Bucking the Sarge Read online

  He said, “You in the dayroom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Quick, turn them cartoons off and switch over to channel five, that commercial is ‘bout to come on!”

  “Hold on.”

  I picked up the remote and changed to channel 5. The credits for one of the stories were just rolling by.

  Mr. Baker said, “Hey!”

  I told him, “Just a minute, Mr. Baker, Sparky’s been telling me about this commercial for weeks and after I see it we’ll go back.”

  Mr. Baker said, “Well, it better be a quick one.”

  I told Sparky, “I got it.”

  “OK, check him out and see if I was lying,” Sparky said. “This brother is going to be my one-way ticket out of Flint.”

  The commercial started with a shot of this old woman walking in front of a camera shop on a windy, wintry day. She hit a patch of ice, and before you could blink, she was five feet up in the air. She landed, making a cracking noise, and began moaning. Her left leg was twisted up so bad it looked like part of it had broke off. Next you could see some guy in a big old ‘fro peek out from the curtains of the camera store right before his hand stuck a Out of Business sign on the window.

  The next shot was of Sparky’s “dog,” a brother sitting on the edge of a desk with a shelf full of thick, serious-looking books behind him. I’d seen the suit he was wearing at Sleet-Sterling, it was a Versace with a three-and-a-half-G price tag.

  He said, “Tired of them doing something negligent, then laughing in your face when all you ask is to be treated fairly?”

  The next scene was of a man working in a factory screwing bolts into something with his face all twisted up like he was constipated. He took his gloves off and began rubbing his wrist. Then a white man in a shirt and tie was standing over his shoulder foaming at the mouth and yelling for the brother to get back at the bolts.

  The camera came in close as a tiny tear dripped out of the worker’s eye while the boss kept yelling, “You’re slowing things down—move! Move! Moooove!”

  Sparky’s dog, looking as sad and serious as ever, was back on. The camera moved a little closer to him as he jabbed a finger at us and said, “Tired of them ignoring your pain and putting unbearable, unfair stress on you?”

  The next shot showed a woman sitting in a restaurant talking to a man while she ate a bowl of soup. The man dropped his fork, bugged his eyes out of his head and pointed at the woman’s spoon. There, kicking away like it was doing the backstroke, was the front end of a roach that must’ve been the size of a paperback novel. It was hard to tell, though, because where the back half of the roach was supposed to have been you couldn’t see nothing but the woman’s teeth marks.

  The camera moved in closer and closer on the roach while the woman looked like … well, like anyone would look if they just found out they were chewing on a giant cockroach’s booty.

  Sparky’s dog was back on. He said, “Tired of them not giving you the respect you deserve? Tired of those jackasses having the last laugh when it comes down to justice being served? Well, so am I.”

  He got up off the desk and crossed his arms and stood like he was Superman. He picked up a long black strap and dangled it from his right hand.

  “My name’s attorney Dontay Orlando Gaddy and my initials spell ‘D.O.G.’ and you call me and tell me what happened and I promise you I will be on them like an American Staffordshire terrier, which is just a fancy name for a pit bull. And remember, big or small…”

  The camera jumped closer to Dontay Orlando Gaddy.

  He said, “… I will…”

  A drum banged as the camera jerked in closer.

  “… sue …”

  The drum banged again. Whoever was filming this must’ve just learned how to use the zoom lens—they were wearing it out.

  “… ‘em …”

  Another boom and Dontay’s face took up the whole screen:

  “… all!”

  The camera pulled back as Dontay Orlando Gaddy slapped the strap he was holding against his desk. It sounded like a roll of thunder.

  The next shot was of the camera shop dude in the big old ‘fro, the boss in the shirt and tie and some brother in a white jacket and a cook’s hat standing together wearing handcuffs. All their pockets had been turned inside out like they’d been jacked and they were scowling with their lips stuck out. Then the commercial showed the old lady with bad balance, the worker with weak wrists and the roach-eating woman standing together counting big rolls of cash while the American flag waved in the wind and a band played “God Bless America.”

