The Old Neighborhood (37 page)

It wasn't a punch—you see those coming. His fist just grew and rose in my vision until it was all I could see. The white hair on the knuckles with the thumb pressed in underneath. It slammed into my forehead like a brick. My neck stretched, and the whole of my weight rocked back on my heels.

I stumbled backward and my arms flailed out for balance. The whole room swirled around me like I was a passenger on some terrible Tilt-A-Whirl. I leaned forward and fell toward him. He drove his fist into my chest and sent a booming exhale through my nostrils. My arm sprang out in a wild swing that caught only air. Another fist—I don't remember where it came from—crashed into my jaw. A splash of metallic sparks sprayed through my vision, and I crumbled to my knees. Trembling, I grasped at the concrete floor hoping it would stop the room from moving.

“Naw, no, no. You're too tough for that. You're a big gangster now,” my father said. He snatched me up by my shirt and lifted me to my feet. Then, he grabbed my face and throat with each hand and slammed my head into the hollow wood door that closed around the dRyr. The first panel exploded into a shower of small wooden chips, and a thick splinter dug into my cheek, below the eye. The blood beaded down my face, warm. He kept my face pressed against the crumbled door, then he brought his hawk nose and beady blue eyes close. Spittle sprayed through his teeth like a rabid street dog.

“A TJO, YOU LITTLE SHIT! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID TO YOUR BROTHER? HE WAS...” He looked down and swallowed something back. The veins in his throat strained red. “He was perfect. He was beautiful, and they WRECKED HIM! YOUR HEAR ME?” He slammed my face into the door again. “THEY WRECKED HIM, AND THEY'RE GONNA WRECK YOU, TOO!”

He let go, and I slid to the cold slab of the basement floor, gasping. Blood seeped in my ears. He turned and walked away towards the stairs. I watched him, and as he turned to go up the steps, I saw his face for a split second—it was wet and hollow and sad. I hadn't known. I hadn't known how much he loved him. Crazy as it sounds, I felt closer to my father then than I ever had in my whole life.

CHAPTER 24

ENRICO FERMI

ACED ANOTHER PHYSICS TEST
—big whoop. Everybody was pissed 'cause I was busting up the grading curve. Luckily, the dark-purple welts on my forehead and the cut on my cheek were still fresh. Plus, I had this frozen scowl on my face that looked just mean enough so that nobody wanted to try me after school. Dydecky had pulled me aside and told me about this presentation he'd set up for the Physics Club later in the week. He urged me to come, looking me in the eyes with his bushy brow straight as an arrow. He said it was a guy from Fermi Lab who works with the particle accelerator. I just shrugged and mumbled 'maybe,' but deep down, I was excited by the idea of getting to talk to a big shot like that—a guy making his way in life as a physicist—and with football season over, I decided I'd go.

That Thursday, I stepped slowly down the gray-tiled science corridor. The sounds of thin sheet metal lockers opening and slamming sloped off to almost nothing. Quietly, I stepped toward Dydecky's room, keeping an eye out for any of the football guys. I undid my tie, folded it into a silky mound, and stuffed it into the front pocket of my pants—it crunched the dove sack Antwon was supposed to have bought in third period, but his dopey ass was in the Dean's Office. I figured I could just dip off after this Fermi Lab guy's thing and check the detention hall, and even if he wasn't in there, somebody'd probably cough up the twenty for it.

I heard squeaky footsteps and spun to see some big-ole senior with blond hair and a red face bustle around the corner. He swung a heavy wool coat up and slung his arms through it. Then, he slapped the pole lever on the side exit and dashed out.

Hesitant, I stood just to the side of Dydecky's open door. The windows and ceiling grate lights struck it bright inside and made this hazy yellow light ooze out of the doorway and spread atop the shiny floor. And I'm thinking,
What the fuck are you, some kinda a nerd or somethin'? Going to fucking Physics Club after school?
But it was Ryan's voice I heard in my head, and that recognition slid into my chest and stirred up bubbling, antagonistic knots—like,
fuck it, quit being a fucking pussy. If it's boring, you could just leave, go pass that dove sack off, and catch the bus home.

