Chameleon (14 page)

I knew what was coming next.

“Lorenzo, don’t . . .” I said.

“Don’t what, Shawn?”

He clawed at his shirt and started: “Ohhh, ohhh . . .”

I ignored him and focused on the screen.

I couldn’t handle being blind. Not just because of the girls, but everything else. No blue sky. No yellow sun. No red sunsets. No green money. No Laker purple and gold. None of that. Just . . . darkness.

“How would you describe a color to a blind person?” I asked.

“What?” Andre said.

“If your friend had been born blind and you tried to describe a color, like, red, what would you say? ‘Red looks like fire’? If he’s blind, then he don’t know what fire looks like, right, so that don’t work. What would you do?” I asked.

“Are you serious, Shawn? We sitting here watching an old, blind Chinese dude slicing and dicing heads, and all you can think of is how you describe the color red to a blind man?” Lorenzo said, shaking his head.

It was dark in the theater, but I could still see the confused look on his dark face. More heads in the theater shushed us. We ignored them.

“Master
is
blind, Lorenzo, so it’s not like the question came out of nowhere,” Andre said, then added, “I never thought about that, Shawn. What does a blind man see in his head?”

“Will you guys be quiet? Master is about to find out who murdered his students,” Trent said.

We quieted ourselves and stared at the screen. I tried to imagine not being able to see Marisol’s jet-black hair, Janine’s bright red toenails, brown eyes, brown juice — brown juice I could do without.

I tried to replay the dream from last night, but nothing popped up, just more flashes of yellow. Instead, I created a new dream. I brushed Marisol’s hair, and with each stroke, her head drooped lower and lower and her eyes closed like she was tired. The soft skin on her neck called to me. Should I kiss it?

“Vengeance is mine.” Loud horns leaped from the speakers and the lights came up.

More than a few eyes looked like they wanted vengeance as they focused on us while leaving the theater. We ignored them and looked at each other.

“Y’all ready for another one?” Trent said.

“I don’t know if I can sit through a whole ’nother movie, Trent,” Lorenzo said. “We outta Ritz and I’m hungry.”

“You always hungry, Lorenzo. Just because you got a big mouth, don’t mean you always gotta stuff something in it,” Trent said, laughing.

Lorenzo sniff-sniffed the air. Here it comes.

“Did I just get a whiff of a bag? Huh, Trent? You wanna get bagged up?” Lorenzo said, smiling at me, then turning his attention to Trent.

Trent lowered his head. He knew what was coming.

“Too late.” Lorenzo rubbed his hands together, intertwined his fingers, popped his knuckles, then said: “Ya Mama so fat . . . her blood type is grease!” Laughter howled from the bottom of his belly.

“Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhh!”

Me and Andre almost slid onto the sticky floor from laughing so hard. We held on to the torn seats to keep from falling over. The theater was now empty, so we let it all out. Andre stood and did the laughing dance, slapping at his thighs while stomping his feet. I laughed myself backward into my worn and torn seat, sending my Stars into the air.

Trent snickered too. He knew Lorenzo’d got him. Good.

“He chopped off your head with that one, Trent,” I said, slapping him on the back.

Andre shouted, imitating a nurse and cupping his hands to broadcast his voice, “Doctor, we need some blood in this woman
stat
!” His voice changed to a man’s, and he said, “No, nurse, this woman needs Crisco. Run over to the store . . .
stat
!”

“Get me some chicken and a frying pan
stat
! We can’t let this grade-A grease go to waste,” Lorenzo added.

“Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh!”

I chimed in with a
“stat”
and rolled back into my seat. The three of us held on to our sides for dear life.

“Anyway!”
Trent said.

He bumped past us into the aisle.

“You guys up for another one or not?”

“I could do that again,” I said, standing.

Andre asked for the time.

“It’s 11:36,” I said.

“It’s almost lunchtime! I can’t make it through another one without eating something,” Lorenzo said, rubbing his belly.

