the split ends—tall and fast, hands like baseball gloves. Joey stood in front of the unfurled banner, the roaring torches, the roaring crowd. He raised his hands. Silence except for the crackle of flames.
"GIMME AN 'S!"
"S!"
"GIMME A T!"
"T!"
They roared back the letters in lusty bellows.
"WHAT'S THAT SPELL?"
"STINGUHS!"
"WHAT'S THAT SPELL?"
"STINGUHS!"
"LOUDER, YOU MOTHERFUCKAHS!"
"STING-GUHHS!"
"LOUDER, YOU CRIPPLE BASTADS!"
"STING-GUHHHS!!!"
"LAUDAHHHH!!!!"
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS!"
Joey was crying and screaming, and the crowd marched down the street chanting, torches blazing, the banner held high. Joey bellowed and roared, his neck veins swollen with blood and hate, and they caught his passion, trading him howl for howl. Even the little kids were foaming at the mouth.
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STTNG-GUHS!"
Every twenty feet they would pick up a few more people—people who didn't even know who or what the Stingers were but were swept into the radioactive net of emotion. They marched down Burke Avenue across White Plains Road. Joey stopped them in front of his building.
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS!"
Joey looked up at the windows of his apartment through red eyes. "LAU-DAHHH!" He screamed until he couldn't hear himself anymore, but no one came to the three windows on the third floor—although almost every other window had a face in it. They marched twice around the projects, and people started getting tired. Joey still screamed but they weren't screaming back as loud anymore, and people dropped off at every block. Finally, the Tassos rolled up the banner and torches were snuffed.
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS!" Joey was the only one chanting now. "C'mon, Joey, it's bedtime."
"C'MON, YOU GUYS!"
"HEY, JO-WEE!" Eugene shouted in his ear. Joey acted drunk. "C'mon, Joey, it's eleven-thirty."
Everybody went home. Joey stared down the street. He tried to shout one last time but bis throat felt like a razor strop. He staggered to his apartment. Just let musclehead say one word. His father was probably shitting pickles. He didn't come to the window because he was scared, scared bad. Cripples, yeah, they sounded like cripples all right. There's gonna be some changes around here. Joey found his mother's note on the kitchen table.
Joey
We went to the movies. Be back late.
Love you
Mom
"That movie was sick," Emilio declared. Sitting in the dinette, he lit a cigarette and studied his wife's ass while she made coffee in the kitchen. Twelve-thirty. "It was filth." His wife didn't answer. She never knew how to answer her husband. Eighteen years of walking on eggshells. "It was pornography." He picked a crumb from his mustache. She brought in the coffee and a box of Danish. "Cream."
She got the cream and sat down, taking a cigarette from his pack. He trapped her hand. "Where's yours?"
"I forgot to buy some."
"You forgot to buy some? You just had a full pack this morning."
"They're gone."
"Gone? Whadya mean gone? They vanished? They marched out of the pack into the elevator and took a train somewhere?"
A headache the size of a dime settled behind her eyes. "I smoked them."
"Ah. Ah. You smoked them," he said with mock enlightenment.
"Could I please have a cigarette?" Her hand was still caught under his—the pack under everything.
"You smoke like a chimney." She said nothing, the headache branching out. "You're like a junkie, you know? Like a drug attic'. You're a tobacco attic'." Her free hand fluttered up to her forehead. "See? You need a fix!" He took his hand away. "G'head, junkie, have your fix." As she lit the cigarette he poured coffee. She was surprised that he poured her a cup too.
Joey's mother was a beautiful woman. She had the tight, smooth skin of a twenty-year-old girl and clear, large brown eyes. The constant fear and tension of her domestic life kept her slim. Her manner was gracious and graceful. She never raised her voice. The only time she had defied her
"GIMME AN 'S!"
"S!"
"GIMME A T!"
"T!"
They roared back the letters in lusty bellows.
"WHAT'S THAT SPELL?"
"STINGUHS!"
"WHAT'S THAT SPELL?"
"STINGUHS!"
"LOUDER, YOU MOTHERFUCKAHS!"
"STING-GUHHS!"
"LOUDER, YOU CRIPPLE BASTADS!"
"STING-GUHHHS!!!"
"LAUDAHHHH!!!!"
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS!"
Joey was crying and screaming, and the crowd marched down the street chanting, torches blazing, the banner held high. Joey bellowed and roared, his neck veins swollen with blood and hate, and they caught his passion, trading him howl for howl. Even the little kids were foaming at the mouth.
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STTNG-GUHS!"
Every twenty feet they would pick up a few more people—people who didn't even know who or what the Stingers were but were swept into the radioactive net of emotion. They marched down Burke Avenue across White Plains Road. Joey stopped them in front of his building.
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS!"
Joey looked up at the windows of his apartment through red eyes. "LAU-DAHHH!" He screamed until he couldn't hear himself anymore, but no one came to the three windows on the third floor—although almost every other window had a face in it. They marched twice around the projects, and people started getting tired. Joey still screamed but they weren't screaming back as loud anymore, and people dropped off at every block. Finally, the Tassos rolled up the banner and torches were snuffed.
"STING-GUHS! STING-GUHS!" Joey was the only one chanting now. "C'mon, Joey, it's bedtime."
"C'MON, YOU GUYS!"
"HEY, JO-WEE!" Eugene shouted in his ear. Joey acted drunk. "C'mon, Joey, it's eleven-thirty."
Everybody went home. Joey stared down the street. He tried to shout one last time but bis throat felt like a razor strop. He staggered to his apartment. Just let musclehead say one word. His father was probably shitting pickles. He didn't come to the window because he was scared, scared bad. Cripples, yeah, they sounded like cripples all right. There's gonna be some changes around here. Joey found his mother's note on the kitchen table.
Joey
We went to the movies. Be back late.
Love you
Mom
"That movie was sick," Emilio declared. Sitting in the dinette, he lit a cigarette and studied his wife's ass while she made coffee in the kitchen. Twelve-thirty. "It was filth." His wife didn't answer. She never knew how to answer her husband. Eighteen years of walking on eggshells. "It was pornography." He picked a crumb from his mustache. She brought in the coffee and a box of Danish. "Cream."
She got the cream and sat down, taking a cigarette from his pack. He trapped her hand. "Where's yours?"
"I forgot to buy some."
"You forgot to buy some? You just had a full pack this morning."
"They're gone."
"Gone? Whadya mean gone? They vanished? They marched out of the pack into the elevator and took a train somewhere?"
A headache the size of a dime settled behind her eyes. "I smoked them."
"Ah. Ah. You smoked them," he said with mock enlightenment.
"Could I please have a cigarette?" Her hand was still caught under his—the pack under everything.
"You smoke like a chimney." She said nothing, the headache branching out. "You're like a junkie, you know? Like a drug attic'. You're a tobacco attic'." Her free hand fluttered up to her forehead. "See? You need a fix!" He took his hand away. "G'head, junkie, have your fix." As she lit the cigarette he poured coffee. She was surprised that he poured her a cup too.
Joey's mother was a beautiful woman. She had the tight, smooth skin of a twenty-year-old girl and clear, large brown eyes. The constant fear and tension of her domestic life kept her slim. Her manner was gracious and graceful. She never raised her voice. The only time she had defied her
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