I took a deep breath and stepped in. There were nerds all around with big thick glasses, pocket protectors, ill-fitting clothing, and bad hairdos. Right in the center of the room, there's like ten of 'em all bunched up on each other, straining on tip toes. They craned their necks to see over each other's shoulders, hooting and hollering at something happening down low in the center of the mound of bodies. And I'm like,
What the fuck! Are these dorks throwin' dice up in here?!
I step over and strain to see through and over a few of 'em. Finally, I see this frail little guy with his sleeves rolled-up way down in the middle of the deep shade cast by all the leering dweebs. He's doing something with his quick, boney hands. There's this whirling blur of colors: red, blue, yellow, green. These little squares twisted in chaotic vertical and longitudinal spirals in his gesticulating fingers. Then, suddenly: green—solid green.

A dopey kid with a red mop cut and a smear of bright-pink acne on his cheeks wipes his hair out of his face, looks up to the big circular clock at the head of the room, and says “Two minutes, fifty-three seconds!” in this screechy, whiney voice.

Half of 'em sigh and slump back towards their seats while the other half rejoice. The nerd-mound unfurls and spreads out, then, the little super-nerd stands tall and raises the multicolored Rubix Cube, smirking shyly. He's got silver braces with white rubber bands strung in them. This fat Mexican kid with his dress shirt unbuttoned and his big bowling ball-shaped gut straining against his t-shirt is pounding his beefy paw on the little guy's back. Then, Super-Nerd raises the Rubix Cube high with his narrow thumb and index finger on two opposing corners. He starts slowly spinning it with his other hand so it twists like a dice on edge, revealing all of its solid-colored perfection. He wasn't exactly cocky, but showy enough to be entertaining.

“Joe, you came. Great!” I turned to see Dydecky crouched down on a knee. He was next to the slide projector—its side compartment was ajar—and he had a strange, little, oval-shaped light bulb pinched between his pinky and ring finger.

“Take a seat. I gotta get this thing fixed before Tompkins gets here,” Dydecky said, wiping his sweat-dotted forehead. “I'm glad you made it.” He arched up his eyebrows, then got back to work.

I sat down next to this fat Polish kid with a huge square head and a long, pointy nose. He hadn't partaken in the Rubix Cube contest. He was clomping loudly on something, then dismissively flopped a deflated banana peel atop his desk and eased back into his creaky seat.

On the other side and behind me, this Jewish kid with a dark-brown afro and square, black-framed glasses hunched over a magazine—
Modern Science
, or something. “I told you Tompkins was in the August issue… Right beside lead physicist Peterson. He's right here, it's this one. Assistant Operations project Top Quark on the Tevatron collider!” he exclaimed.

“Julius, can-it. We all know he's a big cheese,” this effeminate black kid sitting beside me said as he vigorously filed his fingernails. Then, he held them up, limp-wristed, before his face with his fingers spread. It was about then that I was sure I was in the wrong fucking room.

Tomkins finally stepped through the open door. He had well-kempt blond hair and a sprinkling of sandy stubble on his cheeks. He wore a fuzzy, green V-neck sweater, dark-blue corduroy pants, and some brown penny loafers. The nerds were instantly prone at attention in their seats. The silence resonated.

He strolled up to where Dydecky still crouched at the head of the class and said, “Hello, Bert. Good to see you.”

“John, come on in. Welcome,” Dydecky replied as he stood and swung the side compartment closed. “Everybody, this is Mr. Tompkins of the Fermi Lab Top Quark endeavor.” Some of the geeks actually clapped. “Mr. Tomkins, this is the Gordon Tech Physics Club.”

Tompkins puffed his chest out and grinned condescendingly, like a man who enjoyed his title and position as a lackey on a big project. The Jewish kid with the magazine went to wave, and I glanced over and saw he was actually giving Tompkins the Vulcan salute. Tompkins didn't notice, thankfully, because if he'd a given it back, I woulda leapt up and tore right the hell outta there.

