heroic and pissed off and got your ass beat?”
“There were five guys there.”
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” He took my knee in his meaty hand and shook my leg. “Why didn’t you call me? Who the fuck is it, some fucking Del Mar punks? We’ll just catch your guy somewhere, Sam. They’ll never find him. Fuck. You know where he lives? I’m serious here.”
“Naw, he lives in this town. It’s a guy I knew in school. Owen Ferguson—”
“ That guy? Oh, man.”
I felt a change in the air; a change in Tommy. I looked over. “You know him?”
“Shit, man. What’s that song? You don’t pull Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind? You don’t fuck around with Owen Ferguson.”
“Yeah, well, I already did.” I told Tommy how I’d spilled Owen’s beer down his shirtfront and socked him, and how it had ended. Tommy shook his head over and over as I spoke, muttering fuck s and shit s.
“Listen,” Tommy said. “Those dudes are serious. Owen Ferguson’s got him a reputation. He thinks he’s fuckin’ Tony Soprano. I mean, what do you think you’re gonna do?”
I looked at his forced expression of sincerity and concern and my horizons shifted again. I had been imagining Tommy as my ace in the hole, a sort of lowlife superhero I could summon in my hour of need, but I saw how foolish I had been. It should have dawned on me when he didn’t even ask why I wanted a gun, for Christ’s sake. He was too much what he was to help someone—even me—if he couldn’t make out some shitty little profit margin for himself. I knew he would make promises and I would be waiting for him to show up and help me and I’d be waiting forever. And the next time I saw him—if I was still alive to see him again—he would make jokes and act as if none of this had ever happened. And if I pressed it, if I confronted him, flat-out called him a liar, he would become indignant and find a reason to storm off.
“Forget it, Tommy,” I said.
“Look, I mean, you can’t just wave a fucking gun at Owen Ferguson and think you made your point, you know? You gotta be as bad as him, and that’s pretty fuckin’ bad.”
“What about you?” My voice was rising. “You’re ‘pretty fuckin’ bad,’ aren’t you? You’re always saying it.”
“It ain’t just me, Sam! You’re talking about starting a war. I could fuck your friend Owen up, okay? I could slap that kid around and make him fuckin’ like it. But what? Do you think it’s gonna end there? You tell me.”
I could see his point. We stared at each other for a moment. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth.
“And it’s all or nothing,” he said. “Say I back you up, and say you give him a beating and then we get out of there. You think you’re gonna be safe the next day? The next week? Ever fuckin’ again? You might as well just walk up to him and shoot him in the face if you’re gonna do anything at all.”
A few seconds lapsed while I frowned and nodded. “Well, what would you do if you were me?” I said.
He started to say something, then stopped, thought it through and started again. “I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know. I guess if I was you I’d have to decide if I was willing to do some time over this shit. You got things pretty good. You’re going to college.”
“Fucking junior college,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, then you transfer, right?”
“Yeah, sure.” I wanted to end the discussion. “Listen,” I said, “I’ll figure out what I’m gonna do and just call you if I need anything else.”
Tommy said, “Okay,” and I could see those mad wheels spinning in his head. I knew he would keep his cell phone turned off for the next week or two.
I drove him back to his gas station. At every new landmark he asked me to turn here, it would only take a minute, he needed to stop at his friend’s house, or a girl’s house, or an enemy’s house because they owed him money or had some drugs or a five-hundred-dollar motorcycle
“There were five guys there.”
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy.” He took my knee in his meaty hand and shook my leg. “Why didn’t you call me? Who the fuck is it, some fucking Del Mar punks? We’ll just catch your guy somewhere, Sam. They’ll never find him. Fuck. You know where he lives? I’m serious here.”
“Naw, he lives in this town. It’s a guy I knew in school. Owen Ferguson—”
“ That guy? Oh, man.”
I felt a change in the air; a change in Tommy. I looked over. “You know him?”
“Shit, man. What’s that song? You don’t pull Superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind? You don’t fuck around with Owen Ferguson.”
“Yeah, well, I already did.” I told Tommy how I’d spilled Owen’s beer down his shirtfront and socked him, and how it had ended. Tommy shook his head over and over as I spoke, muttering fuck s and shit s.
“Listen,” Tommy said. “Those dudes are serious. Owen Ferguson’s got him a reputation. He thinks he’s fuckin’ Tony Soprano. I mean, what do you think you’re gonna do?”
I looked at his forced expression of sincerity and concern and my horizons shifted again. I had been imagining Tommy as my ace in the hole, a sort of lowlife superhero I could summon in my hour of need, but I saw how foolish I had been. It should have dawned on me when he didn’t even ask why I wanted a gun, for Christ’s sake. He was too much what he was to help someone—even me—if he couldn’t make out some shitty little profit margin for himself. I knew he would make promises and I would be waiting for him to show up and help me and I’d be waiting forever. And the next time I saw him—if I was still alive to see him again—he would make jokes and act as if none of this had ever happened. And if I pressed it, if I confronted him, flat-out called him a liar, he would become indignant and find a reason to storm off.
“Forget it, Tommy,” I said.
“Look, I mean, you can’t just wave a fucking gun at Owen Ferguson and think you made your point, you know? You gotta be as bad as him, and that’s pretty fuckin’ bad.”
“What about you?” My voice was rising. “You’re ‘pretty fuckin’ bad,’ aren’t you? You’re always saying it.”
“It ain’t just me, Sam! You’re talking about starting a war. I could fuck your friend Owen up, okay? I could slap that kid around and make him fuckin’ like it. But what? Do you think it’s gonna end there? You tell me.”
I could see his point. We stared at each other for a moment. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth.
“And it’s all or nothing,” he said. “Say I back you up, and say you give him a beating and then we get out of there. You think you’re gonna be safe the next day? The next week? Ever fuckin’ again? You might as well just walk up to him and shoot him in the face if you’re gonna do anything at all.”
A few seconds lapsed while I frowned and nodded. “Well, what would you do if you were me?” I said.
He started to say something, then stopped, thought it through and started again. “I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know. I guess if I was you I’d have to decide if I was willing to do some time over this shit. You got things pretty good. You’re going to college.”
“Fucking junior college,” I said.
“Yeah? Well, then you transfer, right?”
“Yeah, sure.” I wanted to end the discussion. “Listen,” I said, “I’ll figure out what I’m gonna do and just call you if I need anything else.”
Tommy said, “Okay,” and I could see those mad wheels spinning in his head. I knew he would keep his cell phone turned off for the next week or two.
I drove him back to his gas station. At every new landmark he asked me to turn here, it would only take a minute, he needed to stop at his friend’s house, or a girl’s house, or an enemy’s house because they owed him money or had some drugs or a five-hundred-dollar motorcycle
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