(fourteen) The Assassination Plot

It was to take place that Monday morning. It was to go down like this:

After the last bell, the three conspirators would meet at the bikerack in front of the school. They would have planned it so their bikes would be on either side of Eddie’s. They would run the lock through his frame so he couldn’t get his bike out. For added assurance, they would let the air out of his tires and take his chain off the sprocket. Then, they would wait.

As Eddie walked up, Jake would be in the middle, flanked by Alex on his left and Scott on his right. They would surprise him, attacking first, which he wouldn’t expect, each in his assigned area. Alex would dive for the bastard’s legs, wrapping his bike lock around them. Scott would grab the fucker’s arms from behind. Jake would then concentrate on pounding him about the head and neck with the ragg wool sock full of pennies he had made the night before. Their moves would be swift, their accuracy, deadly. Ruthlessness was what was needed, ruthlessness was what they’d use. It would be all over in a matter of seconds.

The other kids would be stunned at their efficiency. Eddie would be bloody and unconscious on the ground before anyone knew what had happened. The three would be on their bikes and gone before Vice-Principal Luther pulled his pants up from receiving his daily blowjob from the secretarial intern from the junior college and headed out to investigate the ruckus.

They had practiced it the entire weekend, down in the silence of Quickstad Park. They chose a five-foot stump of an old silver maple tree to be their target, Eddie. Its bark was covered with blackened carvings of romantic pairings. ‘Tanya -N- Eric’, ‘Travis and Tracy 4ever’, ‘Bobby loves Terry’, ad nauseum. Jake found a relatively bare spot and had carved a rough caricature of Eddie’s face in the top of the stump. The Dummy Eddie’s face was a portrait of evil, like a villain in a Marvel Comic book; all hard angles and deep lines. His teeth were bared and his eyes stared crazily down from beneath hideously shaggy eyebrows. In reality, it didn’t really look like Eddie at all, but rather his essence, his spirit, his chi.

Alex had practiced his lunge and tie. He dove at the base of the trunk, bike lock in hand, locking it around the bark and had gotten fairly proficient at hooking the lock on the first try. Scott was busy synchronizing his movements with his brother’s. They practiced lunging at the poor tree, until their shirts were flaked with dry bark and sweat stains had formed under their arms.

Jake stood in front of the tree. He calmly proceeded in his preparation, focusing all attention on the sneering face before him. Starting in small movement, he would alternately draw the sock from his jacket and replace it. Then he started to add another motion to the movement. He would draw and then land the first blow, the pennies hitting the rotting wood with a dull ‘thuck’. Then he’d add a blow. Then another. He quickened the pace, until...

* * *
“My Mom and Dad went to my Aunt’s for the day. We got the whole house to ourselves”, Eddie smiled demonically as he propped the door open with his foot, and lit the end of a joint with his lighter.

“C’mon in”.

Jake entered followed by Richie. Morris and the twins were still at Mass at Guardian Angel and were suppose to join us later.

“We had Little Caesar’s last night. We got a whole large left in the fridge. So we’ll get baked, have some nosh, wait the allotted half hour playing Pitfall and then we’ll hop in the pool so I can kick your guys asses in water dodgeball”.

Jake was a bit on edge with just Eddie and Richie. He really didn’t trust either one of them very much, though Richie more than Eddie. Richie was, after all, his sister Denise’s godson, though Denise wasn’t Catholic and was therefore probably picked as godmother just to piss off one of Richie’s aunts.

The Stephens house was ultra modern in every way. The kitchen was awash in bright white counter tops and cabinet fronts with gleaming silver handles. The refrigerator was gloss black with ice and water through the door. In the dining room, which was just as modern as the kitchen, stood a smoke gray glass topped table with white leather and chrome chairs.

Richie bee-lined toward the living room and switched on the 32 inch color set that stood on a dark oak stand. The carpet was darker here, a charcoal shag with black accents. The furnishings were also darker, a deep grey plush sofa, matching love seat and chair with ottoman. Interspersed between these were the odd smoked glass end table, upon one of which stood a wrought iron ashtray with two joints placed neatly in the cigarette holders.

