16-Paul

They’d moved out onto the porch to smoke. There were some new arrivals out there, one of which was Jimmy Redman. Paul took grim notice of his presence.

Jimmy’s was the one voice out there brash enough to match Rob’s. Their clash seemed inevitable. Not to mention how all day it had been pretty obvious that Rob was just looking for a fight. Paul knew him well enough to recognize that look in his eye. He just needed a reason, an instigator, someone to stand up to him. And he surely found it, with Jimmy Redman. If anyone was crazier than Rob, it might have been Jimmy. Most everyone on the porch could feel the gravity fields around both guys and had backed off a bit, giving them room for whatever was coming.

“Man, if you tried to get on the O-line I’d run your ass over,” said Rob. “But we wouldn’t know, would we?”

“Shiiit, I don’t waste my time with high school,” Jimmy replied. “I’ll go there for the open market, but that’s about it.”

Paul had to laugh. “That’s your idea of school spirit, huh, Jimmy?”

“Yes, indeed. And I ain’t no wannabe like your boy here, whose got the market cornered on rich and over-privileged white kids. I’m dealin’ out on the streets, yo. The real streets.”

Paul knew Rob was a forty in, plus however many games of quarters, but still, he thought Rob tripped mostly on purpose. Rob stumbled into Paul, who in turn bumped up against Jimmy.

“Man, what the fuck?” Jimmy yelled.

“Hey, my bad brother,” Paul said.

“Damn right it was your bad, bitch,” Jimmy said absently, shaking the spilled beer off his hands.

“Ooh, shit,” Raza muttered. “Here we go.”

Raza was right. He’d said it. Paul had heard it, Raza had heard it—everyone had. Paul felt his mind go blank as the adrenaline soared within him. Embracing it, he stepped up to Jimmy.

“Paul, forget it,” Lauren said, clutching his arm.

Her voice was distant and muted, and he pulled his arm away, never losing eye contact with Jimmy.

“What’d you say, motherfucker?” Paul’s tone was biting enough to those around them, but to him the words coming out of his mouth sounded forced. This was a process, he knew. This was obligatory.

Jimmy was quiet for a moment, contemplating, before facing Paul squarely. “I said damn right it was your bad, bitch. What the fuck you gonna do about it?” His voice ripped through the air and sounded like a bulldog.

Nothing was stopping this now, Paul realized. He could feel the hush of the people all around him, could feel their giddiness, could sense them gathering. Then, he actually smirked, knowing what was coming.

Jimmy did not.

The punch floored Jimmy completely, and it came from Rob, who’d been ghostly silent until then. It even brought Rob to a knee, as Jimmy turned on his side, dazed, trying to get up. But Paul wouldn’t let him, with a sharp kick to the stomach, and he heard Jimmy moan. Rob followed that with a kick to his face, following through like his head was a soccer ball. A spray of blood issued forth and Paul could even hear the sick sound of it spattering the deck. Then Jimmy crawled on the floor like a felled boxer in the latter rounds trying to get up. It had all happened in just a few seconds.

Rob reared as though to deliver another blow, but instead he stopped and looked at the neighboring houses around them. Everyone else did too, where they all saw the red and blue lights reflecting off the siding.

A voice cut through the madness. “Five o’s! Five o’s are here!”

Of course they were here, Paul thought. Of course.

To follow was panic and chaos—the bees, all gathered on the porch hive, had been agitated, and so they scattered with reckless abandon.

First and foremost of those bees was Rob, who didn’t bother with any porch steps but instead launched his body over the railing. He seemed to hang there in midair, his baggy clothes billowing, shining red and blue from the reflected light of the nearby police cruisers, and for an absurd moment Paul thought he looked like some kind of ghetto super hero.

A second later Rob hit the ground below, barely keeping his balance, and from there he blazed a trail across the yard faster than anyone, like he’d run this drill before, like he was well-accustomed to it. Paul’s eyes then went to Jimmy, who, despite the trauma, climbed to his feet, sensing the urgency. The sad, pained expression on his bloody face held Paul stunned for a moment.

“Paul!” Lauren yelled from somewhere nearby, and this snapped him out of it. He ran toward the crowd descending the porch steps, and even though Lauren was surely right near him, he couldn’t spot her in the sudden chaos. He felt the world spinning, in part due to all the alcohol he’d consumed, but that wasn’t the only reason.

He cursed himself again—they all knew this would happen. Why did they stick around? Why did they even come over there? In that moment of dread, he thought about the weed in his pocket, plus a hit of acid tucked in his wallet—waiting for someone to find, should they dig deep enough—and suddenly his world was bathed in terrifying red and blue light.

Panicking, Paul went over the porch railing as Rob had done and landed awkwardly. He got up and ran backwards for a few moments, scanning desperately for Lauren or anyone he knew, but he couldn’t focus on anyone—he couldn’t see their faces. Then he realized most people had scattered away, to the road, to the shadows, or wherever, and he was one of the last remaining in the yard, an obvious target. He gave up the search, turned and ran into the darkness of the surrounding trees, and eventually neighboring yards, his adrenaline still peaking and soaring.

