Better to Die a Hero (3 page)

“You'll look pretty funny going into premed this fall with a hole in your foot and no pecker.”

Bryan pretended to get serious, “I know a little about guns and a shit load about swords. I'm not going to shoot my foot and the sword has yet to be forged that could cut off this dick.”

Giving his gangly friend the last word, Steve smiled, shot a salute, and headed
t
o
the
gym.

7

BETTER TO DIE A HERO

CHAPTER 3

S
teve entered the boy’s locker room and power walked to a secluded corner. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of sweat and dirty towels and wondered if some day he might become accustomed to the stench. He knew it best to leisurely change into his gym clothes, to act as if he owned the place, but he could not. He threw his shirt off and stepped out of his pants with comical speed. Just as fast, he hopped into newly purchased sweats using the bench to keep from falling. He stuffed his clothes into the backpack and hurried to the exit.

He passed a large mirror that ran the length of the wall, his reflection looked odd, and he stopped. It was his reflection and yet there was a detachment. He didn’t recognize the voice in his head that echoed his own name, his sense of self drifted away, and his vision blurred slightly.

Snap out of it, he thought. His sense of being fell back into his mind and he recognized himself. He left the locker room and took a deep breath.

He exited the building into the fresh air and felt better. The track and surrounding fields were deserted, supporting the school newspaper’s schedule that marked the Benjamin Franklin Wildcats at an out-of-town track meet. The area was completely free of any blue and white jerseys. Benjamin Franklin High ranked as not only the best high school in Queens, but also the best public high school in New York. The achievement was scholastic in nature not athletic. Rarely did any of the sports teams make a good showing at state. The students of Benjamin Franklin had the highest G.P.A. average on the east coast as well as the top S.A.T. scores. Still, the students esteemed athletic prowess well above scholastic aptitude and an absence of jocks on the track put Steve at ease.

“Four easy laps around the track and a leisurely jog home,” he said, tossing his bag on the grass. He inhaled deeply three times, a wide smile crossed his face, and he pushed off.

Not on the track but a minute, his thoughts turned to the future. It was widely known Bryan would follow his father’s example and earlier that school year, as expected, his friend accepted an invitation to New York University's premedical program. That funny
kid
was going to become a Pediatrician. Nora Chan, the girl stopping by this evening—the surprise he’d kept from Bryan—accepted enrollment to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The girl really had it together.

Steve guessed she would probably end up working for NASA or Microsoft. The wave of fear he’d become so accustomed to slammed into his chest, his stomach tightened into a knot at the thought of graduation, only two months away. He hadn't applied to a single school, hadn't given a career a moment's thought. Visions of pizza delivery, dishwashing, and living at home overwhelmed him.

The onslaught of anxiety and two fast laps caused a stabbing pain in his side. He gained control of his pace, but it did little to alleviate the burn that erupted every time a foot slapped the track. According to an article in a runner’s magazine, a recent and unprecedented purchase, this common hurdle among beginning runners must be run through. He forgot the discomfort for a moment as he remembered burying the magazine deep within the closet, in an attempt to keep it hidden from Bryan. Defending himself from his friend’s staunch anti-fitness views was an ordeal he wished to avoid as often as possible.

No conscious decision on the young man’s part brought a vision of Nora. He pictured her in the gymnastics team’s blue and white tights and his mind's eye ran the length of her shapely body, starting at perfect feet, up tawny shins, to thighs long and slim yet sporting a firm muscularity. He paused at her flat stomach then moved up to her moderate, but firm breast; he could only imagine how they might feel to the touch. The girl’s neck was long and silky smooth, her chin sharp, lips full and shapely. Her short hair shined a glossy black.

Steve found most Asian girls in school to be attractive, but Nora was special. She had a quality that transcended any ethnic heritage. The girl glowed with an inner beauty the smitten boy guessed was due to the great compassion and goodness comprising the foundation of her character. He imagined placing his hands on the girl’s waist, gently pulling her in and pressing his lips on her soft neck.