  An announcer said, “Attorney Dontay Orlando Gaddy is on our side, and remember, big or small, he will sue ‘em all! Call 1-800-SUE-EM-ALL for a no-charge consultation! Get everything you deserve!”

  The announcer repeated the number four more times.

  Sparky was screaming into the phone, “What’d I tell you? Is he bad or what?”

  I said, “Yeah, your boy is something else.”

  “I told you! I’ma get him on my side, I’ma find me someone to sue!”

  “Good luck.”

  “All right then, I’ll catch you later.”

  “Cool. Peace.”

  I hung up.

  I could tell that Mr. Baker was starting to fiend for a cigarette. His eyes were glued to the television and his hands were bouncing to the same beat as the drum in Dontay Orlando Gaddy’s commercial.

  He said, “Sue ‘em all! Sue ‘em all! Sue ‘em all!”

  Just like that the room was filled with four men all waving their arms and chanting the Dontay Gaddy theme, “Sue ‘em all! Sue ‘em all! Sue ‘em all!” Even Mr. Foster was joining in, trying to get everyone worked up.

  I picked up the phone to call Sparky so he could listen to what he’d started but I heard a car pull up into the driveway.

  I looked out the window and saw the Sarge and Darnell Dixon getting out of his white-on-white-in-white with white leather, fully loaded, three-month-old Buick Riviera with the personalized license plates that said HI BABY.

  Uh-oh! This was all I needed, for the Sarge to walk in here and find the Crew chanting about taking someone to court. As much trouble as she used to have with lawsuits, she’d kill me for putting ideas in her clients’ heads.

  I hung up, grabbed the remote and punched the cartoon channel back on. Scooby-Doo!’s theme music was playing and I jumped in front of the television and yelled, “Scoo-Bee-Doo! Scoo-Bee-Doo! Scoo-Bee-Doo!”

  By the time the Sarge and Darnell Dixon came into the dayroom to see what the ruckus was about I was back in my chair and the Crew was locked in chanting, “Scoo-Bee-Doo! Scoo-Bee-Doo! Scoo-Bee-Doo!”

  The Sarge saw the four of them, then looked at me and said, “After you unload the supplies come into my office, looks like it’s time we reviewed everyone’s medication again.”

  I kept a straight face and said, “OK,” but inside I was dying laughing.

  This is another one of those types of things that I look at philosophically, especially everything dealing with the Sarge. It reminds me of what a great philosopher, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said: “Laugh and the world laughs with you,” but the philosopher forgot to put in, “as long as the Sarge doesn’t find out.”

  That’s one of the reasons that when I go off to university I’ma dedicate my life to studying philosophy—it can answer just about any question that you might have. Plus, if you don’t have a stable, lucid, nonmoneygrubbing adult in your life who can give you decent advice, philosophy can be a pretty good substitute.

  It took me a while when I was young to know how important philosophy is. I stayed away from it because so many philosophers have those long, foreign, impossible-to-pronounce names. That can be kind of embarrassing if you’re having a conversation and you want to throw in a philosopher’s name to try to sound a little more intelligent than you are.

  I can never forget the pain and heartache that scarred the emotions of a certain young, naive phil
osophy lover, whose name we won’t call, when his burned-out old teacher’d said, “I’ve never heard of a thirteen-year-old being so interested in philosophy, why do you like it so much?”

  The student had stroked his chin like he had a bad little goatee going and said, “Now, I can’t be exactly sure if it was Sew-crates or Ar-is-totally who said, ‘The unexamined life is not worth living.’”

  The teacher looked confused. “Who said that?”

  The poor student repeated the names.

  The teacher gave a hating smile and only halfway tried not to die laughing. “I believe they’re pronounced ‘Sah-cruh-tees’ and ‘Air-is-tott-ul.’ ”

  After something like that all your credibility is shot. Stand in line and get your capital “I” ‘cause that’s what you look like, a giant idiot.