One word kept going through his mind: control. Or more appropriately, the lack thereof. It was hilarious, how long gone it was.

In the sheer blackness of the wooded area between yards he felt his feet sloshing in the mud and moments later he realized he ran with only one shoe on—the other one had been pulled off and claimed by the muck. He didn’t dare stop for it, though—that could cost him. He only pressed forward through the darkness.

He tripped over some low bushes and rolled through something that he eventually realized from the smell was mulch. He stopped then, breathing heavily, and peered back from where he’d come from. He saw shapes and figures bounding in the darkness, so he guessed he should keep moving. He stood conspicuously in the backyard of someone’s house, and he could even see people through windows, and they were seated on a couch, presumably watching TV.

This is ridiculous, Paul thought, scanning desperately for an escape route. He prayed the family didn’t have a dog as he ran through their carport, down a narrow alley between an old Chevy Blazer and the side door to their house. Paul never for a second saw the completely full recycling bin under his feet, and he tumbled over this and hit the ground hard, cursing loudly as he did. The plastic bin was overflowing with bottles and aluminum cans, which more or less exploded on the hard concrete in the close quarters of the carport. It was comically loud, like a bomb had gone off, and Paul winced.

He got up and kept running, one shoe and all, into the driveway, where there was finally some light from the streetlamps. From there he made his way out onto the sidewalk. But the guy from the house came after him so fast Paul couldn’t escape. He grabbed Paul’s arm, and spoke angrily, “What the hell are you doing on my property, son?” He was big and bald and looked pissed off.

Overcome with adrenaline, Paul blanked, because he didn’t realize he slugged the man, but he must have done so, right in the stomach—the guy was keeled over in pain. But nevertheless, the guy had managed to clutch onto Paul’s T-shirt, and he held on to this firmly. Paul twisted out of it and it peeled straight off his back. He kept running, leaving the man gasping for breath, still clutching his T-shirt in his hand.

Paul didn’t know how far he ran. Eventually he slowed down, his body heaving with each giant breath. He looked behind him often, fearing what he’d see. Each time there was no one. But Paul was acutely aware he wore only one shoe and had no shirt.

I’m fucked, he thought. Based on appearance alone he knew he was in trouble. Not to mention how he had no idea where to go next—his head was on a swivel, scanning desperately for a street that looked even vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t find one. In his haste he’d managed to get himself quite lost.

He felt a deep sinking feeling as he sensed headlights approaching from behind him. He considered hiding, but had nowhere to go, and anyways he was too late—the headlights shined right on him and held him frozen. Just as Paul recognized it was an SUV—surely a Blazer—the vehicle came to a quick stop, and the doors erupted open on all sides. Paul saw no more as the chase was on yet again.

They were yelling as they chased him, but Paul paid no attention to any of their words and instead he screamed to himself to run, to run for everything he was worth. He never looked back, so he didn’t know how many people pursued him. He sprinted with all that he had left, but it wasn’t enough. Paul felt himself tiring, and he could sense them closing in. Desperate, he looked about for yet another escape hatch, for something, anything. This part of the neighborhood held houses on one side of the street, and woods on the other. He figured he had no choice as he cut across the street and plowed into the dark trees.

The branches and bushes lashed at him, but he never stopped sprinting, tearing his way through dense, black vegetation. Then the ground underneath his feet vanished entirely.

It was a steep drop-off, one he never knew was coming, and he fell and tumbled down the slope. He’d only just begun to comprehend what was happening when he splashed into the creek at the bottom of the ravine, which was flooded and overflowing with runoff. Completely underwater for a second, Paul oriented himself and brought his head out of the water, in total disbelief at what was happening.

He could stand, and the water came up to his chest. He stood completely still and silent, and the only noise he could hear was the trickling of various streams and runoff into the creek. It was still quite dark, but his eyes finally adjusted, and at the top of the hill he could see the faint glow of streetlights. They seemed a mile away, and he couldn’t believe how far he’d tumbled—it seemed a miracle he was unhurt. Still, he dared not move, and eventually he saw headlights penetrate the top line of trees, followed by a couple figures pacing about the outskirts of the woods, merely dark silhouettes from his vantage point. Paul actually smiled, knowing they wouldn’t—couldn’t—find him. And he was right—they left not long after, and the headlights vanished.

Still breathing heavily, the weight of a floating object hit Paul’s chest, and he looked down to see his shoe bobbing up and down in the water. He had lost it during his tumble down the hill, apparently. He no longer wanted it, anyway—his mind envisioned some kind of absurd reverse-Cinderella scenario wherein he was busted by the police because his matching shoe was found at the crime scene. Paul pushed it and it floated away in the current.

The headlights were gone, but still, Paul didn’t move.

“You guys aren’t gonna trick me,” he whispered quietly to himself, still gazing at the dark trees at the top of the slope. Paul grinned again, knowing this night had gone completely over the top. He didn’t quite know yet what to make of it, but in the meantime, he’d laugh.

“I’m a fuckin’ survivor,” he said, smiling, as he crouched in the dark water, biding his time.