Richie sifted through the stack of game cartridges under the television, found the one he wanted, shoved it in its slot and snapped the Atari on. The game booted up to the player screen.

“Two player”, Jake said and made for the other control. Richie selected ‘One Player’ hit the fire button on the joystick. He turned his face toward Jake, smiled and turned back toward the screen.

Eddie came out of the bathroom, with his shirt off and handed the butt of the joint to Richie. He took it between his lips and sucked it down to half its size, never missing a beat on his joystick.

“Torch another one, man” Eddie said pointing to the ashtray with the two joints.

Jake took one from its resting place and grabbed the red bic lighter from the pack of Eddie’s Marlboro Lights that lay next to the ashtray. He cupped his hands and lit the end. The smoke was both acrid and cloying. It caught in his throat a bit and he coughed the smoke into his nose. He exhaled forcefully and his head began to throb.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Eddie yelled wrenching the joint from Jake’s fingers. “Don’t waste it. Jesus.”

“Water” Jake managed to choke out, awkwardly making his way to his feet. Eddie watched him disinterestedly as he pulled another hit.

“What color am I?”, Eddie said showing Jake his arm. “I’m not your fucking Nigger. Get it yourself”

In his short walk from the living room, the pot began to take affect. His nose tickled and his spit began to thicken. Jake walked in the kitchen and popped open one of the cabinets. He took a moment to focus. Plates and Bowls. He smiled. He imagined Mrs. Stephens making a cake in one of those bowls. He saw her, highball of gin within arms reach, scanning a page of the familiar red plaid Better Homes Cookbook. He imagined ashes from her Virginia Slims Menthol 100 falling into the batter, her hesitating for a moment and then folding it in like it were egg whites. He closed the cabinet and opened the one next to it. Bakeware. He began to chuckle to himself. He shut the door and went to open the one on the opposite side of the sink.

“What are taking inventory in there? Above the microwave, Numbnuts”.

Jake looked down and settled his gaze on the microwave. He marveled at the television-like apparatus sitting on the counter for a few seconds, for he had never seen one and doubted that he would ever use one until he had the money to buy one himself. He popped open the cabinet and took down a tall glass tumbler with Elmer Fudd sheepishly grinning from its side.

The ice cubes tinkled into the glass and rang around the bottom. He then pushed the glass against the bar and a clean jet of water shot thickly into the glass, the ice cubes snapping and popping in its stream. Jake raised the glass and drank deeply. This particular glass of water was not just any glass of water to Jake. This was the glass of water. This was a glass of water that he would remember. Like he remember that bottle of Coke, its frosty slush plugging its neck, that his brother Craig pulled from his fridge when they had finished painting the garage one summer. Fucking Awesome was the only way to describe it.

Eddie came around the corner and interrupted Jake communing with his waterglass, calling back to Richie in the living room.

“Hey, Pollack, wanna Coke?”

Richie mumbled in the affirmative and Eddie pushed past Jake to the fridge. He popped two cans out of a twelve pack and turned back toward the living room.

“Can I get one of those?” Jake asked.

“You got your water”, Eddie answered over his shoulder never looking back. Jake looked down at his glass. In sipping the last bit of water from it, he realized that the ice cubes smelled faintly of garlic. He topped the glass off with new ice and water and returned to the living room.

Eddie was kicking much ass on Pitfall, mastering every move, instinctively acing every pattern for every board level. Eddie’s invitation to come over and play video games was never about hospitality and wanting to engage his fellows in friendly competition. No. It was more just a cursory, good natured, “C’mon let’s play” that soon degraded into a fast exit for his opponent and lengthy periods of making the rest of the guys watch him play. Sometimes ten, fifteen minutes would go by before his man would die. Then, with the predictability of a Swiss movement, he would jerk the game cartridge from the machine, stuff in a new game and start all over again.

