The Insurrectionist (8 page)

            Deni slowly dribbled toward her. Heather aggressively approached, ramming into him and stole the ball and scored again. “That’s two, zip.” She breathed deeply and brushed her bangs away from her eyes. “Are you sure you understand how to play this game, or are you placating me because I’m a girl?”

            “You’re a girl?” he teased.

            “I’d lift my shirt to show you, but there’s not much there to impress you.”

            Deni didn’t reply; the mere suggestion impressed him much more than she knew. He gestured for the basketball. “Give it here. My shot.”

            She bounced the ball back to him and he dribbled straight toward her and as soon as she lurched forward, he side-stepped her and scored. “Two, one,” he said, “You’re going to have to try a little harder.”

            As the game progressed, so did the pushing and the shoving. It no longer became a game of boy versus girl; they were both playing to win until Heather grabbed Deni around his lower waist. It was a little too uncomfortable for him and it caused him to lose the ball.

            He walked off the court to retrieve the ball and sternly pointed his finger at Heather. “Watch it!”

            She grinned flirtatiously. “What? Did I get a little touchy feely?”

            Deni bounced the ball back to her. “I don’t think I want to play anymore.”

            Heather bounced the ball back to him. “Why not?”

            “‘Cause you don’t play fair. You cheat,” he said.

            “Come on. I’m sorry,” she said gesturing for the ball.

            He placed the ball under his arm and shook his head.

            “Geez, fine!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry.” When they got back to her car she said, “Do you want to stop at Ramones’ for a cheese steak?”

            “No. Gotta save room for dinner,” he said.

            “It’s two o’clock.”

            “I don’t have any money on me.”

            “I got some. I’ll spot you,” she said.

            It was the problem for Deni; she was always spotting him with daddy’s money.

            Heather sighed deeply. “Look, you are my best friend. I have money to spend as I wish and I wish to spend it on you. What’s the problem with that?”

            “Fine,” he grumbled.

            When they arrived at Ramones’ sandwich shop, Heather placed the order. “I’ll have a large meatball,” she gestured to Deni. “He’ll have a large cheese steak, sautéed onions and no sauce.” She laughed to the clerk. “Can you imagine someone who doesn’t like sauce on their cheese steak? What kind of freak doesn’t like sauce on his cheese steak?”

            Deni rolled his eyes and looked away.

            “We’ll also have two fries and two large sodas,” she said and paid the cashier.

            As they took their seats and waited for their sandwiches, Heather stared at Deni who was scribbling on the plastic table top with his finger. “Do you want to tell me what the hell the matter is?”

            Deni sat back and stretched out his arms. “Nothing.”

            A bell rang. “Number twenty-nine,” yelled the clerk.

            Deni rose from his seat and went to pick up their order. He collected some ketchup in paper cups and packets of salt and headed back to the table. He bit into his sandwich without looking at her.

            “Okay, what gives? You and I have been hanging out together every day since we met. Why are you being such a putz?” Heather said and then took a bite of her meatball sandwich.

            “Maybe because I don’t like being treated like some gigolo,” he said without looking at her.

            Heather laughed. “That would require that you and I actually got physical. The most physical you and I have gotten was playing basketball or sitting side-by-side playing fantasy football. What is it? Don’t you think I’m pretty?” She pulled out her sweatshirt at her breasts. “Are my tits not big enough?”

            Deni glanced around and gestured for her to simmer down. “That’s not it. It’s not it at all.” He noticed she had sauce on her face and pulled out a paper napkin. “Show me your face.” She stuck out her face, while he wiped off the sauce around her cheek and lips. “Can you eat food without getting it all over your face?”

            “You’re one to talk.” She flicked a French fry at him. “Then what is it? Everyone at school is either making out or getting laid. I can’t even get you to hold my hand. Tell me. Whatever it is I can handle it. Are you gay?”

            “No!” Deni laughed. He sat back and raised his arms around the back of his head. “Heather, my pop told me once that I shouldn’t go around kissing girls if I thought I might break their heart. I don’t want to break your heart.”

            “That’s it. Seriously? You’re afraid you’re going to break my heart. That’s real lame, Deni. And by the way, I am responsible for my own heart, not you! If I put my heart out there and risk getting hurt, that is on me; not you.”

            “Geez, chill out sister,” he said and then took a bite of his sandwich. He chuckled. “Sounds like you need to get laid.”

            “Funny guy,” she replied and threw another French fry at him.

            He grinned and threw it right back at her.

            “Seriously, Deni why? Why are we not going anywhere?”

