Better to Die a Hero (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Queens New York

M
ost people have to guess at what life would be like if they were beautiful. Stepping silently on to the small stage, the hard wood cooling his bare feet, Steve thought himself no exception. Above the stage, lights of blue, red and green descended on the young man’s bare muscular torso. Exaggerated by the lighting, the angular shadows cast by his pectoral and abdominal muscles gave the appearance of nothing less than a Michelangelo sculpture. The quiet anticipation in the club broke at his forward lunge and the loud snap of his leather whip. The women surrounding the stage jumped back, giggling and talking.

The stage lights animated, gyrating madly in all directions, and dance music erupted from all corners of the room. Steve tossed the whip aside and danced forward. Dressed only in skintight blue jeans, his pelvis thrust back and forward to the beat of a long forgotten disco tune. He moved so close to the screaming women, that their hot breath on his flat stomach made the fine hair under his belly button stand on end. Women, in business suits and party dresses, leaned out over the stage to caress the fit body in front of them, a taunt physique consisting of five percent body fat.

An elegant hand, carrying a hundred-dollar bill, reached out from the crowd. Its owner began inserting the paper currency, along with her finger, through a gap in his button fly. Her long apple-red fingernail penetrated the opening and the nail’s hard edge caressed just the right spot. Steve felt a familiar tingle.

“Mr. Pierce,” the history teacher called out, “Are you going to wake up and answer my question?” The crotchety geezer crossed his arms, a cascade of wrinkles fell across his face and he shot out a menacing evil eye.

It was just Steve's luck to get old man Keller for history. No one could put a damper on a perfectly good daydream like that burned-out windbag. Steve deduced he had not been asked to go to the board, but rather he needed to answer a question he had not heard. The latter was actually the preferred predicament. Very often, his daydreams caused a certain condition that made getting up in front of the class out of the question.

“I'm sorry, what was the question?” Steve said. His face flushed and a bead of sweat grew on his forehead.

“Yes, you are sorry Mr. Pierce,” Keller stated.

I walked right into that one, Steve thought. Keller may have been a teacher, but he was also a bully. Steve made a mental note—never apologize to a bully. They can’t turn it around on you if you don’t give them the chance.

The teenager sunk deep into his desk and prepared to ignore the rest of history class.

“Fat ass.” The comment was whispered anonymously a few desks away.

Steve cringed, his chest tightened with anger and then loosened with shame. He hated being fat. The portly teen’s thoughts quickly drifted back to the great ice cream binge, as his friend Bryan liked to call it. The overindulgence had occurred three summers ago, between his freshman and sophomore year. His mother had died when he was a small child and he had lived with his Aunt Pat and Uncle George for much of his life.

His Aunt, afflicted with the same form of cancer as her sister, had passed away early that spring just before the end of his freshman year. The death of the woman who was like a second mother should have devastated him, or so he thought; but it did not. Her condition had been chronic and he had mourned her coming death in advance, and after losing his mother at such a tender age, the boy knew about loss and acceptance.

Pat’s absence left Steve and his uncle to fend for themselves. They had always been good at doing their share of the house cleaning; however, the cooking was Aunt Pat's department and in spite of her poor health, she insisted on keeping it that way.

After her death, the two men never discussed any plans or arrangements for mealtime, but rather naturally adopted the strategy, every man for himself. Neither having any cooking skills, George stocked half the kitchen cabinets with cans of chunky soup and Steve loaded the freezer with ice cream.

A typical day that summer started around 9:00 a.m. with a large bowl of Rocky road and three hours of computer games. A large bowl of Neapolitan covered lunch, followed by three hours of intense study of the latest and greatest role-playing games. Bryan would show up around 3:00 p.m. to go over pre-gaming strategies and to explore the subject of women, gaming, and comic books. Dinnertime usually meant two large bowls of French vanilla ice cream covered in hard-shell chocolate.

Various friends would start appearing at six for a role-playing campaign that lasted well past midnight. The between meal snack of gaming champions consisted of chips and cola.

Steve role-played several righteous heroes that summer: Samson, a barbarian; Brandon Peck, a philanthropic space pirate and his favorite; J.B. Frey, a cyborg sheriff with a heart of gold. Guided by Steve, these imaginary characters made a difference in their fictional worlds. The way Steve lived his life that summer made a difference in the real world; he started his sophomore year thirty pounds overweight.

The young man had packed on the weight so fast that rows of stretch marks lined his lower back and underbelly. Since then he had gained a steady ten pounds each year.

If only I could turn back time and live that summer over again, he thought, I know I could do things differently.

He sat in an introspective trance oblivious to the lecture being given, but not so dazed that he would miss the bell signaling the end of class and the end of a Friday school day. The last bell of the week rang and acted like a Pavlovian stimulus triggering a wave of relaxation that swept through his thick body. Muscular tension flushed away through the bottoms of his feet and his mood elevated as if by reflex. A not so gloomy Steve Pierce walked out of senior history.

The teenager did not stand out of the crowd as he made his way to his locker, other than his five-ten frame sporting two hundred and forty pounds, at least sixty pounds excess according to a chart he had downloaded from the Internet. Every pair of pants he owned proved two or three inches too small in the waist, stretching the material to its limit, giving the impression of contents under pressure. He left the bottoms out on an ample supply of oversized polo shirts to conceal the adipose spillover and to ensure no flashing backside in case of a pencil drop bend over.

The shirts were a good investment. The school year passed with no hurtful remarks about unsightly stretch marks or comments like—just say no to crack.

