Dixon Speaker
Someone’s Dad Saved Him
The grass crunched beneath my feet as I climbed the hill behind the cardboard box factory that fired my uncle for drinking on the job. It’s the hill where fights happened.
The boys were already there. It was Roger The Calculator, Spunk Peterson, Murder Phillips, Kevin The Leprechaun, Dan The Plumber, Randall Collins Washington The Third, Greg The Undertaker’s Son, TC, Bagel Boy, Wisconsin Steve, Billy who only drinks coffee, Young Lewis, and Kiyoshi from Japan. Besides TC they were all ugly. I stood there thumbing my belt loops waiting for them to make a move.
They looked towards Young Lewis. Young Lewis stood up and took off his shirt and I did the same. We slapped our chests like wild gorillas and the sounds reached two crows on a set of power-lines laughing to each other over our dumb idiot species. Greg The Undertaker’s son looked at them longingly. Murder Phillips spit through his teeth. Bagel Boy, TC, and Spunk Peterson all handed money to Roger The Calculator in some secret wager. Kevin the Leprechaun scanned the horizon for police.
I knew I had to get Young Lewis on the ground. Young Lewis learned boxing from his dad who learned from a Puerto Rican drill sergeant he met in The Marines. He was going to try to knock me out. He put his hands up and peered at me over his knuckles which were cracked and dried out in the cold December air.
Me and Young Lewis were fighting because we both wanted to ask Cindy The Centipede to the winter dance. They call her that because she was born all bent out of shape and walked using an apparatus until the second grade, but she doesn’t use the apparatus anymore. Now she walks nice. I liked watching her eat lunch. Same thing every day. Celery sticks, ham and cheese sandwich, bag of Herr’s chips. She even puts a few chips in her sandwich for extra crunch. She never makes a mess. Never getting chip shards all over the table like us, greasy fingers that leave stains on your math homework like us. I liked the way she stayed clean, like during all those years in her apparatus she was able to master fine motor skills at the expense of not being able to walk, like how the blind can tell keys apart by feel.
Or maybe it was just her feminine nature, which is why we fight for them shirtless on frozen hills and not the other way around. Nonetheless, I liked her, I wanted her, and sometimes these things just can’t be explained
Young Lewis wouldn’t tell me what he liked about her, or that he even liked her at all, only that he had already called asking her to the dance and that Dan The Plumber heard him say it, which meant nothing to me because Dan The Plumber is a liar. My dad said his dad, who is also Dan The Plumber, is a liar too, which is why we stopped using him and now use our neighbor’s son Tommy who fixes our garage door but knows about plumbing too. I got in Young Lewis’s face when he told me and I just said we’ll settle it on the hill and he said you don’t mean that Carl, not for The Centipede, and I walked away squeezing my nails into my fists and breathing hard out of my nose while Dan The Plumber cleared his throat in the background like he always does.
The funny thing about it and what shows you how dumb we are is that we don’t know if Cindy The Centipede wants to go to the dance with either of us. She probably wants to go with TC like the rest of the girls. They want to go with TC so bad they ask him out! Salty Sandy, Hubcap Betty, Erika Who Eats Wax, and Judy Belkins Ross all asked him to the dance during the same lunch period. TC, as nice as he is, didn’t want to hurt their feelings, so he told them all he couldn’t go due to a surprise family vacation and plans to stay home and play Euchre with his grandmother from Ukraine.
Young Lewis shuffled towards me suddenly. He moved much faster than I expected. I looked at his belly for a chance to shoot his waist. I planned to form-tackle him but I slipped on the ice and almost lost my balance. Young Lewis was totally hairless on his chest besides one gross vine crawling out of his bellybutton. I crouched low, ready to shoot, and my foot slipped again. Oh fuck it! I swung my arms back but before I could shift my weight forward again Young Lewis flipped his shoulders square, so fast, so effortless, and his right fist shot out of hiding like a viper.
I ducked just in time or I was looking at a trip to the dentist and possibly drinking my holiday dinners through a straw. It was a direct hit to the top of my skull. It felt like he shattered a brick over my head. My vision closed up and the next thing I know I’m leaning back into Billy who only drinks coffee. Young Lewis was on the ground wailing. You broke my hand, Carl! Carl, you broke my fuckin’ hand! Billy who only drinks coffee whispered in my ear. You’re a pussy Carl. His breath smelled like burnt coffee. Light Roast. Get your coffee breath out of my face Billy, I said, are your parents too poor to buy you a toothbrush?
He shoved me hard in the back and sent me spinning into Kiyoshi from Japan who caught me gently, his quiet and steady breathing unaltered by my impact. He placed both palms flat on my shoulder blades. The world slowed down around me. Kiyoshi took his hands off me ever so slightly as my lungs filled with cold air. I was still reeling from Young Lewis’s pot-shot. How are you liking America so far, Kiyoshi? I asked him. Oh, I like it very much, Carl. Your English has really improved, you know that Kiyoshi? Thank you, Carl.
Kiyoshi lifted me upright. My vision was starting to return. It was snowing now and things were breaking up. Wisconsin Steve walked up the hill towards where his bike was locked to the jungle gym. Bagel Boy, TC, and Spunk Peterson were all standing around Roger The Calculator watching him count money. Greg the Undertaker’s Son wandered off towards the crows and was trying to scale the telephone pole with his belt. Murder Phillips was filing his nails with a pumice stone. Kevin the Leprechaun and Billy who only drinks coffee were now in a fight of their own over god knows what. They had each other in headlocks and rolled down the hill hurling insults until they got stuck under a pricker bush. Randall Collins Washington the Third was comforting Young Lewis who was now in the fetal position silently clutching his mangled hand.
