Neal Shusterman: Bruiser

The Bruiser lives in such a place. It had once been a small farm, but it hadn’t been cultivated for a long time. Crops had long ago given way to a wild field of weedy brush, a deteriorating eyesore amid the perfectly manicured lawns of our little neighborhood.

There’s a bull on the property, old and a little too tired to be cranky. It seems to serve no purpose, not even to itself. Occasionally kids will torment it on the way to school. It’ll snort, make like it’s going to charge the fence, and then give up, realizing that it’s not worth the effort. I imagine the Bruiser is somewhat like that bull.

The day I follow the Bruiser home is the day the bull dies.

I’m not exactly what you would call stealthy, but the Bruiser isn’t all that observant either, so I’m able to follow him all the way home. I don’t know what I expect to find, but curiosity is rarely rational. Besides, it’s easy to tell myself that it’s more than just curiosity. It’s what lawyers call “due diligence”— necessary research—and I’m not even doing it for myself; it’s for Brontë’s sake, although if she knew I was tailing her boyfriend, she’d rip me a new digestive tract.

Even though I know where he lives, I want to observe what he does. Are there other kids he meets up with on the way home? A drug dealer, maybe? I promise myself I won’t jump to any conclusions, but I keep my eyes open for anything out of the ordinary.

He makes no contact with anyone today. He’s a true loner, deep in his own thoughts, whatever they might be. He glances behind him once; but we’re separated by a few groups of other kids, keeping me camouflaged. Although I have my lacrosse stick with me, I keep it low, because if he spots that, it’ll draw his attention and he’ll see that I’m the one holding it.

His property—about an acre—is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, and an alley runs beside the fence like a concrete moat separating modern suburbia from the weedy little patch of uncultivated farmland. Across the alley is a strip mall, complete with a supermarket, an ice-cream shop, a Hallmark, and a place called Happi Nails, where I assume women go to make their nails happy. Dumpsters stand in the alley up against the Bruiser’s property fence like dark green barricades erected to keep out his world.

The Bruiser opens a rusted gate that bears a NO TRESPASSING sign and latches it behind him, then crosses through the weeds toward his house. I follow along in the adjacent alley and peer between two of the Dumpsters. Looking through that rusted chain- link fence is like looking into a whole other time and place. The old one-story farmhouse is more like a shack. There’s a big, rusted propane tank, and the farmhouse roof is shedding shingles. The building seems to list, as if it has shifted off its foundation. The place is painted a color that I think was once green but has since faded to various shades that have no specific name on the color spectrum. And the smell of the place…well, it smells like bull and the stuff a bull leaves behind. I pity the neighbors downwind.

Today, however, the lone bull on the farm isn’t very active. In fact, it doesn’t look right at all. I don’t know much about livestock, but if a large animal is lying on its side with its head at a funny angle and its eyes open, chances are it’s not taking a nap.

I watch it for a long time waiting for it to move, but it doesn’t; and now I know something’s wrong, because the Bruiser’s just standing there staring at it with the same dumb expression I must have on my own face. That’s when his brother comes out onto the porch.

Snapshot of kid brother:

Bare feet, torn jeans, and a striped shirt that’s as faded as the wood slats of the old farmhouse. He’s got a runny nose I can see glistening all the way from here, and dirty blond hair where the “dirty” actually means dirty. Flocks of birds could make their nest in there and no one would know, and I’m only slightly exaggerating. This kid is the definition of “feral child.”

So the kid comes out onto the porch, all snot nosed and teary eyed, and says to the Bruiser, “Tri-tip is sick, Brew. You can help him, right?”

The Bruiser just stands there looking at the bull and finally, slowly, turns to his brother. “Nothing’s gonna help him, Cody.”

“No!” says Cody. “No! Don’t say that; he’s just sick is all. You can fix it; you always fix it!”

“I’m sorry, Cody,” says the Bruiser; and then, all tears and drama, Cody races to the deceased bull, throws himself on it, and tries to give it a weird, awkward hug, but his arms can’t reach around the thing.

“No, no, no!” Cody cries.

Maybe I should be feeling something here—some sort of sadness—because, after all, this is clearly a beloved pet; but it’s all so weird. It’s like I’m watching the psychotic version of Old Yeller, where the dead dog has been digitally replaced by this sorry old bull with lonely eyes that stare at me from across the field. Eyes that seem to be asking, “Do I really need this?”

That’s when the third and final family member comes out onto the porch.

Portrait of the Bruiser’s uncle:

Well-worn pointy boots, a tarnished belt buckle about half the size of a hubcap, tentaclelike tattoos that disappear up into his shirtsleeves, gray wispy hair, and bristly beard stubble. By the way he holds on to the doorframe as he steps out, I can tell he’s either drunk or hungover. I want to scream at him, “Don’t you know you’re a walking stereotype?” The bitter, aging redneck. I’m sure his name is something like Wyatt or Clem: a wannabe cowboy whose cow just dropped dead.

As if to acknowledge my assessment, the man flicks a cigarette butt and says, “I shoulda sold that bull for dog food years ago.”

“Don’t say that, Uncle Hoyt!” wails Cody.

“You see what I’ve gotta put up with?” Uncle Hoyt says to the Bruiser. “You see?” As if it’s all the Bruiser’s fault. “Where you been? How come you’re not home on time?”

“I am home on time.” Then the Bruiser asks his uncle, “When did it happen?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Over by the bull, Cody continues to wail. “It’s not true…. It’s not true….”

“Will you shut him up?” demands Uncle Hoyt.

The Bruiser moves to his brother and pries him away from the dead bull; but the kid goes ballistic, screaming and cursing and fighting and kicking, limbs flailing like a spider monkey.

“Cody, stop it!” the Bruiser yells; but the kid’s gone into demonic possession mode, scratching and biting until it’s all the Bruiser can do just to peel him off himself. And the second he does, Cody jumps back on the bull, clinging to it like cellophane and bawling even more loudly than before.

That’s when Uncle Hoyt reaches down, undoes his belt buckle, and in a single move pulls his belt out of his pants, wrapping the end of it around his palm like it’s something he does on a regular basis. He storms toward the boy, buckle end dangling. “IT’S DEAD!” the man screams. “GET YOUR SNIVELIN’ ASS AWAY FROM IT OR I SWEAR I’LL WAIL ON YOUR HIDE TWELVE WAYS TILL DOOMSDAY .” He brings his arm back, threatening to swing the buckle—and the Bruiser doesn’t do a thing. He just stands there watching, like he’s helpless to stop it.

“No!”

That’s my voice. I don’t even realize I’m going to shout it until the word’s already out of my mouth. I never meant to intercede, but I can’t help it. Someone has to stop this.

Suddenly they all turn to me, and now I’m part of the cast of this twisted old Western. I have no choice but to take my place in the scene. I drop my backpack but keep hold of my lacrosse stick. Then I quickly climb the Dumpster and jump over the fence, racing toward the three of them. The moment I’m close enough, I raise my lacrosse stick as a weapon, perhaps the way it was done back in the days when the game was warfare. Then I stare the man in his hateful, rheumy eyes and say, “If you hit that kid, I will take you down!”