            He had no real answer for her; none that he could think of anyway. She was the prettiest girl he could imagine and his very best friend to boot.
Perhaps that’s the reason
, he thought,
I have the perfect situation sitting right in front of me. Why ruin it
?

 

            There was a knock at Deni’s hospital door that disturbed Deni’s somber reflection. Marsha got up from her seat to answer. Deni could smell it and already he began salivating. He hoped to God it wasn’t Marsha’s way of torture; it would certainly ruin him.

            Marsha carried two white large bags to the small table and then set his food tray over his lap. “Here, I believe this one is yours,” she said and then handed him a large sandwich wrapped in silver foil along with a large side of fries and a soda.

            Deni unwrapped his sandwich and stared at it; he just couldn’t believe it. The sight nearly brought tears to his eyes.

            “Anything wrong?” asked Marsha.

            “No,” he muttered. He looked down at his large cheese steak sandwich, sautéed onions and no sauce. It was perfect; just the way he liked it.

            Marsha noticed his expression. “I don’t know what kind of freak likes a cheese steak without sauce,” she said. “Enjoy. Tonight they’re moving you to the prison hospital. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to order in food like this again.”

            Deni bit into the sandwich. He almost forgot how good it tasted. The meat juices rolled down his chin; the provolone cheese had a mild tanginess and was touched with the sweetness of the sautéed onions. He ate slow, savoring every bite.

            When the food was gone he grew very sad.
It’s like everything in life
, he thought,
when all pleasure is gone; there is pain
and sorrow
.

            “Are you okay? Was your lunch good?” asked Marsha.

            “It was,” he responded dully.

            Marsha leaned back in her chair. As a mother of two sons, she had seen that look before. It was heartbreak and a starting point to engineer her defense. Deni’s mind was a wide well of deeply provocative ideology and he wore it proudly. The wall around his heart was going to be much harder to tear down.

          

 

            The nurse came in shortly after his dinner with a bucket of scolding hot water and the scratchiest of cloths. There was really no care one would associate with a nurse; instead she was intent on roughing him up. She got a hold of his privates with her scratchy cloth and scrubbed real hard.

            “Ouch!” Deni screamed although he knew no one was going to rush in and save him.

            “My job is to clean you, but if you don’t hold still I might accidently electrocute you,” she said.

            Looking up into the nurse’s angry eyes, he believed her.

            “I have a ten-year-old and I’ll let you know, anyone who would even think of harming my child, I’d kill them without a second thought,” she said. “I can’t think of anything more evil than killing children.”

            Ironically as the nurse was taking her anger out on him he realized the slightest threat to their children could turn any mother into a dangerous warrior. His own mother was a force no one ever wanted to confront. Her reputation started early in Deni’s American life.

 

            It was really no big deal; no one was mad and even eight-year-old Deni thought the whole incident was silly, but there he sat in the 10th and Penn Elementary principal’s office. He slumped on the couch, mindlessly kicking his feet, while the office secretaries and councilors went on about their business.

            The entire energy shifted when Kamiila entered and approached the office secretary like a mother lioness protecting her cub. “I got a call about my son.”

            The secretary pointed to Deni seated on the couch. “Let me call Principal Schroeder.”

            Kamiila waited impatiently as a pleasant, dark-haired woman came out of an office and approached Kamiila. “Mrs. Daudov? I’m Principal Schroeder.”

            “Yes, what happened with my son?” Kamiila questioned.

            “There’s been a little incident. Nothing urgent, we just thought it was important to get the parents involved,” replied Principal Schroeder.

            “What kind of incident?”

            The woman smiled with an uneasy politeness. “Yes, we found your son and a female student in a closet kissing.”

            “Kissing?” Kamiila questioned angrily.

            “Ma, I was lured!” Deni protested in Russian.

            Kamiila reached out her hand to have him stop talking. “My son said he was lured.”

            Principal Schroeder nodded. “Of course he was.”

            “Do you think my son is lying? My son does not lie!”

            “No,” Principal Schroeder said.

            “Who is responsible for watching these children? I bring my child here to this school and I expect that he is being looked after and not lured into closets,” argued Kamiila.

            “Mrs. Daudov,” Principal Schroeder replied in a diplomatic voice. “The teachers have many students to look after.”

            “I do not care. It is their job to make sure this doesn’t happen. It may be acceptable for American parents that their children go off kissing in closets, but I raise my children with dignity and respect,” she said. “Is anyone talking to the young girl? Who is this girl? Who are her parents?”

