DIFFERENCES
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story contains racist language. It is not my purpose or intention to glorify racism, but to present the reality of its hurtful and ignorant ugliness. Also, I've created a flashback of Hobbes' past. For all intents and purposes, I'll pretend he's 39 years old (meaning he was born in 1963) at the time of this writing. Rated R for language. And special thanks to twheeler19 for providing Sabbath information to this meshuggeneh goy. Also, this will probably be my last I-Man fan fic for a while. Now that the show's been cancelled and at this time we still don't know if it's going to be renewed, it just isn't as fun anymore. The inspiration is gone. If and when the show comes back, more fics will follow.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own I-Man nor any of its characters. They are owned by Stu Segall Productions and USA Studios. Tiny spoilers from "It Hurts When You Do This" and "Insensate."
*~*~*~*
Bobby Hobbes sat in his apartment, lost in a flurry of emotions. Angry, hurt, enraged, satisfied. It should have been a simple undercover assignment, and it was. Until Bobby heard that word. That goddamn word. It still rung in his ears; how he hated it. And Fawkes just sat there and listened to it without protesting. He had no choice; Fawkes had to play the part or risk blowing his cover.
Darien Fawkes had spent three weeks working on earning the trust of the leaders of the Righteous Freemen, a militia group suspected of setting fires to various synagogues, African-American churches, and several Latino- and Asian-owned businesses. He had done a fairly good job of acting like a bigoted prick, sort of like a modern-day Archie Bunker. Funny, in a sense. But he had been very careful to avoid using racial epithets.
Bobby hadn't heard that word used since he was twelve years old. He vowed to himself then that he would never let himself hear that word again without putting up a fight. However, this time he really couldn't do anything about it…
*~*~*~*
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK 1975
Bobby Hobbes got ready for school. He put on a nicely pressed pair of brown pants and a clean white shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror while he combed the thick black hair on top of his head. Bobby liked to be well dressed and well groomed; keeping a neat appearance was something his grandfather had taught him. However, Bobby was a little bit vain about his hair; he was constantly combing it or running his hands through his hair. His grandfather, Mattias Hosenberger, watched Bobby from the door of his bedroom.
"Your hair's gonna fall out if you comb it too much," he warned, a bit amused.
"That's not true, Grandpa," Bobby protested. When he was finally satisfied, he put his comb down and put on a pair of shoes.
"Aren't you going to have any breakfast?" Mattias asked.
"Nah. I already ate," Bobby answered as he put on his jacket. "Freddy's probably waiting for me at the corner by now." Mattias nodded.
"I'll fix you up a nice sandwich when you get back from school. Pastrami on challah sound OK to you?" Mattias asked.
"Sure, Grandpa," Bobby smiled. Actually, he preferred pastrami on rye, but his grandfather made the best challah in the world, so he wasn't complaining. "I'll see you later." As he walked out, Mattias gave him a playful squeeze on the shoulder. Bobby grinned at his favorite grandfather and left. At the end of the block, he could see Freddy Lichtman gazing in his direction. Bobby ran up to him. "Hey, Freddy. You been waitin' long?"
"Any longer, and I would've missed my bar mitzvah!" Freddy joked. "Come on, pipsqueak, let's go." Only Freddy Lichtman had the right to call Bobby "pipsqueak." At twelve, Bobby was still a little shorter than most boys his own age. Freddy was already 5'6," a giant compared to 5'3" Bobby. But both boys compensated by being tough and smart. Freddy's bad luck was wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. But he was no nerd and he made sure to cream anyone who said so.
Three blocks later, the two boys found themselves waiting for Giovanni "Johnny" Sullivan in the Irish neighborhood. It was no secret that half the residents on this particular street were a bunch of bigots. Bobby and Freddy constantly got dirty looks each time they passed this street. Even Johnny Sullivan, being half Italian, was occasionally unwelcome with most of the local kids. Across the street Billy McNulty and three of his friends watched the two boys and glared at them. Bobby and Freddy ignored them, but neither one denied how uncomfortable he felt. Johnny Sullivan sauntered down the street and cheerily waved at his two friends.
"Hey, guys," he called out. He looked across the street, and noticed Billy and his crew. He quickly hushed, and the three headed off. As they passed by Billy, they could feel the heated stares. Billy had never done or said anything to them, but lately it seemed to Bobby that Billy's fuse was running short.
