Book I: The Sub-Urban Brawl, Chapter 3

Jerry peed his pants. When he had to go, he couldn’t bring himself to disrupt his kindergarten teacher Mrs. Sebastian, so he would just sit there. She seemed far too consumed in introducing Mr. P and his Pointy Patches or Miss E and her Exercise Energy, speaking slowly and making pointed eye contact through her huge glasses, engaging the fickle attention of twenty little five-year-olds, for Jerry to trouble her. She worked so hard, so he would simply release, sitting in his little plastic chair, and then he could relax and give Mrs. Sebastian the attention she wanted.

After repeated incidents, a few of his classmates noticed, which turned into the whole class knowing, and Jerry had to play by himself.

One afternoon, he was stacking blocks in the corner by the cubbyholes, meticulously constructing a castle wall of plastic primary color, when Lou walked over. The plastic wall was tall enough that only Lou’s little head peeked over. He spoke in a loud whisper. “Can I come in, Jerry?”

“What do you want?”

“Why do you pee your pants?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“There’s a bathroom in the hall. Did you never learn how to use one?”

“I know how to use it, Stupid.”

“Then -” Lou leaned on the castle wall.

“I don’t want to interrupt Mrs. Sebastian. That’s rude.”

“You’re shy?”

“No.”

“You pee your pants because you’re shy?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll help you build this thing.” Lou picked up a green block.

“Okay. But you need to come in here. You’re standing in the moat.”

Later, Mrs. Sebastian was talking about Mr. V and his Vegetable Vest and Jerry had sucked down two Hi-C juice boxes during snack. Lou saw him fidgeting, tapping his untied sneakers on the floor like a nervous rabbit and eyeing the hall door, and Lou raised his hand.

“Mrs. Sebastian, could Jerry go to the bathroom?”

“Yes, Lou, but Jerry can ask for himself.”

“I know,” said Lou. He smiled at Jerry. Jerry smiled back and ran off towards the hallway.
Now, Jerry flushed the bar urinal and washed his hands but there was no soap or towels. He bounded up the stairs and saw Lou throwing his winter coat over those grizzly bear shoulders of his.

Jerry took the lead out the front, as Puff Daddy’s “Been Around the World” hit the speakers. He noticed that most bars played the music from their primary clientele’s glory days. These late nineties rap tunes were intended to spark reminiscing by all the college kids home on Christmas Break. Jerry pitied people who considered high school the best years of their lives.

“Hey Jerry,” said Lou as they hit the cold street, “that song reminds me: I forgot to show you this.” He rummaged for his wallet. “Do you remember listening to that song when my mom drove us to that laser tag place in Lancaster with you rapping along?”

Jerry had known every lyric to every pop/rap song back then, back when they were thirteen and Lou’s mom hauled them everywhere. Since Jerry couldn’t bring himself to dance at the junior high dances, he thought that it somehow made him cooler and look less awkward if he stood close to cute girls and rapped every verse into his fist, complete with shoulder bobs and ‘gangsta’ hand gestures, so he would memorize every new radio hit. Though he’d spent the last few years trying to erase those lyrics and that sad person, he knew he could still recite from Coolio or Eminem or Mase on command.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“And we got those laser tag ID cards.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, here’s mine.”

There was the thirteen-year-old tiny-faced Lou he remembered, with his laser tag code name, Shark, right beside it. “I can’t believe you still have this.”

“Do you remember your code name, Jer?”

Footsteps. Snatch. “Hey!” And Lou’s wallet was gone. The kid raced down Second St., just about hurdled a couple walking out of a restaurant, and darted towards Front St.

“That little shit.” Lou after him. Jerry wrapped Shark’s ID in his fist and ran. Past couples down Locust. Traffic coming on Front. Headlights. They ran anyway. Jerry stopped and the traffic passed. The kid and Lou gone. Down the hill. Towards the river.