  I learned to say, “This reminds me of what that great philosopher, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said….” It keeps your conversation flowing along real nice.

  That’s why you’ll never find Luther T. Farrell looking down on somebody just because they have a little trouble with the pronunciation of a messed-up name. Another reason why it’s easy to see that Luther T. Farrell has found a home in science and a haven in philosophy.

  The next day the Sarge said, in a voice deeper than mine, “I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I? Your teachers have always said what a bright boy you are, and you do have that unusual knack for philosophy, so why should I have to draw pictures for you in regards to something as simple as this?”

  I let her sarcastic remark about philosophy slide right by me and looked over at the dried-up little surprise that was waiting in the bed across the room from mine.

  I asked her, “How come he’s gotta stay in my room? Why can’t we move him in with Mr. Baker?”

  She was in a pretty good mood—she decided to give me an answer. It was weak, but it was an answer.

  She patted the man’s medication chart, which to her is kind of like putting your hand on the Bible, and said, “This is a special case, we need to take extra care to make sure everything’s properly documented and thoroughly charted with him.”

  Which translated into English that nothing could look fishy if this old dude died.

  I looked back at her. She was staring. “Need I say more?”

  She gave me that look that was supposed to let me peer into the depths of her soul. I don’t know what I was supposed to see when I looked there, but whatever it was it sure didn’t seem deep and it didn’t have anything to do with soul.

  I said, “No.”

  Her left eyebrow arched in a way that I’d practiced for years but couldn’t quite do. She said, “No?”

  I said, “I mean ‘No, you don’t have to say anything more.’”

  “Good.” And she was gone. I hope she headed back over to her place.

  I bent over to get a good look at this little old man.

  His eyes were closed and his eyeballs were moving side to side under lids that couldn’t’ve been more than two or three molecules thick. Even though the rest of him was perfectly still, those roving eyeballs made it seem like he was looking hard for someone. Or like he was being chased by something and couldn’t tell from which direction it was about to snatch him.

  I picked up the medication chart that hung from a nail in the footboard of his bed. “Chester X Stockard” was written across the top. His name was followed by five “A”s.

  Snap! I’d never seen anyone with more than three before. The “A”s were a part of the Sarge’s chart code to show what kind of cash, benefits and insurance each of her clients had. This old man must be loaded.

  Then I got why the Sarge was so interested in him. Right under his name, in the next-of-kin box, was a big fat zero.

  The Sarge had said this guy was somewhere on the wrong side of eighty. I checked him out closer and this definitely wasn’t what I thought eighty years of banging around on Earth would leave someone looking like.

  His skin was stretched so smooth and tight across his face that it seemed like someone had tied weights to his ears. He didn’t have a bit of fat showing on his half-bald head, which wasn’t even putting a dent in the pillow, and judging by the little bumps and knobs that were sticking up under the covers, there wasn’t too much meat on this old bird anywhere.

  The only things that might make you think that he had some serious miles on his odometer were the thick little white hairs sticking out of his chin and upper lip. They looked kind of cool against his brown skin, but they didn’t fit. It was easy to see if he was up-and-at-‘em he wouldn’t put up with having this stubble growing on him. He seemed like the kind of person who cared about how he looked. Sort of like me.

  Two weeks ago the Sarge had told me she was working on getting a “special client” who needed “special care” and would be staying in my room. I wasn’t too happy about getting a roommate but I’d already had a chance to get over being mad about it. I went to the bathroom and got a load of things so I could start making this old-timer a little more presentable.

  I tucked a towel under his chin and gave his beard a good soapy wash. His eyes never stopped moving under the veiny lids. I shot some shaving cream into my hand and started massaging it into his face. The tiny white bristles tickled my palm.

  Someday I’ll be doing this on my own face. Now I’ve got exactly six sorry hairs growing under my chin, which might sound like a lot, but they’re as soft and skinny as cat fur. Darnell Dixon had told me if you shave them off they come back twice as thick and twice as quick, but so far all the shaving had got me was a crop of nasty bumps and little pimples with six cat hairs growing out from the middle of them.