"He's gonna do something to us one of these days," Bobby warned when they were out of earshot.
"Yeah, right," Freddy scoffed. "He hasn't done nothin' ever. Besides, I'm still bigger than him—I'd like to see him try."
"I'm tellin' ya, he's up to something," Bobby pressed.
"What's up with you lately?" Johnny asked. "You've been antsy all of a sudden."
"Yeah," Freddy agreed. "You're always lookin' over your shoulder. Nobody's gonna do anything to you, ya know."
"Can't help it," Bobby sighed. Little did he know that "feeling" would one day get worse…
*~*~*~*
Later that morning in history class, Bobby found himself glancing every so often at AnneMarie O'Brien. She sat next to him in this one class and Bobby relished every moment of it. She had long blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a luscious pair of lips. Sometimes she smiled at him and said "hi" in the hallways. Bobby had even told his grandfather about her.
"A shiksa?!" Mattias had almost yelled. "What about that nice Elizabeth Rosen from temple?"
"She hates me, Grandpa," Bobby had whined, then excitedly proceeded to describe AnneMarie. Mattias simply chuckled and raised his hands up and said, "Well, what are ya gonna do? I got a dreamer for a grandson!" They both laughed.
Back in class, Bobby noticed that Billy McNulty had passed a note to AnneMarie. She smiled at him politely and read the note. She wrinkled her nose and glared at Billy, who began snickering. She crumpled the note and threw it back at him while the teacher wasn't looking. Some of the students tittered quietly.
After class was over, Bobby picked up his books and carefully followed AnneMarie. He casually strolled up to her and tapped her on the arm. She looked at him and smiled.
"Hi, Bobby," she said cheerfully.
"Hi, AnneMarie," he said. "Um, listen, I… uh, I saw Billy pass a note to you."
"Oh, that," she frowned. "It was a dirty little message. I can't tell you what it was about."
"Ah, don't pay any attention to him," Bobby suggested. "He needs to learn how to treat a lady." AnneMarie blushed a bit.
"Thank you," she said quietly. Bobby swallowed nervously.
"I was just wondering," he began. "Would you… would…" AnneMarie raised her eyebrows and waited. "Do you want to sit with me at lunch?" He braced himself.
"I'd love to," she agreed. Bobby almost sighed with relief.
"Great," he said happily. "I'll see you then."
*~*~*~*
It is with narrow-souled people as with narrow-necked bottles; the less they have in them the more noise they make in pouring out. – Alexander Pope
At lunchtime that afternoon, Bobby anxiously looked around the lunchroom, hoping to find some empty seats for his "date" with AnneMarie. A moment later Bobby heard a girl call his name. He turned around and saw AnneMarie waving to him from the corner of the cafeteria. She had saved a table for just the two of them. He took a seat. For a few moments, all they could do was smile awkwardly at each other.
"So how are you?" Bobby asked finally. Oh, that was smooth! he thought angrily to himself. 'How are you?' You can do better than that!
"I'm OK," AnneMarie answered pleasantly. "And you?"
"I'm great!" He paused. "Has Billy been giving you any more problems?"
"He kept trying to touch me in gym class," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "He's such a jerk." Just then, they heard a tray crash to the floor. Bobby turned and saw a black kid named Anthony Jones picking up the contents of his lunch from the floor. Billy and his friends were laughing; Billy's foot stuck out behind Anthony, having purposely tripped him. Anthony silently finished picking up his spilled food and headed to the table where Freddy, Johnny and a few other kids sat. Anthony's anger showed, but he didn't retaliate. He sat down; Freddy and Johnny offered him half of their lunches and he reluctantly took it.
"See what I mean?" AnneMarie huffed. Bobby nodded. At that moment, Billy looked in their direction and stopped laughing. The look on his face was somewhere between shock and wrath. The other boys with Billy leaned over to him, whispering. Billy seemed not to hear them. Bobby turned around and squirmed in his seat. He cleared his throat.
"I think he's kinda mad at seeing me with you," he said. AnneMarie didn't say anything for a moment.
"We're not all like that, you know," she said sadly.
"We?" Bobby repeated.
"Yeah, us Irish kids. We're not all bigots like Billy and his friends."