Felisha Jones was easy enough to find. She stood at the same corner she always did, just across the street from the Broad Street Farmer's Market. A streetlight doused her in a hazy glow that only accentuated the seductive curves of her body. She took a drag of her Marlboro Light, the breeze coaxing the smoke to caress her soft chocolate skin and getting caught in her long black hair.

“Fel!” called Manny from across the street. “Mr. Blik wants you! It's an emergency!” The girl was a sizzling spitfire. A sexual ravager with a fiery disposition to back it up. But at the mention of Blik's name she was as threatening as a snail. She approached Manny and Jen with the tap-tap-tap of her high heels.

The three walked for twenty minutes or so until they reached Second Street and the four blocks of bars and clubs that made it Harrisburg's single nightly hot spot. This was the base of operations for Marty O'Brien. Blik usually avoided such public areas to run his sordid business, but the flirtatious and eternally horny red-head had a knack for getting drunken middle-aged women to loosen their belts and their wallets for a good time...almost as much as he had a knack for getting into trouble.

“What does Blik want with us down here?” asked Fel as we came upon the busiest section of the street.

“It's a secret,” said Manny, trying hard to conceal the betrayal in his voice. “A surprise, he said.”

“Oo,” Fel sang jokingly. “Maybe he's finally gonna take us out to dinner fo' all that cash we bringin' in.”

“Maybe.”

Manny, Fel, and Jen rounded the corner to a dimly lit alley that Marty had renamed his “kingdom”. To Manny's dismay, the alley was empty, but before he could decide their next move, a not-too-distant voice called, “Hey, give me back my wallet!”

Having heard such an angry cry before, Manny followed the sound to the next street where his assumptions were verified. Two young men, one considerably larger than the other, were chasing Marty across a busy Front Street toward the steep incline. One that lead to a concrete walkway along the murky waters of the Susquehanna River.

“Marty!” shouted Manny to no avail. By the time he and the other two reached Front Street, Marty and one of the guys had already jumped down the incline. “Fuck!”

The three crossed the street and ran through the narrow expanse of grass called the River Front Park which separated the city from the water. Manny shoved by the guy who had decided not to chase Marty and made his way down to the concrete path. He could hear Fel's heels digging into the ground right behind him.

When they reached the path, Marty was pinned to the ground, receiving multiple punches to the face by a muscular guy not too much older than they were. Manny rushed to the other's rescue, jumping on the man while Fel assisted with a set of swift kicks. “Let him go!” she barked.

Not twenty yards away was the Walnut Street Bridge, the walking bridge, an old metal grated wonder whose age was concealed by the white Christmas lights that lined its supports, year-round. It connected the city of Harrisburg to the square half-mile of out-dated family fun and home to Harrisburg's minor league baseball team known as City Island. At the base of the bridge, Manny could just make out the silhouettes of two men watching with careful interest from the shadows. “One of those has to be 'C.L.',” he thought.

Brushing the situation with Marty aside, he dashed for the men under the bridge. The sound of Fel calling out his name was lost on him. No sooner had he started for them did they hastily descend the stone steps and climb into a small motorboat that Manny had until that point failed to see.

“Hey! Wait! WAIT!” he called, but by the time he reached them they were already ten feet out into the water. “Wait! I got your call! I found you three, just like you asked! I'm his son! Julio Gonzales' son! Someone killed him and I found this number and...” All that running and shouting and fighting had left him short of breath, though he still managed to point frantically in the direction of Fel, Marty, and the other. “He said there was something I have to be a part of! I brought three!” By this point the men in the boat had disappeared into the night. “I brought three...” Manny clenched his fists and lowered his head. The one chance he had at something more had come as swiftly as it had gone.

“Gotcha!” One powerful yank pulled Manny off his feet where he hung face-to-face with the man who was beating on Marty. “Your friends may have gotten away, but not you, fucker.” He looked down the concrete path to see that Marty and Fel were nowhere to be found. They abandoned him, like his mother and his father before him. Emmanuel Gonzales was once again alone.