Trent was about to open his mouth, but Lorenzo burned his eyes into him. He got the hint.

“Come on, let’s at least see what’s playing,” Trent said, heading out the door.

The stench of fried fish greeted our noses as we stepped into the hallway. Trent led the way, pointing straight ahead and to the left. We crept over, making sure we couldn’t be seen, then shuffled into the theater as quietly as four teenage mouths could.

The theater was already dark and like our theater mostly empty. A woman had her back to the camera as it approached slowly. The hum of a chain saw started up. She whipped around and screamed as the chain saw went to work.

“Man, I don’t wanna see no horror flick,” Lorenzo said.

“What’s the matter . . . you scared, ’Zo?” Andre asked, grabbing Lorenzo’s back.

“Yeah, right. I came to see butts getting kicked, not some chick screaming her head off,” Lorenzo said.

“Yeah, I ain’t up for no horror flick. Let’s check out something else,” I said.

We snuck into three more theaters with silent and swift ease, but all of them had something we didn’t want to see. Trent opened up the door on theater number six, and sounds of punches and kicks jumped into our ears.

“This looks good,” Trent said.

We groped our way through the dark theater, our eyes glued to the screen, watching an old man guzzle wine, laugh, and stagger his way through a group of men enjoying a meal. The sober men seated didn’t think anything was funny. They taunted the old man and pushed him around. One of them snatched what looked like a vase from the old guy’s hand and shouted, “You drunken old fool . . . I told you . . . NO MORE WINE!”

Assorted townspeople in assorted Chinese outfits gathered to watch. The old guy tried to walk away, but his drunken laughter and staggering kept him spinning in a slow circle as the men continued their taunts. A waiter ran out of what looked like a bar, carrying a sheet of paper. He thrust it at the old man and wagged his finger, “Not so fast. You still have to pay!”

The old drunk waved the waiter off and staggered away from the bar. A group of men on horses carrying staffs with yellow feathers and red sashes galloped into his path. Imperial guards?

“Aren’t those the same dudes from the last movie?” Lorenzo asked. “These guys stay busy, huh?”

Trent shushed him.

A guard whose staff had more feathers and sashes than the others asked, “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Captain, this old drunk refuses to pay his bill,” the waiter said, both arms tucked into one sleeve as Chinese waiters always seem to do in the movies. He pulled out a hand and wagged his finger at the old man again. “And this isn’t the first time.”

“Well”— the camera jumped from a full-body shot of the guard to an extreme close-up of his face —“this
will
be the last time he does.” Horns blared and drums thundered.

“Here it comes — fight scene,” Trent said.

“Who’s gonna fight? Don’t tell me this old drunk. He can barely walk,” Lorenzo said, folding his arms as if to challenge the old man himself.

A pair of guards hopped off their horses to contain the drunk, but he kept out of their grip, his wine-weary legs dipping him out of trouble each time.

“You see that?” Trent said.

We did. The captain grabbed his staff and thrust it at the old dude’s feet, stumbling and swaying and avoiding the staff. He was untouched. And laughing. Two more guards jumped in, but when they swung their staffs at the old man, he fought back. He staggered drunken punches at one guard, one-two, one-two, one-two, one-two, knocking the guard out. The other guard tried to grab him from behind, but the old man fell onto his back, avoiding the grab, rolled backward between the guard’s legs, then kicked him in the butt from behind with both feet, all while on his back!

Trent sat up in his seat. “You see that?” He leaned on the seat in front of him, his eyes big as a kid’s on Christmas Day.

“Go ’head, old man!” Lorenzo said, leaning on the seat in front of him too.

A tight shot of the captain standing next to one of his men filled the screen. The camera zoomed in closer on the captain’s face:
“Drunken style!”

We looked at each other with puzzled looks on our faces and said, “Drunken style?”

“Is that a real style?” I asked.

“I guess so. Check out the old dude,” Lorenzo said, then added in the same voice he’d used when talking about Andre’s brother, “He’s doing his thing!”