"Oh," was all Bobby could say. Bobby really liked her, but now Billy had
found another reason to hate him. It was
going to be a long day.
*~*~*~*
Billy didn't do anything the rest of the school day. But Bobby could feel his eyes on him, like a tiger in the bushes ready to pounce on its prey. Bobby couldn't shake the feeling, couldn't even concentrate in class.
As the final bell rang, Bobby gathered his books and stuck them into his book bag. He ran out of class, being careful to lose himself in the crowd so as not to be seen, all the while keeping his eye out for Johnny and Freddy. He saw his two friends by the drinking fountain and ran up to them.
"Let's go," he urged them, looking over his shoulder.
"What's gotten into you?" Freddy asked.
"Billy McNulty saw me sitting with AnneMarie O'Brien at lunch," he said nervously.
"So?" Johnny asked, but Freddy knew what Bobby meant.
"I still don't think he's gonna do anything," Freddy reiterated. "And if he does, I'll kick his ass." Freddy chuckled, trying to reassure Bobby. "Let's go." The three headed out.
As they reached Johnny's neighborhood, Freddy sarcastically joked, "OK, Giovanni, this is your stop."
"Aw, c'mon. Don't call me that," Johnny whined.
"How'd you get that name anyway?" Bobby asked.
"My mom struck a deal with my dad when we were all born," Johnny explained. "Since we were all gonna have an Irish last name, she wanted us to have an Italian first name. You know, so we could be both. That's why my two older brothers are called Antonio and Carlo, and my little sister's Teresa.""
"And you're Giovanni," Freddy added playfully.
"Yeah, yeah," Johnny rolled his eyes. "I hate that name; nobody can pronounce it right." He looked at Bobby. "What about your name?"
"What about it?"
"Well, you dad's old man is called Hosenberger. How come you're Hobbes?" Johnny asked.
"My dad changed it when he was younger, before he met my mom," Bobby explained.
"Was he embarrassed to be a Jew?" Freddy challenged.
"I dunno," Bobby shrugged. Freddy said nothing more. Bobby noticed a group of boys huddled near a car across the street. He nearly gasped when he saw that one of the boys was Billy. Freddy heard Bobby's stifled gasp.
"What's wrong with—" He stopped short when he saw Billy and his friends. "Oh." Billy sneered at the three.
"Well, well. If it isn't Bobby Blobs and his friend Freddy Shitman!" Billy taunted; his friends giggled.
"Just ignore him," Johnny urged. Billy heard him.
"Shut up, you half-breed Guido!" Billy's friends laughed; Johnny was stunned.
"Fuck off, Billy!" Bobby blurted out. When the words came out, he could scarcely believe it. Billy's friends stopped laughing as Billy's sneer turned into a menacing scowl and he started to approach them.
"What'd you say? What'd you say?"
"You deaf or something?" For a short 12-year-old, his balls had suddenly gotten mighty big.
"Come on, let's just go," Freddy urged. They began to walk past him, then Bobby felt himself being shoved from behind.
"Yeah, just walk away," Billy retorted. "Goddamn kikes." Bobby and Freddy stopped. That word: kike. One simple monosyllabic word that would drive an even-tempered Jew into a fiery rage.
"What?" was all Bobby could say.
"You deaf or something?" Billy mocked, echoing Bobby's earlier words. Bobby dropped his book bag and lunged at Billy. He tried to punch him, but Billy pushed him off. They began tussling on the ground. Billy's friends tried to join in, but Freddy and Johnny were fending them off.
"Fuck you, you mick bastard!" Bobby screamed. He punched Billy as hard as he could. Once Billy's nose started to bleed, something deep inside Bobby wanted him to stop. Bobby felt Billy's fist hit him on the cheek. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice cry out, "Break it up! Right now!" Billy got pulled away, and Bobby's grandfather stood amid the boys. He grabbed Bobby's hand and pulled him up.
"What's going on here?" Mattias demanded. Not one boy spoke up. "Well?" Bill wiped his nose, glaring at them. He said nothing and walked away. "Where do you think you're going?" Billy and his friends continued walking. Mattias sighed angrily. He looked at Freddy and Johnny, both of whom had a few bruises and scratches on their faces. "I'll walk you boys home."
*~*~*~*
"I'll ask again, what happened?" Mattias demanded.