I'd read about the particle accelerator in an old
National Geographic
magazine—we had a few crusty stacks of 'em in the basement next to the furnace that went back decades. I'd also come across Fermi Lab in a few of Da's books in the chapters on quantum physics. I was initially intrigued by the macro: the Universe and its destiny and history. My discarding of religion opened a great, wide void of eternity to explore, and my instincts drew me to find symmetry somewhere out there in all those theories. I had this impulse that existence must be fluid, constant, though ever-changing and exploding in bright, big bangs. Then, it would recede slowly until all matter had compressed and focused to one point of smoldering near non-existence. Then, the explosion again—a cyclical state, you could say. Most of the contemporary math back then pointed to an ever expanding, open universe, so that all the stars would just continue to drift away and slowly fizzle out. But, of course, the math had been wrong many times before throughout history, constantly proven false by new discoveries like dark matter and new math that was just waiting to swell up and encompass it.

But there was something equally intriguing about the micro: the fundamental parts of matter. If we are all made of energy and matter—and if the sparks in our brains, our memories, and what make up our identities and souls are primarily energy—then the law of the conservation of energy would allow us insights into where we go when our bodies go kaput. Even if it is just to return to the source of all energy—that big ball of everchanging fire; existence, the universe itself.

This idea of colliding electrons and positrons and having them convert into energy and splintering them even further into theoretical particles was incredibly interesting to me. An attempt to find the foundation of matter, and I guess, in the end, it was about finding something out about death in a pure and methodical way without any of the horrific and chaotic emotions tied to human death. It was a safe haven to explore inside of, I guess.

I hated Tompkins right off the bat. He had an aura of answers when he was really in a field of questions. I guess he gave the visitor's tour at Fermi Lab or something—he had a whole spiel.

Dydecky finally got the projector working, so he wheeled it into position in the center of the room and cut the lights.

An image flashed on the pull down screen—an aerial view of plush, green fields, a few patches of dark-green woods, and two immense white concrete loops; the larger loop nearly intersected with the smaller one. Tompkins started his rehearsed spiel. He stood at the head of the class with the wired slide remote in his hand. The late autumn afternoon light seeped in and struck him in a cloudy, gray haze. The sharp, trembling image on the screen splayed across his shoulder and arm. The next slide was of a bison, a buffalo, and a calf.

“There's a lot of real morons out there who think we have the buffalo herd in order to detect hazardous radiation levels, but, of course, that is erroneous,” he said, shifting. His pompous grin flickered in the side of the vibrating image. I had a flush of annoyance rush to my palms, and the words just shot right out of my mouth.

“It don't seem that stupid to me,” I said.

“What? What? Who said that?” Tompkins asked, squinting in my direction.

I raised my hand.

“Antimatter annihilation is like a hundred times more powerful than nuclear fusion, right?” I asked.

“Well, yes, but….”

“And there's gamma rays present in this annihilation, right? And ain't that what makes living cells mutate when they hit 'em? Gives 'em cancer and makes 'em die and all that?”

“Yes, well, yes, I suppose, but we're talking about finite levels encased in concrete.”

“OK, but aren't you trying to find new fundamental particles? Why couldn't there be new energies, too, even more dangerous than gamma rays?”

Tompkins glanced sternly at Dydecky, who lounged atop a desk in the front row by the door. Dydecky just shrugged at him, then looked at me and popped his eyebrows up twice.

Tompkins sighed and soldiered on. I had these warm little needles and pops spiraling up and radiating out of my chest and into my shoulders. I fought back a smile and was glad the lights were off 'cause I was sure my cheeks were burning bright pink. He continued his spiel, basically reiterating everything I'd read already. It was exciting though, nonetheless, to hear it spoken and to see the physical instruments. To think that humankind was achieving near light speed with these particles— it was awe inspiring. Not just on the conceptual level, but the ingenuity in putting it all into physical practice.

When the lights came up, the afro-headed Vulcan Jew kid immediately started slurping balls. He even got Tompkins to sign his copy of
Modern Science
. Tompkins masturbated just a little bit more, then said he had to leave.

Everybody clapped as Tompkins packed up his slides and took off in a hurry like he had some really important tour to give back at headquarters. The nerds started chittering excitedly as Dydecky walked Tompkins out, but I just sat there. The rush of ideas and excitement erased all of my hesitancy to be seen there. Then suddenly, Super-Nerd leans against the desk next to mine, reaches out his narrow hand to me, and says, “Scott.”