            “Mrs. Daudov we are dealing with this situation equally.”

            “Equally? This young harlot lured my son into a closet,” argued Kamiila.

            “We’d like both parents to know to have talks with their children.”

            “Talks?” asked Kamiila.

            “Yes, you know…birds and the bees,” replied Principal Schroeder.

            “My son is eight years old. He is too young for your birds and the bees. It’s the problem with America, too much sex all over the place¾on television and in the movies. You would think they would keep it out of the schools. Americans are sick in the head with sex.”

            “Mrs. Daudov,” said Principal Schroeder in a kind voice. “If you feel we are not doing an adequate job educating your son, you can try private school or even home schooling.”

            Kamiila gestured for Deni to her side. “I’m taking my son home now. When he comes back to school tomorrow, I want to be sure this situation will be taken care of with that girl.”

            “I assure you, Mrs. Daudov,” replied Principal Schroeder.

            Deni followed Kamiila out the school, lagging behind a couple steps. “Ma, you’re over-reacting. It’s not a big deal.”

            Kamiila headed toward the bus stop. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

            “I mean ma, it’s not like we were having sex,” said Deni.

            Kamiila’s body nearly exploded and she was close to striking him, but she refrained. “What did you say?”

            Deni glanced up at Kamiila and calmly said, “Ma, it’s not like we had sex.”

            Kamiila said nothing more as they waited for the bus. She was silent on the bus ride and on the walk home. Finally, inside their home she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Go to your room and don’t come out until you’re thirty-five!”

            “Ma, you’re being unreasonable!” yelled Deni.

            “Keep talking Deni and I’ll raise it to forty!”

            Deni slammed the door and fell back on his bed. He rolled over on his stomach with his face in the pillow.
So unfair
, he thought. He opened the door and screamed. “Ma, you’re such a square! There are a lot worse things than kissing!”

            Kamiila rushed up the stairs toward Deni’s bedroom. “Fifty! Okay, you’re in there until you are fifty!”

            An hour later Deni could smell dinner and hear the clatter of the table being set and his sister’s conversations. It was his sister, Eliiza who bought him his dinner. “Boy, are you in trouble,” she said in a mocking tone.

            He took his dinner from her. “Get lost!” Deni sat on his bed and angrily scoffed down his meal so fast he didn’t even taste it. After dinner, he overheard Kamiila’s screams from her bedroom down the hall. Deni crawled out of bed and pressed his ear against the door to listen.

            “Sex, Bashir!” yelled Kamiila. “Our eight-year-old is talking about sex. There is sex everywhere in this country: on the television, on the streets, on the radio. You can’t go anywhere where there is not sex, sex, sex! This country is sick in the head with sex and it is affecting my son.”

            Deni turned his head away from the door and sat down. He felt ashamed and didn’t really understand why.
I have done nothing wrong. The only thing I have done wrong was get caught
.

            His bedroom door opened and Bashir peaked inside to find Deni seated on the floor. “Can I come in?”

            Deni got up and plopped onto his bed. “Ma is being real stupid.”

            “She loves you. She would do anything to protect you from any harm,” said Bashir.

            “But pop, it’s kissing. What’s so bad about kissing? She kisses me all the time. You kiss me all the time. Even Mik, Lulii and Eliiza kiss me all the time. If it’s so bad, why does everyone do it? Why can’t I kiss girls?” questioned Deni.

            Bashir laughed; the argument challenged him. They were an affectionate family; surely they would have an affectionate son. “We are a family and we always will be a family; it’s the one thing you can always depend on. But girls are not family, they will come and go and if you go around kissing girls, you could break their heart. When you care for someone, you don’t want to hurt them. You don’t want to break girls’ hearts do you?”

            “No,” sighed Deni.

            Bashir put his arm around Deni, kissed him on the head and then glanced down at his son, feeling concerned. “What do you know of sex?”

            Deni didn’t really know. He just heard people taking about it. He watched it on television with Mikail at his Uncle Boris’ house, but really did not understand it and he certainly didn’t know how to articulate it. “Duh pop, don’t you know?”

            “Yeah, I know. I want to know what you know,” replied Bashir.

            “You know, when a boy and girl do stuff together.”

            Bashir hated to proceed, but he needed to know. “Have you?”

            “No, ick!” Deni protested. “Can we stop talking about this now? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

            “Deni, I want to tell you that sex is a precious thing between a man and woman who love each other,” explained Bashir.

            Deni threw himself back on the bed and covered his ears. “Pop!”