It started snowing harder. I could barely make out Greg The Undertaker's son in the distance struggling to negotiate the transformer at the top of the telephone pole.
Kiyoshi still held me, hands steady as ever. Do they have snow in Japan, Kiyoshi? Yes, Carl. We hosted the Winter Olympics in 1998. No shit Kiyoshi, how about that, you learn something new every day. We both looked at Randall Collins Washington the Third and Young Lewis. Kiyoshi and I squinted in the heavy snow. Is he still breathing, Kiyoshi? I don’t know, Carl, he said, which was an honest answer. Alright Kiyoshi, I better go see what the deal is.
Kiyoshi gave me a push and sent me marching sideways towards the boys in the snow. I glanced back just in time to see Kiyoshi leave the earth and fly away, off the hill, over Kevin the Leprechaun and Billy who only drinks coffee pinching each other in the pricker bush, over Greg The Undertaker’s Son frozen to the telephone pole, over the cardboard box factory where my uncle got fired for drinking on the job, and off towards the condominium village where all the immigrant families live and where I hoped to get a job lifeguarding at the pool this summer.
I tried using my arms to shield my face from the snow. It was useless. I looked around, which was a mistake, because the now blinding white blizzard behind me was the same as in front of me as well. I tried to stop walking but standing still felt no different either. I thought about Cindy The Centipede and why I got myself into such a mess over a girl I didn’t have the guts to talk to. Then I thought of her face, her smile, and it started to make more sense. I could see her bright white teeth shining through the storm.
Just then my knee hit a weird snowbank. Hmphrunjkuh, it said. Is that you Young Lewis? No, it’s me, Randall Collins, is that TC? No, it’s Carl, this fight’s not over, I came to finish the job. You bastard, he said. I’m just kidding Randall, I came over to check on Young Lewis. I reached out and grabbed Randall Collins Washington’s hands. He was shaking all over in just a T-Shirt. Jesus, Randall, you’re freezing, where’s your coat? I gave it to Young Lewis, he said. You better go warm up, I told him. I’ll look after Young Lewis from here. Thanks Carl, which way should I go? Just feel the ground with your hands and crawl uphill, you’ll hit the street eventually. If you hit a pricker bush that means you went the wrong way, but don’t worry, Billy and Kevin the Leprechaun are in there so just crawl in with them and ride out this storm, it’s bound to be over soon. Thanks Carl, he said, and Randall Collins Washington the Third crawled off slowly into the storm towards his fate.
I got down on the ground and snuggled in behind Young Lewis who was wrapped in Randall Collins Washington’s dad’s Peacoat. His dad left it stored at the dry cleaners after moving to Dallas with his secretary. Randall Collins came to school late the day his dad emptied the bank accounts and moved out, finding his mother crumpled in the laundry room clinging to a pile of clean towels. The guidance counselor walked Randall to his seat, whispered something into his ear, and left. I asked him if everything was okay and without looking up he said to me, I am the last one, Carl, I am the last Randall Collins Washington.
No one understood why he kept the peacoat and wore it regularly every winter since. It must be the quality, because Young Lewis felt warm and comfortable in my embrace. He was still whimpering slightly, clutching his twisted right hand.
When I regained my senses after getting cracked on the head I decided I was going to kill Young Lewis. I moved my arms up his chest. He flinched. Watch out for my hand, Carl, he said. I carefully negotiated his shattered fingers and wrist. I was going to crunch his Adam’s Apple. I gripped my right hand with my left and positioned the bottom knuckle of my thumb just below his throat. When Young Lewis spoke again his voice was hoarse. What’s your favorite sport, Carl? I had to think about it for a second. Baseball, probably. You're a much better football player, he said. Maybe, but I like playing for my dad. Oh yeah, Young Lewis said, your dad is the best coach. Something about the way his throat was moving told me was smiling.
Everyone loved playing for my dad because he knows a lot about the game but still approached it with a light and casual attitude. He would lean back on his heels and grin while the other dads blew their tops over missed calls or arguing balls and strikes. After one or two games with a new team he could provide in just a few words some minor adjustment that would improve a player’s hitting far more than an off-season’s worth of expensive lessons. And at the end of season party after a few margaritas he would jump in the pool and indulge the boys in an hour of rough-housing, something that always left us cackling like hyenas.
I slowly lowered my hands, weakened with a wave of affection that blooms on some days during the normal life of an idiot son when you stumble once again upon the truth that you are lucky because you have a good dad.
Hey Young Lewis, do you have any more room in that peacoat? I’m freezing my ass off out here. Sure Carl, he said, just be careful of my hand, please.
I climbed over Young Lewis, careful not to touch his mutilated hand. I slithered into his chest. He used his one good hand to wrap me up in the wings of the peacoat and button me inside. Wow, this is great, I said. I know, he said, I think Randall Collins’s dad running off with that woman might have saved my life. I didn’t respond to that but thought to myself that someone’s dad saved him, and we both settled into a calm and synchronous breathing cycle, daydreaming about what we both wanted to be some day, coaching our sons, letting them play drums on our bare stomachs on a couch in a beach house in June, teaching them to spin throw-pillows like basketballs, wiring them money at college.
The snow was still coming down hard but bound to stop soon. We were warm inside the peacoat and were smiling with one another, thinking about the sky we knew was still blue, what was for lunch on Monday, and naturally of Cindy the Centipede crunch crunch crunching on her sandwich with her clean white teeth.
Dixon Speaker is a writer living in Philadelphia. His work can be found in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine and BULL. He is teaching himself guitar and he recently learned how to hook a bowling ball. He lives with his wife and their tuxedo cat, Minnie, who is the most sensitive of the three. Twitter/X: @DixonSpeaker Bluesky: @dixonspeaker.bsky.social