The intense daydream acted as an accelerant pushing up his pace and the ensuing burn in his side let him know that his body wasn’t happy about it; the totally opposite effect thoughts of Nora usually induced. By the end of the fourth lap, the pain subsided to a tolerable level and without missing a step, he ran on to the grass and scooped up his backpack.

“Hey, man boobs.”

Steve turned to the insulter. Just great. Pascalli and Anderson were cutting across the track. He had been so focused on his breathing it was as if the two jerks came out of nowhere.

“You should think about investing in one of those athletic bras,” Pascal said, “you know, to keep you from flopping around.”

“Yeah, to keep you from flopping around,” Anderson repeated.

Steve put on his backpack. “I’ve been watching you two for four years now, always ridiculing people about how they dress, how they talk, walk, sit, stand. Nothing is too trivial for you guys. Dudes, you’re both small with small lives. Do yourselves and everyone around you a favor and find a higher purpose in life. Don’t go into adulthood as small men.”

“You read that somewhere?” Pascal said.

Steve looked at the two for a moment, then a moment longer. “Yes I did, but that doesn’t make it any less true.” He turned his back to them and pushed off.   He hollered back, “If I run into you two ten years from now and you’re still two petty pricks… that will just be sad.”  Steve displayed two middle fingers above his head.

*          *          *

The second wind he was experiencing eased the strain on his lungs, but his ever-weakening legs felt no reprieve. He watched his feet landing on the sidewalk and it was as if he were running on wet noodles. Painful wet noodles. Memories emerged of walking this same path home, hundreds of times, all before Bryan started driving. Sweat now dripped profusely and it occurred to him that before Bryan had started driving them to school, walks of several miles a day were routine. The addition of the automobile to their young lives was no doubt a contributor to his weight gain.

Steve recognized the concrete marking the perimeter of his neighborhood, and the nearness of home not more than two blocks away. The sidewalks were broken and dilapidated, posing a challenge to those prone to toe stubbing. The roots of large trees had pushed up sections of concrete and Steve found it a challenge to shift his weight, to keep balance on a path that for the first time reminded him of an obstacle course.

He rounded the corner; there was his house. Staggering without grace to the familiar yard, he stopped, tossed the backpack to the ground, and fell on hands and knees. He stared at the grass for several minutes and waited for his breathing to slow. Only partially recovered, he limped through the front door of the old house.

“My man boobs actually do hurt a little,” he said rubbing his chest.

Thick layers of smoke wafted throughout the headspace of the living room. After his wife’s death, Uncle George’s cigarette habit had doubled, in spite of a bout of throat cancer that left the old man with a tracheotomy. The stale smell of their home reminded Steve of the thrift stores he and his Aunt used to frequent. It wasn't a pleasant smell, but no matter, it only lasted for a minute, or at least the ability to perceive it only lasted a minute. Smoke parted as he walked through the modest living room. A layer of dust covered aging bookshelves stocked with outdated encyclopedias. Also caught in the ash blanket, shelves overloaded with neglected knickknacks reflecting his late Aunt’s love of angels, turtles, and unicorns.

Bryan’s car parked in the driveway indicated his friend hard at work, up stairs, networking their two computers together. Steve made a mental note to grab a soda for Bryan, for as often as he and his uncle invited the kid to treat the refrigerator as his own, he declined to take them up on the invitation.

“Hey, Uncle.” Steve pretended not to notice a new twist to George’s cigarette consumption. The old man, as usual, held the lit cancer stick up to his trachea hole and inhaled. New to the scene was an unlit cigarette dangling from the man’s thin lips.

George removed the unlit smoke and holding a cigarette in each hand as if they were an extension of his fingers, he covered his breathing hole. “How was school champ?” His voice sounded gravelly and strained.

“School was good,” Steve answered. “And I was able to run home nonstop this time.”

“Good for you,” George said.

“Watching New York Journal?”