This time, when Eddie’s Pitfall Harry died (those damn dirty crocodiles, again) he just shut the Atari off.

“Time for a swim”, Eddie said tossing the joystick under the television.

“I thought we were gonna have pizza”, Jake questioned.

“Is food all you every think about?” Eddie patted Jake’s tummy as he tried to pull away. “You could do with skipping a couple meals there, Doughboy”.

Richie kicked off his shoes and pulled off his tank top and walked out toward the kitchen and the back door. Eddie went to the bathroom to change. Jake walked to the sliding door off the dining room and watched Richie ascend the ladder to the pool.

“Hey, Jake. Come ‘ere”, Eddie yelled from the bathroom.

“What?”, Jake returned as he watched Richie go under the water for the first time.

“You gotta see this”, Eddie implored.

Jake walked around the table and down the short hall that lead to the bathroom and Mr. and Mrs. Stephens’ bedroom. He looked at the pictures lining the walls of the small hallway. Eddie’s brother and sister looked down at him from family picnics and Christmas gatherings. Mr. and Mrs. Stephens were smiling down from their wedding chapel, flanked by tuxedoed and long-gowned relatives. In one frame rested Eddie’s class picture, his hair perfectly coiffed, his tinted glasses gone, revealing cold, gray eyes, his smile splayed across his face in an almost genuine display of benevolence.

“Hurry up”, Eddie said.

Jake turned toward the bathroom and opened the bi-fold door.

Eddie was standing in the middle of the purple tile floor, his arms folded behind his head. He was completely naked, his penis fully erect arching up toward his belly.

Jake stood motionless in the doorway, unable to grasp what he had let himself be goaded into. He should’ve seen something coming. He cursed his own stupidity and naiveté. He should’ve seen Eddie’s sly, nonchalance during the past hour. Normally, he completely ignored Jake, referring to him only when he needed something from him. Jake shifted his gaze from Eddie to the floor, his pulse quickening exponentially for every second he remained in the doorway.

Before he could move, Eddie grabbed his arm and pulled him into the bathroom. Jake turned to flee, pushing on the door to open it. Instead it folded back to its closed position. He was trapped. Eddie forced him into the corner of the bathroom and put both arms on either side of Jake to block his escape.

“Touch it”, Eddie sneered. “You know you want to”.

Jake looked at the purple tiled wall. He focused on the cream colored grouting as it ran in a network of crosses between glossy tiles. The air was suddenly thick with moisture, so much so that he couldn’t pull it into his lungs, his breathing became shallow, labored.

“What’s the matter? Never seen one this big before?” Eddie grabbed Jake’s hand and forced it down toward his crotch. Jake resisted but Eddie had more upper body strength and easily overcame his attempt. Jake looked away from the wall and caught his own face in the mirror that ran along the wall over the sink. He looked into his own eyes. He saw someone else there, someone that wasn’t him, someone he pitied. As his hand edge toward Eddie’s groin, Jake’s hatred for the pathetic boy in the mirror deepened. When his hand brushed the warm spongy tip of Eddie’s member, that hatred flared.

Jake planted his other hand directly in the middle of Eddie’s chest, brought his right foot up against the wall and shoved him with all his weight behind it. Eddie lost his footing and backpedaled, grasping at the towel bar for balance. He clutched it and it came free of the wall, slowing but not stopping his backward movement. He threw the other hand up toward the shower curtain as his heel hit the tub with a hollow thud. He stood on his heels for a brief moment perched on the fulcrum of falling and regaining balance, then pitched into the tub, pulling the curtain down on top of him, covering his rigid dick like a tent.

* * *

“Hey, cool it”, Alex said as he stood shaking the bits of bark from his hair. His friend didn’t hear him. Jake continued to pummel the stump.