The old guy escaped, punching and kicking his way through the guards in a drunken stagger, swigging wine between fallen bodies. Refreshed from each drink, he wiped his mouth and howled with drunken laughter: “HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA!”

Lazy but powerful blows took out guards left and right as he moved with a certain drunken style and grace. I’ve never seen a drunk move that gracefully.

I snuck a look at the fellas as they focused on the screen. My own experiences with a drunk were much different: no kicking, no punching, no style, and definitely no grace. Just slurred words, staggered legs, heavy sighs, and tears. Lots of tears.

With each drunken movement on the screen, flashbulbed images and sounds of Auntie blended in my head. Fist to the face — FLASH,
passed out across the floor.
Kick to the head — FLASH,
passed out on the couch.
Open palm to the throat — FLASH,
passed out on the kitchen table.
Fingers to the eyes — FLASH,
high-pitched yells for ice.
Sweep of the feet — FLASH,
crying whispers from spit-riddled lips.
Flying kick to the chest — FLASH,
an empty bottle.

I’ve seen Auntie do a lot of things, but I’ve never seen her howl with laughter like that.

“Check it out . . . the old dude’s gettin’ away,” Lorenzo said, pointing to the screen.

The old man staggered into the mountains, leaving behind a moaning and groaning trail of beaten-up guards.

“All of that
and
he didn’t even pay his bill!” Trent said.

“I guess he’s the hero, huh?” Andre said to no one in particular.

Yeah . . . imagine that; the hero is a drunk.

A WALL OF HEAT replaced the theater’s cradle of cool as we stepped outside into the bright sun. The block, once empty, buzzed from a parade of foot traffic and activity.

“What time is it?” Andre asked, dropping the ball to the concrete to rest under his foot.

“LUNCHTIME!” Lorenzo answered, rubbing circles around his paunch as he scanned the block for grub.

“Why you so worried about time today, Andre?” I asked. I’m the one who usually worried about time. The fellas know I can’t be late going to Auntie’s, so I’m always checking my watch. But they live here, so they don’t worry about time like I do.

“I just wanna make sure I see my brother before it gets dark. Once the sun goes down, he disappears like a ghost. And before you know it, he’s gone back to the ship,” Andre said.

Lorenzo’s eyes perked up. His hand stopped rubbing his belly and draped around Andre’s neck. “Yeah . . . we gotta make sure we see ’Dre’s brother before he leaves,” he said.

“Get away from me, Lorenzo,” Andre said, ducking under Lorenzo’s large mitt. “What’s this ‘we’ stuff? I said
I
need to see my brother, not you.”

Lorenzo placed his right hand over his heart and took a step back, pretending to take offense. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Here I am trying to look out for a brutha and what do I get?”

Trent jumped in.

“I’ll tell you what you get, Lorenzo . . .” Trent started. I knew what was coming when Lorenzo sniff-sniffed the air, so I interrupted, “I’m hungry too. Let’s get something to eat.”

My eyes searched the block for something, anything that our lone dollar bill could buy. A buck won’t get you much in general, but if you’re creative, you can find something.

“Let’s check out this Louisiana Fried Chicken,” Lorenzo said, pointing next to the theater. His sneakers started off in that direction, but the three of us stood still.

Andre tossed his ball between his hands and said, “I don’t know, ’Zo. Last time I ate there, I had the runs the rest of the day. Where else can we eat?”

We couldn’t be choosy with only a buck between us, but I knew where Andre was coming from.

“Let’s just see what they got,” Trent said.

We followed Lorenzo out of the shade and into the light. Andre bounced after him with Trent behind. I brought up the rear, but as I stepped out of the cool of the shade, I felt a hand on my shoulder from behind. Who’s that? I spun around and jerked my hand up to hide my eyes from the sun. A green silhouette greeted me: “What’s up, Shawn?”

It was a girl.

When I realized who was standing in front of me, my eyes grew as wide as the dead dude’s right before his head got chopped off.