“John, you are almost an adult, and you have to make these decisions for yourself,” I said.
“It’s not that easy. If I leave my family, it can lead to their financial collapse, or at least leave them in a bad situation. My father will never forgive me for that. Korean families are different than American families. I can’t go against his orders.”
“You can, but you won’t. You are just afraid to cut the cord.”
“What cord?” asked John.
“The umbilical cord.”
“The Korean umbilical cord cannot be cut.”
We went our separate ways at the train station.
That weekend at the café, Mike was late and Shesha, and his cousin Amin, had been waiting twenty minutes when I arrived. I literally couldn’t understand a single word out of Amin’s mouth. The regular crew did not come in that day.
We served customers for two hours before Mike woke up and unlocked the door. Shesha and Amin were laughing at Mike the entire morning. Amin pointed to Mike and said “Bum!” and this I clearly understood.
Mike informed me that Christine, Kenny, and the others had been fired. I knew Mike got rid of them to flex his managerial muscles. He did not like them challenging his authority.
When I was leaving work, I noticed Shesha was staring at Mike with eyes bright with anticipation. I shook Mike’s hand before I left, and told him that I would always appreciate his advice. I had a strange feeling that would be the last time I would see Mike, and I was right.
Chapter 15
Carlos was always Sam’s friend, and through osmosis, became part of my hang out buddies in high school. Osmosis can be a dangerous thing, as you tend to forget that permeability includes those in your life you want, and those you do not. I always believed that certain basic principles of science could be interloped into life. For example, Newton’s law that says for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Whenever the Deceptors were on the prowl, I’d always felt that their actions were met with fear, which was the opposite reaction to their intimidation. Carlos was the type of guy that believed this as well, and generally tried to create an equal and similar reaction to every action, not an opposite one.
I met Carlos in June of the previous year, eleventh grade. I had been on the subway with Sam and John. We were laughing, telling jokes, and goofing off. Hoodlums on the train took exception to our laughter, and demanded our wallets as compensation. Carlos stood on the sidelines watching, and shouted to Sam, “These guys are cowards. Don’t give them a penny.”
The three hoodlums looked at Carlos, as he pulled out a large knife. It looked like something he borrowed from a sugar cane plantation – a long, rusty machete. Carlos pulled it out of his pants from the waist, and brandished it toward the three hoodlums who proceeded to exit the train shouting expletives. Carlos was right; they were cowards when faced with a bigger weapon.
That day, Carlos joined our group of friends. Carlos was wearing the same outfit he always wore, a black tee-shirt with a heavy metal rock band on the front, and old, faded Levis jeans. In the winter he wore an old black leather motorcycle jacket. Carlos wasn’t into sports, and rarely joined us after school for basketball, or baseball or football. He had a very quiet nature, was never one to lose his temper, and had long black hair, and light brown, rough skin.
Carlos and Sam had an odd connection from the beginning. Sam was a scholar, with high grades and a bright future. Carlos had low grades, and no future plans. Ever hear the expression that opposites attract? This was the case with Sam and Carlos. I knew Carlos smoked pot and drank beer after school in the park. Carlos was very bright his freshman year, but had run out of patience for school and studying. He was visited by social workers at school. There had been several domestic disturbances at his home.
It is often said that March comes in like a lion and leaves like lamb. That was certainly true of this March, as heavy winds and cold rains swept through the city. It was gloomy, miserable, and the winds blew garbage cans and debris all over the streets.Doreen was back at the helm at the school paper. She was recovered from the flu, but felt burnt out from all the AP classes.
“You take Advanced Placement classes?” I asked.
Doreen laughed and said, “Don’t you? Don’t you want college credit now?” I did not like her condescending attitude. I needed to work and could not dedicate the time towards AP classes.
Doreen had a weird smile and was twirling her long, curly hair. In my limited experience with girls, I recognized that this was flirting, though at an amateurish level. The April Dance was a month away. Doreen must be getting desperate.
When I completed my sports assignments for the week, my digital plastic watch with the Yankees logo indicated that it was five o’clock. The school was more or less deserted at this time, and students that remained were practicing for a sport, working on the school newspaper or the yearbook. Most of the teachers and faculty were gone, and the school custodians were busy cleaning and mopping. It bugged me that I did not take AP classes and Doreen had. I decided to check if Mr. Zoose was still around. I would ask him if taking AP classes in high school made a difference.
The custodian was giving me a dirty look as I traipsed through the hallways leaving a track of footprints behind. I apologized, and removed my sneakers, and walked the rest of the way in my socks alone. The custodian’s hard work would not be in vain. He appreciated this and gave me a nod of approval.
Walking the hallways with just my socks made me silent like death. As I approached Mr. Zoose’s classroom, I noticed that the lights were off. I thought I was too late. I was about to leave, but, for some inexplicable reason, I decided to have a look, just in case he was still there.
I peered through the glass on the upper portion of the door. The door’s handle was locked. Something stirred in the back of the class room. It was Mr. Zoose embracing someone, a female. Her head was in his chest. His hands were much lower than they needed to be.
I wanted to leave, to run down the stairs, but the girl’s hair looked familiar, and I froze where I stood. I could not discern her face and did not want to get caught. The last thing I needed was to make my favorite teacher my enemy.
Darting into the corner of the hallway, I hid in the stairwell. I quietly put my sneakers on, and peered through the small space created by the stairwell door. My heart was pounding. Perspiration accumulated as I waited for ten minutes in silence.
Mr. Zoose stuck his head out the door and looked in both directions. He could not see me; the hallway lights were off, and it was getting darker by the minute. I crouched down in the stairwell, trying not to breathe too loud.
Mr. Zoose and Svetlana walked out together, a few seconds apart, heading in my direction. I bolted down several flights of stairs, all the way to the exit and raced out of the building in a hurry.