He’s a fucking animal and he deserves everything he gets goddamnit. He’ll pay for everything he’s ever done to you and you’ll be vindicated. People will cheer when they see what you have done. They will cheer your act. They will cheer.

“JAKE!!!”, Scott screamed in his friends ear. “STOP IT. YOU’RE SCARING US”.

Jake stopped his merciless assault. His breath was shallow and fast. He put his head between his knees and gulped in the cool air. He stood up straight and felt the bicep of his right arm throb in time with his pulse.

“Jesus Christ”, Alex whispered. “Look what you did”.

The blows from the makeshift blackjack had pulverized the face on the tree. The entire top half of the stump where the head had been was blasted away. The only thing remaining was the sickening upturned grin.

* * *

Later that evening, after finishing dinner and his chores quickly, Jake biked the mile and a half to Meijer’s Thrifty Acres. As he entered the bright fluorescent light, he squinted, allowed a moment to adjust and headed toward the young men’s department.

He walked past sweater vests and neatly pleated slacks, past zippered velour long-sleeve shirts and poly-blend turtlenecks, but could not find what he came for. What he was looking for was not to be found. This brought a sudden wave of panic over his whole body. He shuddered as he stood between the clearance rack and the display of Dickie’s workclothes. Sweat began to form on his lip though the air was cool and dry. Then, he stopped, collected himself and breathed deeply. He craned his neck over the racks and scanned the area. His eyes fell upon a large sign that read ‘Accessories’. He smiled and bolted toward the racks directly under the sign.

He walked down the aisle of ties and handkerchiefs and came back up the other side. There, at the end of the aisle was what he so doggedly sought. At eye level, stacked neatly, tightly, stood a row of Detroit Lions stocking hats.

Jake pulled a black one from the shelf. On it’s face was just the blue silhouette of the pouncing lion. No ‘Detroit Lions’ in that vaguely Old West font that Jake really didn’t like. Not even just ‘Lions’. Just the King of the Beasts, frozen forever in mid-pounce. And, the best part about the hat was that it had no pom-pom on its crown.

Jake smiled, looked at the tag, pulled his hard earned money from his pocket, nodded in silent agreement with himself and headed toward the registers to pay.

* * *

The next morning, hat firmly on his head, Jake rode his bike to school. As he turned the corner to ride the last 100 feet to bike racks, he saw Alex and Scott standing close to each other, talking to each other. This probably would’ve seemed normal to any other viewer, but Jake knew that these were two guys who couldn’t stand being near each other. They constantly kept their distance from one another in hopes to reaffirm that they were separate entities and should be dealt with as such. This morning, Jake thought, they were suspiciously close. They pointed at and shoved each other until Scott had caught sight of Jake. They stopped their argument as Jake approached.

“What’s up?”

“Hey”, Alex said bending down to wrap the lock around the rack and through the frame on his bike.

“So, we’re still gonna do this, right?”, Jake said. He sensed their loyalty flagging in light of the previous day's incident.

“I’m still in”, Scott replied and turned his eyes ever so slightly toward his brother.

“Alex, this isn’t just about us”, Jake explained “This is for everyone he’s ever fucked with. If he goes unchecked, there’s no tellin’ what’ll happen”.

“But, maybe its too harsh”, Alex replied looking to Scott for support.

“Too harsh?”, Jake asked. “One of these days he’ll push someone too far and they’ll end up killing themselves”.

Alex turned his eyes away from Jake. He looked toward his bike and shifted his weight to his right foot. Jake could see his breath quicken. Alex’s face flushed in patches.

“Or, worse. They’ll come to school with their Dad’s 12 gauge...? Blow you away in homeroom like that kid in California last year?”. Jake had him back in the fold now. Alex was bobbing his head ‘yes’ before Jake finished his sentence.

They agreed, in silence, that in 6 hours they would teach Eddie a lesson that was a long time in coming. It was a lesson that would make Eddie realize the error of his ways. He would cease to be a threat to those he ridiculed. Jake and his band of conspirators would force him to take notice that the poor slobs he tortured were human beings with feelings, not pathetic pawns to be played with as it fit his fancy. This blow would stick and stick hard. It would change the future. All their futures.

