This is dedicated to arica998, it was her idea.

Randy

I was driving around the east side of town again, alone this time. The leather steering wheel felt lush under my fingers. I sunk in the soft leather seats, seats as soft as butter. It was a wonder what daddy's money could buy. But these things meant nothing to me.

I saw a kid walking along the sidewalk, and I recognized him as the kid we almost killed a few weeks ago. I recognized the dark slicked hair and the jean jacket and the way he hunched up his shoulders, and how skinny he was. I could still see the bruises on him. I'd thought we had killed him, there was so much blood, but when we left he was still breathing. And there he was, just fine, maybe a bit worse for wear.

Bob wanted to just kill all of these low life greasers, and he didn't see any difference between one or the other of them. They were all the same to him, like rats in the sewer. But I knew something Bob didn't, I knew they were individuals like we were, and that they were born into poverty like we were born into riches. It seemed kind of silly to be upset with them for that. But Bob was one of those natural leaders and his ideas were hard to resist, so I went along on more than one jumping. But that last one, that kid there with his black hair and big dark eyes, that was worse than the others. We hadn't beaten anyone like that before, and even as I hit him, knocking the wind out of him and hearing him moan, I knew we were going too far. But we'd gone too far to stop.

I wouldn't do that again. I was done jumping greasers for fun, and I'd laid off hanging out with Bob and his flask. I pulled up to the curb, the car's engine purring like a kitten, and I saw the kid eyeing me and my fancy car, saw his eyes get wide and from here I could see him trembling. He was scared, and who could blame him? I wondered if he recognized me like I recognized him. What did he remember of that whole thing? When we left he wasn't even conscious, he was lying on the grass and the dirt in a puddle of his own blood.

As I watched him the trembling stopped, and he got this blank tough look on his face, and the moment of fear I'd seen seemed like it never happened. Even though this kid was kind of small and definitely skinny, he looked tough all of a sudden. One hand went for his back pocket, and he leaned against the wall and watched what I would do.

I got out of the car and went over to him slowly, like I was approaching some injured wild animal. I saw the fading greenish bruises on his face, around his eyes, saw the scar from Bob's rings that went from one cheekbone to his temple. I saw the way his long hair fell in shaggy bangs across his forehead, and the grease made his hair gleam in the sun. He took a step back from me and held something in one hand behind his back.

"What do you want?" he said, his voice low. Did he remember me from that beating a few weeks ago, or was I just another soc ready to give him a hard time?

"Nothing, hey, take it easy," I said, seeing the flash of a switchblade behind his back. Maybe he'd cut me, drive that switchblade right through my heart. I double dared him to do it in my mind, but I held my hands up, palms out, to show him I meant no harm this time.

He eyed me suspiciously and looked ready to take off any second, but for now he was staying cool, but I could still see the flash of that switchblade. That was fine. I didn't blame him, not one bit. I remembered that beating, every second of it, more of it than he probably remembered. I remembered him begging Bob to stop at one point, his eyes half shut, the blood pouring down his face from that gash, his nose bleeding, his lip split wide open, and he doubled up from being kicked and punched in the stomach. Bob didn't stop until I dragged him off that kid.

"You wanna go get a soda or something?" I said, feeling crazy asking that, but I couldn't stop staring at those huge dark eyes of his, those full red lips, the way his front teeth angled toward each other. Fear and suspicion was creeping back into his eyes, and he gripped the knife tight behind his back.

"What? No, man," he said, backing up, looking at me the whole time, then he took off like a shot down the street. I got back in my car, sunk into my soft leather seats, and wondered just what it was I had expected.


That night I couldn't sleep. I didn't even know that kid's name. That seemed wrong, somehow, since after that beating in that vacant lot I had gone home with his blood all over my clothes. I had seen him crying, begging and pleading with us to stop hitting him, and I didn't even know his name? I had never seen such pain in another person's eyes, and it spooked me. That kid got into my head, and I didn't even know his damn name.

Sleep wouldn't come. I crept down the stairs that curved ever so slightly, trailed my hand on the gleaming oak banister, the plush rug under my feet. There were paintings in the stairwell, the paint as thick as frosting. There were sculptures in the living room, gold bonded books in the library. The floors were either gleaming wood or plush carpet or sanded tiles imported from somewhere, Italy maybe. None of it mattered to me. I took everything for granted.

I found myself driving over to the east side again, the car roaming over the cracked streets, past the salt box houses with hardly any yard, just dirt and a few weeds and plastic toys littered everywhere, sagging porches and empty beer bottles strewn everywhere.

I drove slow past that vacant lot and saw someone curled up and asleep. I slowed down and saw dark hair against a beat up worn out jean jacket. It was that kid. What kind of a life did he have that he would sleep in that vacant lot in this weather? It wasn't freezing but there was a definite chill in the air. What was going on at his house that he would choose this?

I turned off the engine and coasted to a stop, got out quiet as a mouse and crept over to him. It was him, alright. The same dark hair and dark eyes, but his eyes were lightly closed and he shivered in the thin jacket he wore. He was curled up against the cold, knees practically up to his chest, and in his back pocket I saw the bulge of the switchblade. Slowly I got the knife out of his pocket and slipped it into my own. I really didn't want him to knife me to death, and this afternoon I could see that he was willing to do it.

"Hey," I said, gently shaking him. He opened his eyes and gasped, awake in a second and jumped away from me, his hand reaching automatically for his back pocket and the switchblade. Before he could take off I grabbed his wrist and pulled hard.

His eyes were all over the place, he looked like an animal in a trap, and I could hear his breathing, ragged gasps in the cold air. He knew that switchblade was gone and he kicked me so hard in the shin that I nearly let go of him.

"Hey!" I said, pulling him to the ground, and he writhed in my grasp and tried to kick me again but I was wise to him this time and avoided it. My shin was aching like a motherfucker. He was tough, tougher than I thought. I had to realize it wasn't four on one this time, and I thought I could handle him easily but now I wasn't so sure. But I was bigger, taller, and I got him down on the ground and I was sitting on his stomach, his wrists pinned to the ground, and his dark eyes were blazing up at me.

"What's your name, kid?" I said while he bucked underneath me, and I had all I could do to hold him down.

"Fuck you!" he said, and twisted his wrists so suddenly and violently that he almost got free.

Oh I wanted him. This tough little shit who wouldn't give in, I wanted him. I wanted to kiss those dark red lips, I wanted to touch his bruised skin.