  I imagined what it would be like to trade places with this Chester X Stockard dude if only so I could have the thick stubbly beard he had covering his cheeks, but then I checked myself.

  I remembered what that old philosopher, whose name escapes me at the moment, once said: “Be careful about what you wish for because you just might get it.”

  Most times I’d wish I was someone or something or somewhere else. I’d be sitting in history class looking out the window and, stupid as it sounds, I’d start getting jealous of a blue jay hopping in the grass out behind the school.

  I’d think, “Bird, you don’t know how good you’ve got it, no teachers to deal with, no girls worrying you to death, or, let’s be real, no lack of girls worrying you to death, and best of all, no Sarge.”

  But as usual, I came back to my senses, especially when I started thinking about how long a blue jay could live. Between cats and winter and their nasty, stressed-out attitude, it doesn’t seem like a blue jay’s gonna last more than five or six years, and at eighty years old how much more time could this Chester X Stockard have left on Earth? When you add in the fact that it looked like the Sarge had started the countdown to his final days, trading places didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. Even if he did have five “A”s after his name. Even if he did have a billion thick little hairs popping out all over his chin and cheeks.

  I checked my feelings of envy and dipped the razor in the basin of water.

  I started at his Adam’s apple and began slowly scraping the razor toward his chin. I’d shaved a million of the Sarge’s clients before and most of them were so old or slack-faced from their meds that the skin around their necks was like a soft, wadded-up blanket that had been sewn to the bottoms of their jawbones, but this Chester X Stockard’s neck was just as firm and tight as mine. Shaving him was gonna be easy.

  I thought for a second if I should let him start growing a mustache, then decided the hair on his lip had to go too. I held back and checked out my good work.

  The Sarge would’ve been proud. One of her biggest nonos is that one of her clients would show some sign that something physical had happened to him. With the troubles we’d had before, she was big on making sure that they didn’t have any bruises, scrapes or cuts that might get infected and could be seen as a sign of neglect or abuse.
When the times came that we had no choice but to get physical with one of the clients we had to be good and sure that it wasn’t on the face or the arms.

  That’s why she taught me the Happy Neighbor Group Home finger curl. What you do is put your fingers on top of the client’s and roll your fingers into their palm. The pain it gives is so tough that you can have someone jumping around like SpongeBob SquarePants on speed, and it doesn’t leave any kind of mark.

  From studying about philosophy I’d learned about something called karma, where whatever you do in this life, good or bad, comes back on you twice as much in your next life. In the Happy Neighbor Group Home for Men the Sarge has got her own version of karma: if you put a visible mark on one of her clients she puts the same mark on you times five, and there isn’t any waiting around till your next life to get the payback, either, you get yours right away.

  I put the razor on Chester X Stockard’s lip to swipe away the last bit of lather, and wouldn’t you know it, his mouth twitched and he made a little kissing sound.

  A drop of blood began leaking from his lip. I set the razor down and took the washcloth and rinsed and wiped his face. Then I picked up the roll of toilet paper I’d brought in, tore a small corner off of one of the sheets and stuck it on the nick. Except for the tiny, bloody speck of toilet paper on his face, this was a big improvement.

  I said, “Well, Pops, if you’ve gotta hang out here till the grim reaper comes knocking, at least you won’t be looking bummish when he grabs you.”

  His eyes snapped open.

  I tried to be cool but I’d seen too many scary flicks that started just like this. My neck hairs jumped up and I took a step back.

  He finally said, “Oh. Oh, it’s you. I didn’t know I was back.”

  I was glad his meds had kept him still for ninety-nine percent of the shave. I pulled myself together and patted the hand he’d started waving around. It was shaky and veiny and twisted-up and knobby, looking like a brown baby bird moving its head from side to side.

  “That’s right,” I said, “you’re back, now just chill and try to go back to sleep.”