As the Twins started for the front door of the school, Jake was struck with a bitter ache at the thought that he had just played upon his friends' fears in order to get them to do what he wanted them to do.

* * *

It was five minutes before the last bell, when Josh Stern whispered in Jake’s ear.

“Eddie knows what you’re up to”.

Josh was a smartly dressed boy, in his pink broadcloth shirt, his grey Izod v-neck, his straight-leg Jordache jeans and his Sperry Topsiders sans socks. He would’ve thrived in the stricture of the Catholic school uniform, if it weren’t for the fact that he was Jewish and a Unitarian. He would be the first in school to wear parachute pants, the first to listen to the Pet Shop Boys and the first to be caught in the Mall bathroom giving head to a stranger. Jake looked up into his face of tanned clear skin, into his dark brown eyes.

“Just thought I’d warn you”.

Jake sat in his desk bobbing his leg up and down next to upright post. At first he didn’t recognize what Josh had said. It was as if the combination of words hadn’t formed to make a complete thought. It took him a few long seconds until his brain had wrapped itself around the statement.

Jake looked around the room. The light mint green walls seemed to close in around him. The hum from the banks of fluorescent lights grew to a deafening roar in his ears. Each flat emotionless face on each kid was stealing looks toward the doomed man. It was clear to Jake that his circle of loyal conspirators had buckled under the stress of the Act. What was to be a blow for the greater good of the community had disintegrated into a looming punishment for the traitor in their midst. Jake turned back to his book to finish his geometric proof.

A. If Eddie knows you planned the whole thing
B. And, you have no plan B.
C. And, you have no escape route.
D. Then you’re in deep trouble.
E. Therefore, you will be in a lot of pain very soon.

Jake slammed his book shut. He turned and looked out the window. A lone brown mangy looking squirrel with a furless tail scampered across the leaf-strewn courtyard toward the tree that rose above the bike racks. Jake followed the squirrel’s trek up to the base of the tree. Poking from behind the tree was a pair of Sperry boatshoes. A hand waved from behind the tree to the front door of the school. Jake panned to see Alex open the door and run, crouching, to the tree. Scott, in his Sperry boatshoes, then ran from behind the tree to his bike, sat on his haunches and started to unlock it from the rack. Alex followed. They had both their bikes unlocked before Jake was able to close his mouth.

They’re the traitors, not you. They’re weak and powerless. They’re sheep. You don’t need them. You remember the painted banner that hangs above the door to the principal’s office? “You Make A Difference”. You. Alone. It’s time to stop relying on others and... Make a Difference.

Jake watched the Carson Twins mount their bikes and ride off. The last bell rang just as they turned the corner near the Post Office and disappeared from Jake’s sight.

* * *

Jake shut his locker slowly and put his hand in his right coat pocket. He felt the pennies under the ragg wool of the sock. His heartbeat kicked up a notch. Breathing deeply as he walked, he started toward the front entrance to the school.

Kids were rushing past him. Some going to practice for some varsity sport. Wrestling, Basketball, whatever. The girls hustling in their pom-pommed groups toward the cafetorium--named so because it served as both cafeteria and auditorium--to practice their high kicks and pelvic thrusts to the exotic rhythms of Prince and The Time. Most, however, were filing out onto the lawn in front of the school. They were unlocking their bikes extra slowly, stretching their conversations longer than normal, in hopes of catching the rumored fight.

Jake was surprised that there had been no taunting beforehand. Usually, as with most high school fights, there was the ritual of the pre-fight taunt. It went down like an impromptu press conference that announced a big Sugar Ray Leonard/Tommy “The Hitman” Hearns prizefight. There would be exchanges about how much Fighter A was gonna kick Fighter B’s ass. There was the retort from Fighter B that invariably had some reference to Fighter A’s Mother or Sexual Preference. Then Fighter A would charge at Fighter B and his corner crew would struggle to hold him back. These displays were pathetic shows of testosterone fuelled rhetoric; full of hyperbole and demagogic posturing. On the professional sports level, it was grandstanding showmanship at its best. Down at the teenage level, it looked more like street performance art; raw, unpolished and very much on the edge.

