Book 1: The Sub-Urban Brawl, Chapter 2

“So how’s New York?” Lou asked, amplifying his voice so Jerry could hear it over thumping hip-hop and the bar patrons hollering over each other.

“Oh, it’s cool.” Jerry looked back across the table and couldn't fathom the size of Lou's head.

This kid had been a skinny-as-a-rail track star, and now it looked like he was hooked up to a helium tank. Mountainous shoulders and a face like a circus strongman: not the Lou of track meets, of long Saturdays in basements playing Madden on Playstation, of mixing everything on the lunch tray together (beans, potatoes, apple sauce, peas, milk, some other kid's Kool-Aid) and daring the other to venture a spoonful. This hulk across the table wasn't him. Apparently the military warps you inside and out.

Jerry had prepared himself for an hour or so of small talk and drink sips to cover silence, but now he could feel alcohol slowly weave through and stir his urge to tackle more ‘real’ topics.

“I think everyone should live in New York for at least a year. It just raises your awareness level. You’re more in tune with things.” He had always had an arrogant streak, being the only male in the Top Five of his graduating class and getting in Early Decision to his dream school gave him a nice foundation. And after a year of unsure footing in the city, including passing out on the train and ending up in the Bronx more than once, puking into a girl’s underwear drawer at a party, and losing $400 of his father’s money to chess hustlers in Washington Square, the last year and a half had seen Jerry establish a new identity for himself. He had watched a documentary on Noam Chomsky in one of his classes, and Chomsky had talked about how the population of the US was separated into two groups: the 20% who stayed informed and ran the country and business and basically everything, and the 80% of people who just didn’t get it, to whom the government spoofed reality TV and professional wrestling to divert their attention and keep their mushy brains distracted. Jerry felt he had graduated into the 20%, but that everyone of his old friends from home were stuck permanently in the 80%, doomed to lives of treading water. And Lou, with his naval duty and Phillies obsession and his marriage at age twenty to a local community college dropout, seemed to tread in the deepest of pools. And now, three drinks in, Jerry decided to have some fun with him.

“So, how did you and your wife meet?”

“Um, my mom knew Sarah and put us in touch.”

“Knew her from where?”

“Working at Target.”

“Cool, cool. How are you two doing? Over a year now, right?”

“Yeah, she’s been living at the base with me in San Diego.”

“Nice. So, I know you love your wife and all, and I don’t mean to…Why do so many military guys marry young? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, that’s fine. We’re dudes here. We can talk about shit. To be honest, money is a big reason.”

“I thought so.”

“But I think it’s more than that. I can’t speak for everybody, but for me, it gets lonely out there, man, and if you know you’ve got a girl nailed down, waiting for you, that’s comforting. Helps you get through the day.”

“And the girls?”

“They like men in uniform, I guess.” He laughed and raised his drink.

“I think it’s more than that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, these are small town girls with nothing to look forward to, so they find a military guy and he’s not around much so there’s plenty of time to romanticize him and make him into this hero, this crusader on a white horse, when in reality he’s just some dude like everybody else.”

“Oh, so you want to talk politics, now?”

“Sure, let’s talk politics.”

“You liberals just think we’re a bunch of meat heads out there, but we’re fighting for you, and if my girl wants to love me because I’m a soldier and a real man, because I act instead of just think all the time, then good for her.”

“You don’t think there’s anything inherently unfair to Sarah and all the other girls? Don’t you guys bang chicks in every foreign port? Don’t panties fly off for American soldiers? Prostitutes and-”

“Enough, Jerry. Are you trying to be an asshole?”

“Sometimes I don’t have to try, I guess. I’m just curious. I want to know how two kids run track together for five years and by the time they’re twenty-one, they’re completely different people. It’s fascinating to me.” He took the last sip of his drink, tilting his head back, ice cubes resting against his lip and nose. “Don’t blame me. Blame this.” He pointed to the empty glass.

“Yeah, alcohol’s gotten me into some trouble too.”

“It tends to do that.”

“I thought we were just going to catch up and talk about old times.”

“Whoops.” Jerry shrugged.

“Well, maybe I’ll ask the questions now. What’s it like being back in Harrisburg, city boy?”

“Oh, not bad. I’m dealing with it. It’s nice for a month, but I could never live here.”

“Why not?”

“There’s just nothing special about it. To me, it’s the epitome of average, vanilla America. No discernible flavor. We have the standard American accent, no dialect. It’s a city, but in five minutes you’re in the suburbs, five more and you’re in farmland. We don’t have the care-free attitude of the West or the slow simplicity of the South. We’re close to the frantic Northeast, but that’s not us either. No beach. The Appalachians are only big hills. No principal exports. No notable cuisine. No identity.”

“Wow, you hate this place.”

“But I don’t, because it’s impossible to hate something with no identity. It’s just there and you accept it and that’s it. But if you want to take a stand or try some other flavors, you have to go somewhere else.”

