Brazil’s early years weren’t perfect, either, but there was no comparison. He had tennis courts and nice neighbors. Davidson security treated him like family, and he was always welcome to visit their small brick precinct, and listen to their stories and gossip and exaggerations. They made him feel special when he came in. The same was true at the laundry with its rooftop of tangled rusting metal, from students picking up laundry and tossing the wire hangers up there, where they stayed for years. Doris, Bette, and Sue always had time for Brazil. The same could be said in the snack bar, the M&M soda shop, the bookstore, anywhere he went, really.
tw Wheatie had never experienced any of this, and quite likely never would. At the very moment West was reprimanding a driver for not wearing a seatbelt, Wheatie was jailing with his heroes in the slums off Beatties Ford Road. There were four friends, all years older than Wheatie. His pals had big pants, big shoes, big guns, and big rolls of cash in their pockets. They were high- fiving, laughing, soaring on wings of smoke. Yes sir, the night had been good, and for one sweet minute, that hollow, hurtful spot in Wheatie’s heart was full and feeling fine.
“Give me a gun, I’ll go work for you,” he said to Slim.
“Little piece like you?” Slim laughed.
“Uh uh.” He shook his head.
“I
give you a job, you get spanked and I end up with nothing. ”
“Bullshit,” Wheatie said in his biggest, boasting tone.
“Nobody fuck with me.”
“Yeah, you bad,” said Tote.
“Yeah, you bad,” Fright imitated Tote, while popping Wheatie on the head.
“Man, I gotta go get me some food,” said Slim, who could eat tires after getting high.
“How ’bout we hit Hardee’s.”
He meant this literally. Slim and company were under the influence and armed, and robbing Hardee’s was as good an idea as any they had come up with this night. All of them piled into his red Geo Tracker. They headed out with the radio so loud the bass could be felt five cars away. Wheatie plotted as they drove, thinking about Jerald and how proud he would be of Wheatie right now. Jerald would be impressed with Wheatie’s buddies. Wheatie wished Slim, Tote, and Fright could meet Jerald. Shit, wouldn’t they step back and give Wheatie a little more respect? Fuck yeah, they would. He watched telephone poles and cars go by, his heart picking up speed. He knew what he had to do.
“Give me a gun, I’ll do it,” he said loud enough to be heard over heavy metal.
Slim was driving, and laughed again, eyeing him in the rearview mirror.
“You will? You ever hit anything before?”
“I hit my mother.”
They all laughed.
“He hit his mother! Woooo-weeee! Bad ass!”
They were choking, guffawing, weaving in and out of traffic. Fright slipped out his high-gloss stainless steel Ruger. 357 Blackhawk revolver with its six-and a-half- inch barrel and walnut grips and adjustable sights. It was loaded with six Hydra-Shoks. He handed his piece to Wheatie, who acted as if he knew all there was to know about guns, and owned plenty of them. They pulled up to Hardee’s. The friends landed glazed eyes on Wheatie.
“All right motherfucker,” Slim said to him.
“You go in and get a twelve-piece dinner, all white meat.” He snapped out a twenty-dollar bill.
“You pay and wait. Don’t do nothing ’til you got the food, you know? Then you tuck it under your arm, pull out the gun, clean out the registers, and run like hell.”
Wheatie nodded, heart drilling out of his chest.
“We ain’t gonna be sitting right here.” Fright made that point, jerking his head at the Payless gas station next store.
“Back there by the Dumpster. You take long, motherfucker, we leave your ass.”
Wheatie understood.
“Get the fuck outa my face,” he said, tough and invincible as he tucked the revolver in the front of his pants and pulled his T-shirt over it.
What Wheatie did not understand was that this particular Hardee’s had been robbed before, and Slim, Fright, and Tote were aware of it. They were laughing and lighting up another joint even as he walked in and they drove off. Wheatie’s little butt was going to get locked up tonight. He’d learn about jailing honestly, his pants falling off because they took his belt, then dropping the rest of the way when some motherfucker got the urge for his sweet little ass.