Jake had meandered to the front doors without so much as a “You’re Dead” or “I’m gonna fucking KILL you” from Eddie. Eddie was nowhere to be seen. This lulled Jake into a comfort that would disappear as soon as he hit the first step of the stairs leading down to the bike racks.

“There he is”, someone in the crowd had yelled and hands began to point. Jake thought this must be an accused killer must feel, the press crushing in around you as you tried to make your way to an appointment with the hanging judge.

The crowd parted as Jake wended his way to toward his waiting fate.

Eddie was standing in the middle of the crowd, leaning on the bike rack and smoking a cigarette. Jake knew this was Eddie posturing, playing everything as if it were no big deal. The Cool Hand Luke demeanor was meant to disorient and disturb Jake. Jake saw through it to the inner asshole beneath. He saw him clutching protectively to the position he held in the social system, performing his persona like John Travolta in Grease. When he saw Jake, he stood up and dropped the butt to the grass; grinding it out with the ball of his shoe, like a cut-rate James Dean. He took off his jacket and handed it to Richie. Jake breathed in very deeply, as if the cool air would somehow calm his raging resentment, and bent to unlock his bike.

“I hear you’re gonna kick my ass”, Eddie said calmly. The boys in the crowd tittered. Eddie looked at them nodding agreement, his tongue wagging out in grotesque display of camaraderie.

Jake reached into his pocket and grasped the knot in the sock.

“Here I am Fat Boy”, he said thrusting his arms out in a mock Christ pose. “Hit me with your best shot”.

He barely had time to laugh at his own comic brilliance before Jake took him up on his offer.

Jake went from crouched to lunge, arching the makeshift blackjack in a half-circle. The combination of movements left Eddie no time to react. The sock struck him squarely in the left eye socket and glanced across the bridge of his nose; splitting at the seam in the toe and spraying the crowd with copper like blood from an artery. Jake brought the sock down to his side as the rest of the pennies spilled out onto his right foot. Eddie stumbled on his heels and clutched at his eye. There was a small gash on the bridge of his nose that brightened with blood and began to trickle. Jake took two small steps toward Eddie and planted his right foot in between the legs of his Levi’s Movin’ On Jeans with the grace and skill of a professional place-kicker. Eddie bent in half, moving one hand from his eye to his crotch. As Eddie was making his descent to the grass, Jake cocked his hand back and delivered a massive, meaty blow to the side of Eddie’s head.

That’s when he heard something crack.

Pain shot up through his arm as he jerked it back from the blow. He looked at his hand. His pinky finger knuckle looked misplaced. It was sort of bent from its true position and twisted to the side. His little finger jutted out at an odd angle from the rest of his hand. It looked to Jake like someone else’s finger. He shook his hand twice, each time feeling the grinding of bone against bone.

Jake turned and leapt over the bike rack. Eddie was rolling from side to side clutching and rubbing the wounded pride between his legs. The girls looked away and started to huddle with each other. Jake pulled his bike from the slot in the rack and turned it toward the cement. He hopped on and tried to grasp the bar with his injured hand. He couldn’t feel the bar under his palm. His hand had swelled considerably in the short time since he broke it and he could no longer close it. Holding his right hand close to his body, he pedaled quickly toward the Post Office.

As he headed down the slight incline, he passed Vice-Principal Luther who was hiking up his pants and doing up his belt as he ran toward the mass of kids surrounding the prostrate Eddie. He turned his attention toward the front door. There, standing framed in the wire mesh glass, was Coach Zazz. He watched Jake as he sped away on his bike; smiling and shaking his head.