Short Story: School Of Hard Knocks

Short Story: School Of Hard Knocks

I grew up in a neighborhood where life was sometimes traded for liquor. Twenty four hours could come and go with no less than five muggings, four fatal stabbings, three rapes, two armed robberies and one shooting. All the shops in my `hood had burglar proofing as we called it; thick metal bars to try and keep the merchandise from walking away with new-found owners.

We had one school, public of course, and it had three metal detectors. It also had more security personnel than teaching staff; and believe me these too were many as they numbered a third of the student population.

At school, it was a common sight to see kids knocked out of class by overworked teachers. It also wasn`t strange to see them knocked out of this life by bigger, older kids.

Our police system was one of the most corrupt and the justice system was non-existent. If you could pay for something, you had it. For instance one could buy a ruling against themselves. Don't laugh, there was this guy who was being charged with aggravated assault. The complainant wanted compensation but the defendant paid off the judge to find him guilty and to sentence him to ten years in prison or pay a fine of five hundred bucks. He took the sentence and then the judge added the clincher: being a first offender, it would be a suspended sentence.

Seventy-two hours later, the complainant slipped on very rough steps and broke his neck. The defendant turned up at his burial, uninvited by the way, with a dozen red roses.

As for the police, one could hire a gun from them and use it for any activity, said activity restricted by how much was paid and what was agreed upon. If you paid for a gun and two bullets, then you could fire off two bullets in the course of whatever activity required you to hire a gun in the first place. As some sort of after sales service, the cop would also give you a detailed police activity for the period you wanted to perform your activity thus ensuring you could carry-on without nosy law enforcers curtailing your efforts.

We had one church and the local strong-arms dictated that the faithful congregate only two hours every Sunday and that was from ten in the morning to midday. After that the most powerful gang, the Clubbers, used the premises for party activities. These ranged from making merry, getting high and `disciplining folks` to making love.

We had not only ladies of the night but also those of the day. The former were mostly washed out, over the line hags who looked better in dim light while the former were younger, fresher looking girls, most of them school dropouts with kids to feed.

There were very few places to work when it came to women so their choices were either become a housewife or work the streets. The other professions in the area were all occupied by people from bigger cities being punished by their superiors for something or other. These included school teachers, nurses, two doctors and the local police chief.

Even the weather, not unlike the residents, was mostly unfriendly. Almost all the time there were angry clouds hovering just above the buildings pregnant with rain and stone. Once in a while we would have those rare bright days where you would wake up to a smiling sun with snow white clouds dancing around as they supported a blue sky. Just like an act of kindness, these were few and very far between.

There were very few cars here but hit and runs rivaled those of a large cosmopolitan and kids were always running. At one point you could be running from a car driving on the pavement and the next running from a gun fight or robbery. Running was not a special preserve of the kids as even adults who were still agile did it; but not for sport.

Some would be running from a mugging while others are running to catch a fist fight. These were always fun to watch if one kept their distance as very often the degenerated into indiscriminate shootings. Some adults would be running from the police while others ran to hospital, their guts spilling out.

My mother worked at the hospital so after school I always went to wait for her as it was along my way home. I always liked waiting for her because I could watch grown-ups groaning in pain or screaming in sheer terror as they felt their life ebbing out. Whenever I always look back I wonder at the fact that there was no rush here, not even in the emergency wing where my mother worked. There was always so much blood, tears and guts. The smell was indescribable but highly offensive. I grew up tough to all kinds of smells and injuries.

I remember one time my mother asked me for help as she tried to sew up some poor fella`s stomach after stuffing back his innards. The guy was an alcoholic and so the anesthetic did not work good on him. He grabbed my arm and squeezed it fit to break. By the time we were done, he had passed out from the pain and I was full of blood and shit, literally. It took me three months before I could convince myself that the smell around me was more in my head and less on my body.

My dad was a washed up boxer who still had groovy moves. This led me to believe, after I had grown up of course, that he was made to be a coach not a player. He taught me how to box and with the help of Bruce; not Willis silly, Lee, I taught myself to kick.

I had a relatively safe childhood; after breaking a few bones and sending a few bodies to the emergency ward word spreads and folks opt not to dance with you. But even then, I had killed three men by the age of twenty-four.

The first guy I killed was trying to take away my mother`s bag as we walked home. I unleashed a snap kick to his jaw, aiming to immobilize him but apparently I used more force than was required for such a state so he went off on a trip to meet his maker. The guy was discovered the next morning and after lukewarm investigations, he was thrown in an unmarked grave in the public cemetery.

The second guy I killed raped my friend into a coma and eventually death. He left his ring by mistake so I took it to him. He was still thanking me when St. Peter opened the pearly gates for him. I let him reach out to take the ring then grabbed his wrist and twisted it. I then raised my knee and smashed his arm to at least three pieces. As he reached in waist band for his gun I crushed his right knee, breaking the kneecap and he collapsed. I pulled the gun off him and aimed to smash his teeth. When he pulled up his head to protect his teeth the butt of the .45 smashed his voice box and the force of the blow blocked his airway. He gasped and gurgled, then decided to choke on his own blood. Just like the first one, I never intended to kill him and just like the first one, no serious inquiries were carried out. Another unmarked grave.

The last guy I killed, so far that is, I intended. And unlike the first two, I stood trial for murder and ended up in prison. That third guy was my father. When the tire plant closed, he saw no future everywhere he looked. This made him cranky and his temper, always below boiling point, bubbled to the surface and became quite a thing to reckon with.

Well, he never gave up on the looking. The only problem is that he also searched for answers in the bottle. It did not matter what kind as long as it had a strong percentage when it came to proof. He seemed to convince himself that indeed his new future was in the bottle so he stopped looking elsewhere. He also became very physical especially towards my mom.

In the beginning it was just a few slaps, what we call `wake ups`. Then he started hitting her with his closed fist but in my absence as I would never let it happen. So I would mostly find my mom black and blue, like a bad army uniform from Poland or something. I started warning him off my mother and promised to give him a beating he would remember even after his death.

He had laughed this off, saying he was the one who taught me how to box so which beating was I talking about. I assured him it was there but he just could not see it, like the last word of a puzzle. To cut it short, he strikes my mother one day in my presence and I go for him. I tore into him just the way a hungry man tears into his first plate of food after a stretch of forced fasting. He brought out all his tricks but was no match for me with my kicks and his drunkenness. When at some point he stood lurching in front of the window, I sent him through it with a solid side kick to the midriff. He went screaming and flailing and only stopped when the concrete four stories below embraced him. For the next three seconds there was dead silence, no pun, until a passing shopper or something made the mother of all screams.

My mom refused to testify so the judge had to rely on nosy neighbors. Even then, he saw nothing wrong with sentencing me to fourteen years in prison. With good behavior I could come out in eight but I am not betting on anything. Because of the place I grew up in, I have prepared myself for the worst and so expect to leave prison when I`m thirty-six.

So far, my fellow convicts leave me the hell alone as they know very well why I`m here in the first place. Though I`m not proud of it, I am respected because I took a man`s life. Not only that but to protect a woman`s. And I haven`t told anyone about the other two. Some secrets are well left buried after all, the dead stay dumb.