Heavy Duty
By Joseph P. Taitano II
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
-T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets
Sam looked at his watch. The small numbers on its face said that it was too late. No time to go back and not enough to move forward. The sun would be up in four hours, and they had that long to get things settled.
“Maybe we should go in and just finish things off?” Junior said, squatting down on the patio steps in front of him. As he spoke, his lips quivered beneath the dark purple spot that had grown out of his cheek.
Sam barely heard him over the throbbing in his neck and the vague sensation of two hands slowly strangling him. It was the nagging reminder of the poison in his blood. He processed the words after a moment, but there was too much happening inside of him for him to move his lips and reply. Every muscle in his body contracted, heavy with the weight of what they had done and the rush that had receded into the evening.
“Hey, did you hear?” Junior repeated, his narrow jaw slack as he hung onto the question.
Sam turned to look at him, and the drumming in his chest doubled. The warmth in his ears grew and he could feel his irritation rising, his control slipping.
“It’ll probably make things easier if we take care of things now, right?”
Junior realized the mistake of it when he saw the look on his cousin’s face.
Sam was usually the kinder one to Jun, but now he was staring at him the way Martin sometimes did, and it made Jun’s bruise ache at the memory of the strike Martin had landed squarely on his cheekbone.
He shut up.
They both returned to staring out into the thick, black cover of the jungle that swayed beneath the yellow porchlight, each listening with superstitious attention for the sound of an engine approaching, and the scrape of tires coming up the road.
Sam had this image stuck in his head: the faint grin on Martin’s face as he raised his fist to his shoulder and brought it down. Again, and again. In his mind, Jun was standing there beside Martin, kicking downward weakly. He saw the veins on Martin’s neck and his forearms, the way they shuddered every time he landed another blow, the sound that his fist made when it connected with that blonde head, and the enjoyment in Martin’s eyes.
Then there was the sound of rustling from within the house. The screen door clicked open, and Martin stepped out onto the porch with them, his hands were still glossy with soap. He held a pack of Dorals he had retrieved from one of his dad’s cartons. A splotch of blood stood out dimly on the collar of his black t-shirt as he unwrapped the pack with thick, trembling fingers.
“So what?” Sam asked. “Is he coming?”
Martin pushed a long, slender cigarette out of the pack and pressed it up between his lips, mumbling as he struggled to light it.
“No. I didn’t call.”
“Huh?” Sam asked, as Jun shrank in the seat beside him.
The words came out of his mouth before Sam could stop them, “Well, why the f — not?”
“You better call him,” Martin said, his tone cool and even. He gave a smile that reminded Sam of a pit bull panting.
Instead of crumbling beneath the weight of that glance — and Sam knew that this was what separated him from Jun, what determined the pecking order they had established — he stood up, as cautiously as he could manage, and turned to face Martin.
“Me?” he said. “Why the hell should I call him? This is your mess.”
“Hey — ” Martin said, raising his voice and shifting his bulk towards Sam in the threatening manner that came naturally to him. He raised a finger and dug it slowly into Sam’s breastbone.
“Anything we did, you did too,” he said. “And you’re his boboy. He’ll come help us if you go calling him. You know he doesn’t like me. So shut the f — up and go call him.”
Jun was on his feet now, his canvas shoes lingering on the lowest porch step, anticipating the sudden violence that Martin was the most capable of.
“C’mon Sam,” Jun pleaded, his childish whine throwing more anger into the mix of adrenaline that Martin had caused in Sam’s chest.
“Shut the f — up, Jun.” Sam said, “No one is talking to you.”
“Please Sam. You know he’s right. Uncle Johnny will come if you’re the one who calls him. We need help.”
In his head, Sam ran through the odds. Usually, there was no question that Martin could beat him. It had been a long time since Sam had tested him like this — and he had learned years ago not to test Martin. There were enough demonstrations on the football field at school, and off it, of how much pleasure Martin took in being mean. Tonight, was just the worst in a long string of demonstrations.
But Sam had been growing, and he was almost a head taller than his cousin, who was eight months his senior. Martin was wide but Sam was long and quick. He pictured in his head, the single motion it would take to step back and surprise him with a right hook, the crack of his fist connecting to Martin’s jaw and the thump his body hitting the deck.
Yes, Sam was on. And he was exhausted. But so was Martin, and on top of it he had been drinking. The question was whether it would be enough to slow him so that Sam could whoop him squarely.
He looked down at Martin’s finger, which was like a sausage, supported by a terrible arm between the two of them. He felt the fear in his chest and tried to prop it up against the rush caused by the stuff they had smoked earlier.
But when he looked at Martin, at the look of utter calm that lie behind his big nose and the scowl that was completely ornamental, the vision in his head changed. He saw the step back, and the looping punch. He saw Martin, shifting his head, so that Sam’s knuckles connected with the thick plate of bone on his forehead, and then the stuttered agility with which he would charge him and throw him to the ground.
Martin smiled then, and it was apparent that he saw it too. So did Jun.
“Sam please,” he said again.
“Fine,” Sam said, pushing away Martin’s hand and moving for the doorway.
“I’ll call him.”
Martin held out the pack of Dorals and offered it to Jun, who took it with a look of great relief.
“Thanks, cuz,” Martin said. “You know I love you.”
And Sam could hear that he meant it, as he stepped inside, trembling, to call Uncle Johnny on the landline.
Joseph Taitano II is a CHamoru writer and reporter for the Pacific Daily News. His work strives to find a natural voice for the absurdity of modern life in paradise.
