Page 29 of Playworld
Oren, donning his, considered himself in the wall mirror approvingly.
“I did some spots for Billy Martin’s Western Wear,” Dad said. “The reps gave them as a gift.”
“So you didn’t reallygetus these,” Oren said.
“What difference does it make?” Dad said.
“That,” Oren said like Yoda, “is why you fail.”
Because of the hat, it was easy to spot Oren among the spectators before my match the next day. He gave me the thumbs-up just before I stepped on the mat. About a minute later, when I was on my back, I also noticed upside-down Mr. Fistly, seated in the second row, legs crossed, watching. It was a strangely intimate moment, like we were having a conversation with another person lying on top of me. He shook his head, disappointed and unsurprised, right before the referee slapped the mat.
“Buy you some ice cream,” Oren said when he met me in the front hall.
We stopped at Baskin-Robbins and then entered Lincoln Towers at Seventieth Street, cutting through the block-long parking lot that ran between the rear of several apartment buildings and the storefronts on Amsterdam. I’d finished my double scoop—Oren was still working on his cone—when I spotted a figure on my right, racing crouched and sneaking toward us alongside several cars, and before I knew it, one kid had grabbed Oren while the other sprinted between a pair of cars and tackled me. He sat me on the cold concrete, his arm laced over my throat.
“Give us your fucking money,” he said. The one next to Oren patted him down and then took the wad from his pocket. “Take whatever you want,” I said, because I was practiced at this, “and then leave us alone.”
Oren was crying. The second guy frisked me and, finding my walletempty, tossed it to the ground and then smacked my mouth before they trotted off. I propped myself on my elbow and spit blood. Oren knelt beside me.
“Security!” he screamed. “Security!”
After I got up, I tried to calm him down, but he was inconsolable. “Just let them go,” I said, and put my arm over his shoulders. We proceeded like that to the security guard’s booth on our block. I was giving the guard the lowdown when we saw Mom, Dad, and Al Moretti walking toward us from our building.
“What happened?” Mom asked, with real concern.
“We got mugged,” I said.
“Muthafuckers,” Al said. “Were they Black? How old were they? Did you give the policeman a description?”
“They got all my money,” Oren said. He was still crying. “And one of them punched Griffin.”
“They should’ve taken that hat and done you a favor,” Al muttered.
“It’s a Stetson,” Dad said.
“Stetson, schmetson,” Al said. “What’s he trying out for, the Village People?”
Mom hugged Oren while he wept. Dad, taking my head in his hands, turned my face side to side and then folded back my lip, tilting his chin up like a doctor. The performance was for Al, who was laughing, and infuriated me. “You’ll live,” he said.
The security guard pressed his walkie-talkie to his chest and said to Mom, “I’m filing a report.”
“Under control, then,” Dad said. To Mom he tapped his watch face and said, “We have a reservation.” Then he started up the street with Al.
“There’s pizza upstairs,” Mom said to us, walking backward, slowly, to indicate she was sorry, her hands in her long coat’s pockets. “Dad made a Caesar salad.”
The pizza was cold, the romaine soggy, and Oren, still blubbering, wrapped four pieces in tinfoil and then heated them in the oven. He served us and sat down and covered his eyes and started crying again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” he said, and was so distraught he excused himself and went to our room. There were times, as now, when Oren acted as if he’d failed me in some far more essential manner than thecircumstance, when half the time I felt like I’d failed him, and this mystery made the gulf between us seem even more unbridgeable than the fact that we no longer spent our days at school together.
At the next afternoon’s practice, I was sparring with Tanner, on bottom, so I hopped into the Flying Granby position and rolled over my shoulders, but he caught my trail leg and stuck me on my back. I was in such a tightly inverted pin that I gagged.
Kepplemen blew his whistle and everyone froze.
“Hurt!” he screamed. “Don’t you ever let me see you do that move again! Do you understand?”
When, I wondered, would I stop tearing up whenever an adult yelled at me?
“Because I will throw you out of this fucking gym if I catch you trying that bullshit. Are we clear?”
In response, I shot Kepplemen my death ray. It was his Kryptonite, making him think we didn’t like him, although I sometimes suspected he knew that I mostly didn’t. Instead of waiting for my concession, which he could tell wasn’t coming, Kepplemen blew his whistle again, and practice resumed.