I darted out the main doors of the school, as fast as I could, looking back to make sure they were not behind me. I never saw the Deceptors outside the school’s exit. A clenched fist pounded the side of my head and I hit the ground like a falling tree.
My head thumping, I was disoriented and seeing stars. Quickly, I rose to my feet, and was punched again, though not as bad as the first punch. The goons pushed me, but I did not fall down. There were two of them, in dark coats and masks. They grabbed and pushed me against the wall of the school building. My heart felt like it was going to jump right out of my chest.
In a street fight, whoever lands the first punch wins the fight. Street fights last fifteen to twenty seconds, and rarely does anyone get to land a second punch. The Deceptors had already landed the first punch and the second punch. I had already lost.
I kicked one in the midsection; you could say it was a knee jerk reaction. I had no fear that I could make things worse. These were Deceptors, and things were already worse. The bigger one took another swing, I moved back, avoiding getting punched a third time. I suspected they were carrying weapons. I swung back at him, and missed, falling on the ground after losing my footing.
The bigger Deceptor kicked me twice. He pulled a butterfly knife out of his jacket’s sleeve. The smaller Deceptor walked away, indicating that he was keeping watch. The bigger Deceptor demanded my wallet. I remained on the cold concrete ground, unwilling to hand over so much as a penny.
Mr. Zoose traipsed out of the school and saw me getting attacked. He approached my assailant from behind without realizing the Deceptor had a knife. The big Deceptor was startled, and swung at full speed ahead. The knife slashed downwards with full force across Mr. Zoose’s shoulder. Svetlana was a few feet behind him and let out a loud scream. Now there were two of us on the ground.
A gun shot was fired from the park across the street. The Deceptors took off in hurry. I raised myself off the ground, and asked Mr. Zoose if he was all right.
“Call an ambulance,” he said. I yelled out to Svetlana, “Go back into the school and call 911.” Mr. Zoose was trembling. Blood dripped from his shoulder. I was grateful to Mr. Zoose for stepping in, but felt guilty that he was injured. Several teachers remained inside, afraid for their own safety.
The police and ambulance arrived a few minutes later. Paramedics attended to Mr. Zoose who was now pale, with blue lips and shivering from the loss of blood. Svetlana was crying, but they would not let her in the ambulance. The police had some questions for us, and took Svetlana and me into the back of their police car to the nearest precinct. Svetlana could not stop crying the entire way. I noticed the missing door handles in the back seat, making it impossible for someone to exit.
The police car veered quickly toward Classon Avenue, sirens flashing all the way to the 88
th
precinct in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn. My first impression of the precinct was that it was chaotic. People were yelling and screaming at each other, and police were yelling and screaming at civilians.
Svetlana and I waited for what seemed like an eternity, until a detective was available to see us. It was almost seven p.m. Svetlana was still sobbing. It was my first time at a precinct, and I hoped it would be my last. I wondered who fired the gunshot.
“Mr. Zoose is going to be fine,” I whispered in her ear. “If they ask, tell them you were with me at the school.” She realized instantly that I knew about her illicit affair. She nodded and stopped crying.
Sitting in a police station is worse than sitting in the waiting area of an emergency room. I thought about what to say; I did not want to lie, but I had to protect Mr. Zoose. I had always prided myself on being loyal, and Mr. Zoose had intervened to save me. I owed him one.
A detective finally spoke to us. I explained that Svetlana had arrived late, and didn’t see anything. Svetlana nodded. The detective asked her, “What were you doing at school so late?”
“I was with him.” She looked at me, took a deep breath, and said, “He’s my boyfriend.” She kissed me on the lips, a slow, soft kiss, and when I opened my eyes, the detective told her she could leave.
I sat in a chair next to a desk piled high with files and papers. The detective’s name was Ganz, and he pulled out a notepad and shouted that I had better tell him everything, “Or else you’ll spend the night here.”
“I was walking out of school, and a couple of guys attacked me. One punched me in the head, and pulled out a knife. They were Deceptors, and wanted my wallet. Mr. Zoose came out of nowhere to help me, and the Deceptor stabbed him,” I said.
“And what did this perp look like?”
“He was tall, had a dark jacket on, and wore a black bandana as a mask,” I said.
“Was he black, white, or indifferent?” said Ganz, laughing at his own joke.
“They were Deceptors,” I said.
“Are you in a gang?” Detective Ganz slammed his notepad down, and yelled out loud.
“No, sir. I’m still in high school, accepted to state college in the fall, and I’m sports editor of the school paper.”
“Come with me, Mr. State College.” We walked down a hallway, and made a left. I was in a room with another police officer and a guy in a suit. Ganz picked up the black phone next to the one way mirror, and yelled to bring them in.
Five guys walked into a police lineup. Four of them looked like thugs, and the other was Eddie Lo.
“Take a careful look. Are any of these the perp that stabbed your teacher?” Ganz looked at me carefully, trying to read my facial expressions. He was a middle aged man of medium height with lots of gray hair. Ganz looked like he hadn’t slept in ten years; he had dark circles around his eyes. He held a cup of coffee in his left hand, as he blew smoke in my face.
Eddie had fired the gunshot that scared off the Deceptors.
“No,” I said. “What’s with the Chinese gangster?”
“We found him in the park across the street loitering. If I were you, I’d have a second look. Do you know him?”
“His name is Eddie and he’s on the basketball team at Stanton.”
“Well, for your information, your good friend Eddie Lo is a real bad guy in Chinatown, and if I were you, I’d stay away from him. Now take a second look.”
Ganz stared at me, and I could feel him breathing down my neck, literally. His breath smelled like coffee, cigarettes, and tuna fish.