“Yeah, the parade of talking-head idiots continues. I can’t believe it hasn’t been cancelled yet.”

Steve smiled. He knew it would be a sad day if the program were cancelled. New York Journal was a local broadcast that attempted to copy the format of the national tabloid shows, but at a fraction of the budget. It was Aunt Pat’s favorite show because it focused on New York celebrities and events. George had barely been able to tolerate it; now that his wife was gone, he rarely missed an airing.

Steve sat at the table and embellished the happenings of his day for the enjoyment of his uncle, but cut short their afternoon visit. Not because of the computer game waiting upstairs, but due to the strain in the old man’s voice. He guessed his uncle’s appearance to look ten to fifteen years older than the man’s chronological age, no doubt the effects of a lifetime of chain-smoking. Pleased with the workout he’d completed, Steve lunged up the stairs to his room, only to find that his legs did not intend to lunge anywhere. The sodas flew and his chin plowed into the carpeted stairs. His legs, although fine for a slow stride around the house, were useless for any real exertion.

He picked himself and the sodas up and made it to his room at a slower pace. Examining the soda cans for damage, he decided next trip to the store would call for a restocking of the refrigerator with diet pop.

Maybe half diet and half regular, he thought. Bryan, too polite to complain, would have a tough time downing the sugar free variety. He’d probably nurse one can the entire night.

Steve entered his room and saw that Bryan had the installs going on both machines. In addition, his friend had dug out all six pistols and had them neatly arranged across the bed.

“The installs are taking forever. What was that thud?” Bryan asked.

“Nothing,” Steve replied, “but I think I'll need some help off the toilet this evening.”

Bryan wrinkled his face. “That’s disgusting.”

Steve laughed. “Wait a minute before opening the soda.” He turned his attention to the firearms and studied the antique revolvers from his late father’s collection, a modern semi-auto pistol made his heart jump. “Come to papa,” he said, taking a cautious hold of the handle and withdrawing it from a leather holster. He liked the heaviness of the weapon and he turned it admiring the tooled metal and black finish. Colt was stamped on one side of the slide and .45 Caliber on the other. Computer combat games had taught him about modern weapons and every game gave the Government Model 1911 high ballistic and accuracy scores. Steve returned the pistol to its holster.

“Didn't you know that was in there?” Bryan asked.

“No, I opened the crate and poked around a little bit, but I’ve been avoiding going through it.” Steve scratched his chin. “I’m afraid of finding a picture of another family, one that my father may actually have kept in touch with.”

“Ouch, that would smart,” Bryan said. He reached out and gave his friend’s shoulder a double Pat. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but there are no pictures in the crate. The Colt was wrapped up in that long canvas coat.” Bryan pointed to a brown trench coat lying over the top of the weathered crate. “The gun’s not loaded, I've checked all the revolvers too and separated the loose bullets by caliber.”

“Look at this.” Bryan unsheathed the sword. The sound of the steel leaving its scabbard impressed both boys. “Some of these guns could be collectables and this sword, it’s stamped 1864.” He held it out to Steve.

“Do you still have your penis?” Steve asked, taking the sword.

“About that.” Bryan pointed to the ceiling.

Steve looked up at the seven-inch gash and smiled. A ringing doorbell interrupted the teen’s attempt to come up with something clever to say. Without hesitation, he handed the sword back to Bryan and darted out of the bedroom. Trotting down the stairs seemed easy enough, but he knew not to attempt any leaps on the way up. If the person at the door was who he expected, a faux pas like falling all over the staircase could cause a lifetime’s worth of nightmares.

Steve jerked the door open almost hitting his foot. A beautiful girl stood on the doorstep. Nora wasn’t in the tights of his earlier imaginings, but sported baggy jeans and a sweatshirt that hid her exceptional figure from the world of man.

“Hi, Steve,” she said with a mother-of-pearl smile. Her gaze never left Steve's face as she stepped in past the youth, pausing to wipe her soles on the door rug, out of polite habit not because the bottom of her shoes needed cleaning.