teeth clenched. “Do it!”

I shook my head and closed my eyes. I raised the tile about shoulder high, brought it down on his head and felt a little shimmy run up my arm. Sparky was still standing with his eyes squinched shut.

He looked at me. “That's it?” He brought his hand up, rubbed at the spot where I'd hit him and said, “Man, you gotta be kidding, don't forget this thing's supposed to have blowed off a roof, you really gotta knock the snot outta me, bruh.”

I dropped the tile. “This ain't me, you gotta get someone else.”

Sparky looked hurt. “What? You supposed to be my boy, who else can I trust?”

He picked the tile back up and reached it toward me again. “Remember what we used to say, ‘We'll have each other's backs from womb to tomb, you'll be my boy from birth to earth.’”

What could I say? He was right, we had said that. I took the tile again. It must've weighed ten pounds.

The wind was really starting to get serious. The stop sign had stopped shaking and was now whistling and going back and forth like one of those piano metronome things. Two more tiles jumped off the roof and exploded in the parking lot.

“All right, fool, bend your head over.”

I closed my eyes, raised the tile over my head and let it drop on Sparky's skull. Again my arm shimmied. When I opened my eyes Sparky was looking at me the way you'd look at a kid who brought home all Ds on his report card.

He said, “Man, all you're doing is giving me a
headache! Swing that tile, brother! I bet if I went and got your crusty old mother she wouldn't have no troubles lighting me up.”

If only he knew. The Sarge would've paid big cash to take my place right now. Sparky isn't one of her favorite people. She would've hit him so hard it would've knocked his head clean off. I laughed. “Leave my mother out of this.”

“Oh! Maybe that's what I gotta do, maybe if I talk about your nasty old momma you'll get mad enough to really crack me with that tile.”

Sparky knew I didn't care what he had to say about the Sarge.

“Your momma's so old,” he started, “she was the maid of honor at Adam and Eve's wedding!”

He closed his eyes and bent his head over again.

I couldn't help laughing.

He yelled out another stale joke: “Your momma's so ugly, she entered a ugly contest and they told her, ‘Sorry, ma'am, no professionals allowed!’”

I laughed again.

Sparky said, “All right then, how about instead of cracking on your momma I talk to you the way she does? Seems to me like that's the only thing that ever gets you mad. Think that might make you smack me with that tile?”

Sparky's left eyebrow arched and he began swiveling his head on his neck the same way the Sarge does when she's about to go off on me. He dropped his voice an octave. “Well, Mr. Luther”—it was scary, he had her down pat—“I know you're so much smarter than everybody else around here, even though it's me that owns two thousand houses
around Flint, even though it's me that's got two million dollars cash money in the bank.”

He switched from the Sarge's arched eyebrow to the soulfully deep stare. “And I know you're the one that's got all these high-and-mighty plans to be a fool-losopher one day, but the truth is that the best thing that's going to happen to you is that you're gonna be running these houses for me for the rest of your life.