And then...BLAM!

The explosive sound put an end to Manny's struggling to break away. The first thing he noticed was the tiny circular hole through the windshield lined with thin veiny cracks, then his father's grip on his arm loosening. He watched in bewildered terror as the other gasped for air, a sharp clacking sound crackling in his throat. Manny could see the point of the bullet's entry; the center of his father's chest, disappearing into a hole in the large man's black trench coat.

“E-Emmanuel...” spat his father between heavy breaths. “I-I...” and he father died.

A cacophony of thoughts and emotions shrieked and shouted within Manny's head. His father, the cause of most of the hardships of his young life, had met a fate he had wished for him a million times over...before Manny's very own eyes. But it seemed so much different than he had imagined it would years ago. Distant. Empty.

Manny's street-savvy was soon to kick in. Swallowing his tears for a more appropriate time, he robbed his father's body of his wallet and cell phone and ran for cover just in case the shooter had not gotten his fill or any of the locals could connect him to the crime.

Through the dark alleys of the city he ran under cover of shadow to the only place he knew he would be safe.

Mr. Blik owned an antiques shop a few blocks away. It was generally closed and its main function was that of a front for the true dealings happening below. Manny, fatigued and out of sorts, used his key to open the back door and descended a set of rickety wooden stairs to yet another door. He opened it and entered his home.

The space was about nineteen feet by sixty, a basement finished to look like some extravagant and homely twenty-four hour lounge. Orange shag carpet covered the entire floor. Various pieces of multi-colored found furniture clashed so profoundly with each other that it worked surprisingly and stylistically well. One of the corners had a counter, fridge, microwave, pots, pans, silverware, and shelves upon shelves of food. Another was walled off into a pair of bathrooms, men and women. The third corner housed three sets of bunk beds and a futon. The fourth had a big HD TV, stereo, all the major gaming systems, and a computer. Five kids in addition to Manny called this place home. They had each escaped their own private hells and either did, or would very soon, accept this new life as their destiny.

When Manny arrived only one of his co-workers was there. Jen was her name. At twenty-one, she was one of the oldest of them. Quiet. Used. No one besides Mr. Blik really knew how she winded up where she did. From what the others had gathered she came from an okay life in the glistening suburbs of Harrisburg, light years away from Blik's underworld. She sat in a corner as she would sometimes do, reading a book, hardly acknowledging that she was no longer alone.

Manny was glad to see the place was as empty as it was. The others were out bringing in their nightly earnings. He climbed into his bed (the top bunk) and opened his father's wallet. Julio Gonzalez was his name. A flood of memories crashed in on him. Breaking glass and broken bones. He would have cried if he hadn't made himself forget how. The wallet contained three hundred forty-two dollars, which he pocketed. The rest was credit cards, a driver's license, Blockbuster card, and a note...

JULIO,
I NEED THREE MORE TONIGHT. ONCE YOU GET THEM, GIVE ME A CALL AT 717-861-3457 AND I'LL TELL YOU WHERE TO MEET ME.
-CL

Manny couldn't even begin to understand what that was about, but immediately connected it to the few words his father had managed to share. That “something” he wanted Manny to be a part of. He wasn't one to waste time wondering. Curiosity had always been his most persistent vice, so he pulled his father's cell phone out of his pocket and called the number on the note.

After a couple of rings, a man a raspy voice answered, “Meet me under the Walking Bridge, city-side. Bring the kids, get your money, and I'll take it from there.” He hung up.

Manny's better judgment told him to leave it alone. He enjoyed his life on most levels and had no real love for his until-that-night estranged father. But there were parts his mind at work that he had spent the last years forcing into submission. Emotions mostly involving his neglectful mother and monster of a dad. Emotions that, despite how hardened he pretended to be against them, whispered through the cracks in his subconscious barricade a deep and painful sadness that he was an orphan, forgotten. And then he was visited by another little something inside of him, a voice he tried so hard to keep concealed- the insufferable twitter of a voice that said he deserved something more than the life Blik had given him, that of a creature of the night. The voice told Manny that the short-lived and borderline incomprehensible return of his father and the wishes of the man on the phone could be his only ticket to a more fulfilling existence.

“I need three more tonight.” Kids. People like Manny, probably. It was obvious that his father was seeking one out- he just hadn't expected it to be his own son. If Manny wanted to peer into Julio's world, discover an escape, he would have to play by its rules.

“Jen!” he called. The girl, pretty in her bedraggled mousy sort of way, looked to him with wide green eyes. “That was Mr. Blik on the phone. He wants us to meet him under the walking bridge by the river. He says it's important. We need to pick up Marty and Fel on the way, too.”

In Blik's underworld you learn fast not to question your superiors, and as the top earner and favorite arguably, Manny Gonzalez was indeed Jen's superior. Jen climbed to her feet and silently followed Manny out the door.