His pudgy face cloaked any angular features that might exist. If not for vibrant blue eyes, he would be considered plain, as the overweight often are, their true face hidden behind the generic mask of chubbiness.

Excitement permeated the air as students made their way through the crowded halls. The girls broadcast wide smiles and laughter while the boys bantered loudly, attempting to be eavesdropped upon making weekend plans with their friends. Steve maneuvered around his classmates and noticed himself twisting at the shoulders to fit through the oncoming masses. Nothing unusual about that, a common way to move through a crowd, he was sure. A thought bothered him: he was always the first person to make room. When he and another male were on a collision course, he would twist out of the way in accommodation, but most often, the other guy would continue shoulders straight on. The teenager made his second mental note for the day—let the other guy move out of the way.

Steve spotted his best friend, Bryan Sahbiny, at the locker they shared and he looked to be entertaining some friends as only Bryan could.

Bryan’s olive complexion and black hair reflected a Turkish heritage, and though he stood at six feet, his actual height approximated six feet and three inches, an implausibly droopy posture robbing him of the additional inches. This poor stance combined with a thin build evoked an unhealthy image; however, Steve never worried about his friend's health, because Bryan's father was a respected physician.

Neither had Steve been overly concerned about his friend's wardrobe. Most of Bryan's slacks rode high at the waist, revealing far too much sock and a white T-shirt beamed out from under collared shirts embellished with the most unpopular patterns. When classmates told Bryan his mother dressed him funny, they were right. He never purchased a single item of clothing without his mother’s approval. The final addition that shouted to the world—here stands a nerd—an ink-stained pocket protector that hopped daily from ugly shirt to an even uglier shirt.

Steve approached and sighed, thankful that Bryan did not need glasses. At least a piece of repair tape would never find its way to the center of his friend’s face.

Chimpanzee screeches rose above the slamming lockers and hallway chaos. Steve caught glimpses of Bryan through gaps in the crowd, flailing his arms, only stopping to smoke an invisible cigarette. His friend was imitating the cigarette-smoking chimp they had seen on television a week earlier. Only the hunched posture, that sometimes reminded Steve of a vulture, kept his friend’s imitations from perfection.

Please Bryan, don’t do the horny chimp routine, Steve thought.

Bryan lifted his leg high at the knee and gyrated his foot madly. He spun on one foot and transitioned smoothly to the hip-hop robot. He ended a routine this way at least once a month to display his dancing talent, even though he had never once attended a high school dance.

“You did get them, you turkey!” Steve said, snatching one of two computer games out of their locker. He flipped the glossy box over and admired the photos on the back. His mouth dropped open. “Look at the graphics on this thing.”

“Intergalactic Defenders here we come,” Bryan said, raising his fist in charge.

“I can't believe you've been lying to me all day about this.”

“It was worth it. You should have seen the look on your face.”

That's just fine, Steve thought, I have a surprise of my own tonight. He had planned to tell Bryan about the girl that would be stopping by, but now his friend would have to wait.

Steve handed the game to someone in the crowd and tossed the books for his afternoon classes into his locker as if they were contaminated. He surveyed the disheveled heap of textbooks and binders and concentrated, trying to recall any weekend assignments. Too many Monday mornings, he’d experienced shamefulness when the first words from the teacher were “take out your homework assignment” and he sat empty handed. It wasn’t too bad if the papers were passed to the front, but when the assignment was passed to a neighbor for grading it was horrendous sitting there, with nothing to do, everyone aware of his ineptitude.

He scrutinized the contents of his locker, his gaze moving from book to book and no homework came to mind. The second copy of Intergalactic Defenders lay on display. For the last several months, copy protection technology was in advance of software piracy. Several months would pass before the trend reversed in favor of the pirate. Steve decided to thank his friend for the purchase later.

“I can’t believe you kept a straight face all day,” Steve said.

Bryan replied with pride, “I'm a damn good liar.”

Steve took his spring jacket and new gym bag from the locker, careful not to topple forward the stack of neglected books. He slammed the thin metal door shut; it sounded great on Friday afternoons.

Steve noticed Bryan’s empty backpack. “I'm the guy who doesn't take books home.”

“This is an Intergalactic Defenders weekend. I declare homework illegal on such an occasion.”

Steve opened the gym bag, held it to his face, and sniffed the newness.

“What the hell is that?” Bryan asked, pointing a gaunt finger. “Illegal! Illegal! I declare that bag illegal.”

“Now listen—.”

“No, no, didn’t you tell me you couldn't get off the toilet the last time you went running.” Bryan spun, slammed his back to the lockers, and slid down to a sitting position. He feigned a struggle to stand. “Help me. I’ve gone running and can’t get up.”

Steve’s face turned serious, “I've got to do this. If I don't run now the next time I do, I'll be sore all over again.”

Bryan stood, his eyes rolled up in their sockets. “All right, I'll head to your place and get a head start on networking our computers and installing the game. I can come back and pick you up any time.”

“No, I think I'll do four laps around the track and run home. That should be about three miles. I should be home in forty-five minutes.”

“Jesus!” Bryan said, his head shaking ever increasingly.

“Another thing,” Steve said, “that crate of my dad's stuff is in my room. There are six antique guns and a sword in it. Plus bullets scattered everywhere, so don't pull any triggers and don’t cut off your pecker.”

A real sword to Bryan would be like the bottle to a baby. Steve, acquiescing to the damage that would be inflicted by the time he got home, hoped it would be limited to one of his precious childhood keepsakes and not his hyperactive friend.

“Hee, hee, guns. Cool. Hee, hee, guns and swords,” Bryan said, wringing his hands.