            “Just remember that when kids at school talk about it or you see it on television,” said Bashir.

            “Ugh!” Deni growled. “Can I come out of my room now?”

            “No,” said Bashir. “Your mother’s still upset, best you stay in here until morning.”

            “Ah,” Deni whined.

            Bashir rose from his bed and looked down at him. “Read a book; play a game. Try to keep yourself occupied for a while.”

            When Bashir left, Deni collapsed in his bed with hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He glanced toward the window. It was already dark outside. He closed his eyes and wished he were back in Russia at his Uncle Aslan’s farm with the big, wide open fields. There his imagination soared in all sorts of directions; here in America he felt stifled.

 

            Later in the night, Deni lay in his hospital bed. He was so ungodly bored. After lying here for the past couple days, he was afraid his imagination would run dry.
The imagination is only good if you have something to feed it
, he thought.

            Desperate for some mental activity, he searched the room for that dark, looming shadow that often visited. “What are you? Who are you?” he said out loud. “Can you tell me what my purpose is here? Why am I still alive?” There was no sighting and no answers.

            The door opened with a sharp white light of the hospital hallway. A doctor approached and started to remove the tubes in his body. “I hope you enjoyed your stay at St. Joseph’s Shangri La. The Reading penitentiary awaits.”

            Two hospital aids followed by two of Reading’s finest police officers entered with a gurney. The cops removed his ankle cuff from the bed and the doctor’s aids moved him to the gurney.

            The hospital hallways were quiet except for a few stray nurses on rounds and a janitor mopping. Strapped to the gurney, Deni stared at the ceiling lights and white painted walls. When they reached the outside, the ambulance was waiting. No one said a word to him as they lifted him onto the vehicle.

            Once at the prison, guards helped with Deni’s gurney and rolled him to the infirmary where he was placed onto a bed. Hospital aids changed him into the regulatory bright orange prison scrubs and cuffed him to the bed by his ankle. It was official; he was a prisoner.

            The outside world was now nothing but a distant memory that he may never see again.
Friends and family will move on with their lives and most likely forget they ever knew me, some may even deny they knew me
, he thought. A new life of solitary awaited him and all the things he relished in his life would fade.

            The prison hospital made St. Joseph’s seem like a day spa. It was one open room, with beds lined up like an army infirmary. There was absolutely no privacy, but regardless of the conditions, Deni was exhausted and fell asleep quickly.

 

            The next morning, Deni and the other prison inmate patients were served a breakfast of sticky bland oatmeal. He could hardly gag it down but it was eat it or proclaim a hunger strike. He ate fast and swallowed the rubbery oatmeal chunks whole so he didn’t have to taste them.

            “Hey pretty boy,” called the convict from the next bed.

            Deni didn’t respond.

            “Hey, pretty boy, are you deaf?” The convict shook the metal medical table between them. Medical scissors, plastic bottles and rolls of surgical tape fell to the floor catching the attention of the prison doctor.

            “Hey Grimes, obviously pretty boy isn’t interested in you, so why don’t you hit on someone else!” yelled the doctor.

            Grimes, a heavily tattooed, muscular man with a shaved head and a swastika tattoo on the back of his head, ignored the doctor. “Pretty boy, what are you in for? Whaddya do, kill someone with kindness, break and enter someone’s heart?”

            The doctor came over to Grimes. “Right now, pretty boy makes you look like a patty cake. Bombing at the Fairgrounds,” the doctor said nodding at Deni.

            “Ah so you’re that raghead that blows up little kids! Man, that’s totally fucked up. The smartest thing our country can do is round the lot of you Muslims for mass extinction,” said Grimes.

            Deni decided to turn around and address Grimes. This neo-Nazi was something he had seen before; some were hardcore, while others blended into American society only to spill out their hatred when it was safe to do so. “According to that tat on the back of your skull, genocide seems to be your answer for everything,” replied Deni.

            “You’re a little pussy,” replied Grimes, “I can’t wait for the time you get gang-banged in the shower.”

            “What kind of man looks forward to sex with another man?” said Deni. “You call me a pussy, at least I’m not queer.”

            “You ain’t gonna get any pussy in lockup, so you gotta push it into the next hole,” said Grimes. He puckered his lips and kissed in Deni’s direction. “There’s going to be a long line to get between your sweet cheeks.”

            Deni reclined back in his bed with his hands behind his head. He had known prejudice throughout his life, but he always had friends to stand up for him. He was not looking forward to his future prospects in prison and it was his own back he was going to have to watch.
Maybe they can put me on the fast track to execution
.