"Billy McNulty called us a name," Bobby muttered.
"And you fight for that?"
"You don't know what that schmuck said, Mr. Hosenberger," Freddy jumped in. Mattias smacked him on the arm.
"Watch your language!" he scolded.
"Sorry," Freddy apologized quietly.
"We'll talk at home, Robert," Mattias said. Bobby shifted nervously; when Grandpa called him by his full name, he meant business.
*~*~*~*
Fifteen minutes later, Bobby was sitting on a chair in the kitchen. Mattias stood in front of him with his arms crossed sternly. Bobby fidgeted with his hands.
"Tell me how it started," Mattias demanded.
"We got to Johnny's street, just mindin' our own business and Billy McNulty started getting on our case," Bobby said slowly.
"That's how the fight started? Why didn't you just ignore him?"
"We tried to, but he shoved me from behind! And he called me and Freddy… He said we were…" Bobby hesitated to even repeat the word. Mattias understood and sighed sadly.
"Oh." The two were silent. "Wait a minute—when I showed up, did I hear the words 'mick bastard' come out of your mouth?" Bobby looked down.
"Uh…" He was ashamed to admit he'd said something bigoted as well.
"Bobby!" Mattias scolded. "We both know that Billy kid is a no-goodnik! How could you sink to his level?"
"I'm sorry, Grandpa!" he pleaded. Mattias sighed.
"Look, it's getting late. We have to prepare the Shabbat dinner soon."
"Where's mom?"
"She's at the market. She'll be home soon. Now your dad, that's another story. I'm sure he'll be home late again, like it doesn't matter," Mattias grumbled. Bobby said nothing. Grandpa was a very devoted Jew; Bobby's dad was not, hence the change of surname. Not that he was ashamed to be Jewish, but long ago he felt having a non-ethnic name would give him an edge in the workplace. Bobby didn't have much of an opinion about his religion or background before, but suddenly he felt exposed and violated. Like he couldn't just ignore it anymore. "Come on, help me tidy up here."
"Can we put a record on?" Bobby asked.
"Sure. Put on the Kingston Trio."
"Oh no, not them," Bobby groaned.
"Why not? They were a good, clean group!" Mattias protested. "I'm not listening to any of that junk you kids listen to! What are those groups you like? Airsmith? Falling Boulders?"
"Aerosmith and the Rolling Stones, Grandpa," Bobby corrected.
"What the hell kind of names are those? No, I'm not listening to that noise!"
"Fine," Bobby sulked. Then he had an idea. "OK, Grandpa—compromise. How about Frank Sinatra?"
"Now you're talking!" Mattias agreed. Bobby liked Sinatra—he was a sophisticated swinger. Hell, he even occasionally "borrowed" Sinatra's coolness. As "My Way" drifted though the apartment, Bobby went to tidy up his bedroom while his grandfather started baking challah bread.
*~*~*~*
The bruise on Bobby's face began to hurt. His mother gave him an ice pack and a disapproving look. She didn't say anything to him, satisfied that Mattias had already spoken to him. But she understood.
At 6:30 that evening, Bobby, his mother and Mattias stood quietly in the dining room. The sun had set 15 minutes ago and Bobby's dad still hadn't come home. Bobby adjusted the kippah on his head. Mattias angrily cleared his throat. Bobby's mother sighed. They waited five more minutes; Bobby's father burst through the front door. Mattias glared at him as he ran into the dining room, quickly pinning his kippah on.
"I suppose we can begin now," Mattias announced curtly. Bobby's dad nodded sheepishly. He glanced over at Bobby and gave him a puzzled look at seeing his bruise. Bobby looked away. Bobby's mother took out a matchbox, lit a match, and lit the Sabbath candles on the table. She covered her face with a veil and recited the blessing over the candles.
Most of the Sabbath prayers began the same way, but Bobby couldn't catch too many of the more common words. Mattias had tried giving Bobby Hebrew lessons, wanting him to have a head start for his Bar Mitzvah. The trouble was, Bobby kept mispronouncing the words. When Bobby's mother had finished the prayer, she poured wine into four glasses. She gave Bobby only a tiny amount of wine, and handed everyone his cup. They all raised their cup as Bobby's father recited the Kiddush, the sanctification prayer. Mattias' face grew stony as he listened to his son drone through the prayer rather quickly. Bobby tried not to roll his eyes in boredom. Bobby's father finished the Kiddush, and they all drank the wine.
