Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

“No!” Byron pushed his face at the boy. Stupid. My eyes can deeestroy! Where’s Luke? “Go away!”

“It’s my turn, poop head!” Stupid said.

“Poop head!” Byron laughed in Stupid’s face. “Poop not on head.”

“You’re a poop head!” Stupid said.

Byron’s legs felt small. Stupid laughed. Laughed at Byron. “I am not,” Byron said.

“Poop head, poop face, poop eyes, poop nose, poop head!”

Byron wanted Francine! “Francine! Francine!”

“What?” Francine called up, her funny hair orange in the sun.

“Watch me slide!”

“Go, poop head!” Stupid said.

Byron’s face hurt. “Don’t say that!” he yelled.

“Go!” Stupid pushed. Byron felt the metal melt. His legs flew. The slide slapped his cheek. He held on and cried and cried and cried.

“What’s the matter with you!” Francine yelled at Stupid. “You don’t push people down the slide. Byron, honey, let me look, come on — oh, it’s okay, Byron. Don’t hurt that much.”

“He pushed!” There, Stupid, you are bad. You hurt me.

“He’s a baby!” Stupid said.

“Am not!” Byron yelled, and cried again.

“That’s right,” Francine told Stupid. “And you’re too old to be pushing little babies on the slide. You’re big enough to know better.”

“What’s wrong?” said a grown-up.

“Your boy pushed my baby.” Francine was not scared of grownups.

“He wouldn’t go!” Stupid said.

Byron cried hard. “He hurt me!” There, Stupid. You bad. “He said I was poop,” Byron yelled.

“Did not,” Stupid said. “I said he was a poop head. And he is. I’m going.” Stupid ran down the steps and out to the sandbox. His grown-up left too.

Byron put his warm face into Francine’s pillows.

“Okay.” She put him down. “You’re okay. Don’t be crying so much about it. You’re not hurt. Big boys don’t cry. You see he called you a baby ’cause you were crying.”

“He pushed me.”

“Next time he push you, you push him right back.”

Byron is big. Grab Francine leg, tree leg, and pull. Swing on the tree, Big Cat Byron!

“Go on, now. You’re all right. Go on and play.”

“I’m hungry”

“Hungry? You had a snack just ten minutes ago! You’re not hungry.”

“Yes, I am!” Hold on to the dinosaur leg. Big Cat Byron, claw!

“No!” Francine push. Push away. “Go and play now. We’ll have lunch later.”

“I want—”

THERE’S LUKE!

“Luke! Luke! Luke! Luke!” Hop, hop, hop. He doesn’t see. “Luke, here! Come here! Luke! Luke! Luke!”

There. He comes, he comes with the grown-up Pearl. He has Sy-Klone!

Twist and twist and twist, arms flying.

“Hi,” Luke said. “See? I have Sy-Klone.”

“Let me see.” Byron big and bigger takes the toy and makes it go, arms flying, smacking bad guys. “Let’s play He-Man, Luke.”

“Okay.”

Byron takes Luke’s hand. “You know, Luke, you’re my best friend. I love you.”

“I know,” said Luke.

BYRON DIDN’T know how to work Sy-Klone. “Byron—” TOOK so long to say. Byron was gone already. In the sandbox, burying Sy-Klone. “That’s not—” Luke tried to hurry there.

Byron was talking. “I can tunnel. Find Skeletor and beat him.”

No, no. He doesn’t tunnel. Sy-Klone flies. He makes a tornado and flies. “Byron—”

Byron grabbed Luke. Luke tried to get his hand away. Byron squeezed too hard. “Let—”

“There’s Stupid!” Byron put his face right up to Luke’s, blowing at him. “He called me poop head.”

The Feeling. No. “What?”

Byron pulled Luke down. His knee hit Sy-Klone. It hurt. Byron pointed to a bigger boy. “That’s Stupid. He pushed me.”

“What did you say about poop?”

Byron whispered. “He called me poop head.”

“Poop head?” Luke thought of a head covered with — He laughed. “That’s crazy.”

“You’re a poop head!” Byron called out to the bigger boy.

“Shut up,” the bigger boy answered.

Byron twisted and twirled. He was being Sy-Klone!

Luke reached to stop Byron. “Don’t—”

“Whee.” Byron whirled across the sandbox. His shoes dug holes; his arms flashed around and around. “I am Sy-Klone!” Byron said to the bigger boy.

“Shut up!” The bigger boy picked up sand and pulled his hand back.

“Watch—” Luke jumped, Ram Man, ready to butt away the sand.

The wind hit. Rough rain splattered on Luke’s face.

Eyes! It’s in eyes!

Luke fell, he wasn’t Ram Man, he yelled for Pearl, put his hands on his eyes and tried to get the rough lumps out.

He couldn’t open his eyes, he rubbed — something stuck his eye. He yelled and let go, pushed his head down, to hide, to go to sleep, to be away from this.

“He did it! He did it! He did it!” Byron yelled.

Pearl was there. “No, I didn’t,” Luke said to her.

“Did it get in your eyes?” Pearl’s voice came in between the hurt.

He tried to open them — the roughness tore at his head — he screamed again and kept them shut.

“I want to go home!” Luke yelled. “I want to go home!”

“I’m sorry,” a child’s voice said.

“He’s a big boy, he should know better.” Pearl sounded deep and heavy. Luke smelled Pearl, he was in her arms.

“I want to go home!” Luke yelled to her. “I want Mommy!”

His eyes were wet, smooth and silk now, covering the roughness. He tried to open them.

No! No! It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

“You just rest, don’t rub. We going right home.”

Home. Home. He cried, he cried, he cried. It felt so good to cry.

“Luke, Luke, Luke.” Byron jumped at him. “Don’t go, Luke!”

Press against Pearl. Take me home.

“Byron, leave him alone.”

“Luke, Luke, Luke.” Byron jumped at him. “Don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry.”

No, no, no, no.

FRIDAY AFTERNOONS were the hardest for Eric. The weekend was ahead. The restless, worrisome weekend, with the market closed and the TV and newspapers full of conflicting opinions on the economic future. Three nights and two days to remember the week’s mistakes and missed opportunities, three nights and two days of relentless child care, his body always all on the move, his mind wandering again and again through the bearish article in Barron’s on the oil group, recalling Rukeyser’s guests’ comments on Wall Street Week , relighting arguments with Joe and Sammy, winning them this time, booting up his home computer and studying Tom’s portfolio, dreaming of the numbers going up and up—

Was it time to raise the stops?

Should he double that position?

Should he leverage more? Trade the futures? Or hedge with the options?

He asked and reasked, with no market open to engage his attention, to contradict, to confirm, to react to, nothing but hour after hour of ghostly combat with greed and fear.

You’ve done so well so far. Relax.

But had he done it? Or was it Joe? Was the success merely due to Eric’s being leashed to Joe’s firm hand, Joe’s guidance in control: 10 percent down and out, trailing stops, minimize losses, maximize profits, keep it simple, don’t diversify so broadly so that you’re always losing somewhere, pick the hot areas and stay with them. The trend is your friend.

But were Joe’s tactics so great anyway? These days they weren’t making money fast enough. They had stayed only a few percentage points ahead of the averages, and they were riding one of the great bull markets. Yet every day picking winners got tougher.

Joe had talked Eric out of two gambles, on bankruptcy turnarounds, that would have worked. Four hundred percent returns, maybe enough to get Tom bragging in Boston, pull in some of his country-club buddies’ money.