T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“I already paid.” Achilles motioned with his thumb as if Bud was behind him.

“What, zigga? You already gave at the office or some shit? You think this a charity? You think Sally Struthers gonna stroll in here with some bobble-headed African negro on her tit and just hand the little motherfucker over to you? Nothing here is free. This is a commercial enterprise.”

“Like the spaceship,” added the teen.

“What do you want?”

“What you got?”

“Maybe forty.” He had given the rest of his cash to Bud, whom he’d promised not to mention.

“Forty.” Lex laughed. “That won’t pay cable. How I’m supposed to get my C-SPAN and ESPN off forty? What else you got? What’s that you keep touching at your neck? That or that watch.” He ran his fingers across the table again.

Achilles cursed himself for touching his throat like a little girl. He could get another watch, but his mother gave him the locket the morning he shipped out. The teen stepped closer, pausing when Achilles reached into his pocket. He pulled out his mechanical pencil. “This is antique. It’s worth over a hundred dollars.”

Lex and the kid laughed.

“It look like this shit pertain to written correspondence?” Lex said, “Clark Kent — looking zigga tried to give me a pencil. Like I’m gonna write somebody. Take that shit to the Jew. Someone’s gotta pay.”

Achilles felt claustrophobic. The kitchen was barely five feet across, and the door swung in, so he couldn’t open it without moving closer to the teen in the hoodie. The table was directly in front of him, so he couldn’t go deeper into the house without going around Lex. He handed Lex his watch and forty dollars.

“Took you long enough. Through the next room, stairs are on the right. Blow, show him.”

“Thank you. We’ll be out of here immediately,” said Achilles.

“Whatever.” Lex had returned his attention to his manicure. A nail clipping pinged off a beer bottle.

Blow cocked his head for Achilles to follow. The teen stomped more than walked, slapping his feet as if he wanted to sound larger than he was. Achilles followed him through the next room, which was cluttered with debris and candy boxes, to the bottom of the stairs. Blow called, “Yo, Black! Yo, Big Man! He here.”

Big Man. Slim. Shorty. Son. Boo. Black people had so much slang, so many terms of endearment for people they didn’t know. They addressed strangers as if they’d been friends forever. Jackson, from New York, had called everybody Son, and it made people smile. Wexler called everybody Chief, and it had the same reaction. And everybody meant every-single-thing. The convoy delayed by a herd of sheep at the gate: Merri said, Check out these ziggas. Jackson had leaned out the window to advise a straggler, Alright, son, you gonna hit that spit if you don’t speed it up. Wexler, hitting the horn, added, You heard him, Chief.

“Might be sleep,” said Blow with a shrug. He tried again, calling louder, “Yo Tony, your man is here.”

“Troy, his name is Troy.”

“Right. Big Man! Yo!” When there was no answer, Blow shrugged and flipped the switch, but the light didn’t come on. “You can go up.” He gestured for Achilles to go upstairs, leaning against the wall like a ferryman who wanted to dock for the night, shrugging as if he’d already made the trip too many times that day. “Yo, Tony!”

Achilles looked back at Blow, who was already turning away, and spoke into the darkness, “Troy!”

It felt like a river was bearing his body downstream to a raging waterfall, and Achilles could do nothing to stop it. Was it because Blow said Tony? Was it because the top light was conveniently out, so the staircase faded into darkness? Was it because the entire time he’d been in the house, he hadn’t heard any noise upstairs? Was it because Bud had refused to come? Was it because Blow walked like he was warning someone he was coming? For some reason Achilles had that familiar feeling like being underwater, like someone had pressed the mute button. Blow speaks, but nothing comes out, as if he’s talking into the wind. Achilles’s body is backing up the stairs, turning away from Blow even as his mind says, Leave! Now! Retrace your steps and leave before you go over the edge. But Achilles climbs on. He’s caught in the current.

A thud. The first blow surprises him. It always does, setting off a reaction he can see but can’t stop, like being drunk and driven to do something foolish that even as you begin you know will end badly. The base of his skull and jaw rattle and he crouches and waits for the gravel and debris to stop raining down on his helmet, because that’s what you do. You wait. You hesitate. You hesitate to open your eyes in case there’s another blast. Like now. You hesitate to open your eyes in case there’s something you don’t want to see. So you wait. Wait for the rocks to stop rolling, for your helmet to stop clattering. You paw your face. All there. You wiggle your fingers and toes. All there. You run your tongue across your teeth. All there. Then when it’s quiet, all you hear is the throb in your own head, the blood siphoning in your temples, and the distant yelling like now, Give it up motherfucker, you call them. You scream their names when it settles down. But the blows keep coming, the helmet keeps rattling. It isn’t settling down, and Achilles has to know, he has to, so he calls out, even though they might not hear, he calls out, Troy, Wages, Wexler, Merriweather, Jackson! No answer. Again, Troy, Wages, Wexler, Merri, Jackie! No answer. Then just Troy! The only answer a laugh and another strike to the side of the face, and another, and another, and a kick, the way his father kicked. His father’s kicks were precise and snappy, like his foot was the brick at the end of a long chain aimed at Achilles’s mouth. But this is different, this is “nothing personal,” as Blow is saying at the moment Achilles loses his hearing.

It lasts less than a minute but feels like a marathon. Achilles instinctively tucks his chin into his chest and pulls his elbows in like wings to protect his ribs. Blow leans against the wall, balancing on one foot and the other kicks and kicks. Straight leg kicks. From a distance, it probably looked like he was warming up for a soccer match or carving a rut in soft earth. The kicks land on Achilles’s back and legs and the side of his head. One finds his stomach, and his breath rushes out in a whistle.

Just as Achilles manages to grab Blow’s leg, Lex puts Achilles in a chokehold and jerks him up to a standing position. “Just relax.”

Achilles turns his head just slightly to the side, nuzzling his chin into the crook of Lex’s arm until he can breath, relaxing to save oxygen. Lex says, “That’s right. Don’t fight it.”

Frantically, spastically, like a scorned woman, Blow slaps and claws at Achilles’s neck until the locket breaks off, the loose chain snaking down to Achilles’s waistband, the cool metal locket skipping down his chest. Achilles kicks him away and Blow comes back jabbing and kicking, swinging in wild arcs like he’s swatting bees. The sound, like slapping a steak on cement, is more shocking then the actual impact of the punches landing on Achilles’s face and neck. Achilles kicks Blow in the groin and when Blow bows to the pain, Achilles boots him in the face.

“Hush now. Shhhhh,” croons Lex, digging his chin into Achilles’s neck, snug as a lover. “It’s just like going to sleep. It’s faster if you don’t fight it. It’s only a little nap.”

Knowing the occipital lobe is much harder than the nose, Achilles slams the back of his head into Lex’s face.

The choke holds.

Achilles rears his head back again and again, his own teeth rattling each time he connects with Lex’s chin. In his peripheral vision, Achilles sees blood sprinkle the flowered wallpaper as Lex swings his head from side to side to protect his face. It’s a pretty pattern, red roses and gold thorns. The paper is thick, like felt, and the blood sits on the top like little orbs, like Red Hots. Achilles keeps trying. Finally he hears a crunch as he catches Lex’s nose just right.