Mattias uncovered the two loaves of challah bread and handed them to his son. They all began chanting the blessing over the bread together. Bobby could hear the reluctance in his father's voice. I don't blame him, he thought. The day's incident should have been a sobering reminder of everything in his life that he was ignoring, but it wasn't. He felt attacked and almost ashamed. The whole Shabbat ritual was more of a reminder of everything that people like Billy McNulty hated about him.
Some time later, they sat at the table eating quietly. Bobby picked at the gefilte fish his mother had made; he was wishing calzones could be part of the Sabbath meal instead. The pizza shops on Mulberry Street made some of the best calzones he'd ever tasted. Maybe he could convince his father to take him that Sunday afternoon.
*~*~*~*
After dinner was over and Bobby was getting ready for bed, his father came into his room and asked him about the bruise on his cheek. Bobby really didn't want to rehash the story, but told him anyway.
"So you decked him one?" he asked after Bobby had finished.
"Yeah."
"Good."
"Good? Are you serious, Dad?"
"Yeah! You stood up for yourself. You let that little shit Billy know that he can't step all over you."
"Grandpa seemed to think I should've turned the other cheek."
"Well, you gotta know when to pick your fights and when to walk away." Both remained silent for a while. Bobby looked into the face of the man he would one day become the spitting image of; his father patted him on the knee. "Good night, Bobby." His father got up and walked out, giving Bobby something to think about.
*~*~*~*
PRESENT DAY
Bobby sat in the back of the van, tuning into the conversation between Darien and two members of the Righteous Freemen. Bobby sighed and took a sip of his coffee. Three weeks and Fawkes had finally gotten some dirt on these fleabags. They were planning to bomb a synagogue, and not just any synagogue—Bobby's synagogue. Static crackled the radio.
"So the bomb's good to go?" Darien asked.
"Hell yeah!" another voice answered. Bobby recognized the voice as Peter Haus, the Freemen's leader. "The good Lord will work in our favor, making sure to preserve our holy race." Bobby snorted in disgust.
"Those kikes won't know what hit 'em!" a second voice, Paul Mueller, shouted. Bobby froze in his seat; the two Freemen laughed while Darien chuckled nervously. Bobby's mouth fell open.
No, stay cool. Ya can't go busting in there, Bobby thought to himself. I'd like to kick their asses, though! "Come on, Fawkes, let's hurry up and bust these guys," Bobby muttered through gritted teeth.
*~*~*~*
Three members of the Freemen were arrested later that day. Darien had gone invisible and followed them into the synagogue as they were planting the bomb. Easy as pie. Bobby, Darien and two other Agency men booked the three. Bobby could scarcely control his temper as he cuffed one of them.
"Get 'em the hell outta here!" he shouted as he shoved the handcuffed Freeman into the car.
"What's with you?" Darien asked with concern.
"I heard what they said."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Oh!" Bobby put on his sunglasses and walked away, leaving Darien feeling troubled for his friend.
*~*~*~*
HOBBES' APARTMENT
Bobby heard a soft knock at his door. He knew it was Fawkes, probably there to say he was sorry. Bobby didn't want to hear it; wasn't his fault anyway. Darien knocked again; Bobby sighed and got up to answer the door. Sure enough, it was Fawkes.
"Hey," Darien said quietly.
"Come on in," Bobby answered, a tad reluctantly. Darien followed him in. Bobby sat on his armchair and rested his face on his left fist. Darien sat on the couch to his partner's right. An awkward silence permeated the living room. Darien cleared his throat.
"Look, Bobby—"
"Don't apologize, Fawkes," Bobby cut him off. "You didn't say it, and if you had protested you would've blown your cover." Darien hung his head.
"I'm still sorry," he said. He looked at Bobby. "Are we cool?" Bobby nodded.
"Yeah, we're still cool," Bobby replied softly. Darien got up.
"Then I'm just… I'm just gonna go. Are you going to be OK?" he asked.
"Yeah. Bobby Hobbes has got thick skin, my friend. Go on, no need to feel sorry for me."
"I know. I'll see ya." Darien turned and headed out the door.
Friendship is like a fine wine; it gets better as it ages. – Thomas Jefferson
THE END