Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

A bunch of legal mumbo jumbo, right? Nothing to think twice about. Not unless you've been hauling them little delivery packages for like eight months. You been hauling them delivery packages, though, it's possible you've noticed a few things. For instance, it's possible you've watched Kunjib tear open the brown paper on the packages you deliver. Like eight million times you've observed Kunjib counting out ten cardboard videotape boxes — each one glossy, with girls positioned all around. You've also watched Kunjib open them cardboard boxes and take out what Stevie Wonder could see were not colored videotapes, but black ones. Always they were black.

And now it's like in them late-show movies, your detective with the trench coat and the brim hat finds his ass in the middle of something that doesn't look kosher. He has to stay cool, right? Camera shows Sam Spade all stone-faced. He's thinking, only he can't rub his jaw. If he rubs his jaw, the dragon lady knows something's up, she's gonna double-cross him. She and the little major are gonna betray Sam Spade. Gonna kill his little brother and go to the smoky airport and fly that propeller plane straight out of Chinatown. And where's Sam Spade then? Bent over the piano, is where. Taking it up the rear from a Bojangles. Sam taking it from the motherfucking spade.

Everyone's ready to fuck everyone, was Ponyboy's gist. So if you discover a piece of information, a smart motherfucker zips his lip. No point in Jabba knowing you saw the difference in the videotape colors.

’Cause there'd been a time when this motherfucker hadn't been so smart. A time when Ponyboy'd first started working for Jabba. The fat man had put him on strongbox fetching detail, and naturally, Ponyboy'd jimmied open one of those bad boys. Jabba'd seen the lock all busted open, resealed with Krazy Glue. Jabba had played it cool, though, sucking on one of them cigars he loved so much. Out of nowhere, he'd lifted the strongbox. Said Ponyboy wouldn't be human if he hadn't taken his shot. Then he'd removed a big-ass hunting knife from the desk.

“You got two choices,” Jabba had told him, fingering that blade, its edges so jagged the elephants screamed when you castrated them.

“Blood on this knife is behind curtain number one,” Jabba'd said.

The fat bastard had pushed himself up from the chair. Unzipped his slacks.

“Curtain two, there's gonna be some shit on this dick.”

Ponyboy'd stared at Jabba and that fat bastard had smiled this twisted-ass smile, and his eyes had been black and lusterless, and right there Ponyboy'd known that Jabba had seen straight and deep into his soul — everything that Ponyboy tried so hard to forget about late at night, the memories that sometimes still hit Ponyboy in the middle of the day, sensations that were activated by the angle of sunlight hitting a car window. Jabba saw Ponyboy's life on the streets and what Ponyboy had done to stay alive — all them old men in their long cars idling slowly on the corners, that moment when them jailhouse bastards came to the lockup and gave him the note that the most beautiful little brother that ever walked this earth was fucking dead in his sleep in a hospital bed, his big brother wouldn't even get a chance to see him, didn't even get a chance to say goodbye.

In the office out by the airport, Jabba had stared at Ponyboy and Ponyboy had known this motherfucker had his number, and for the first time in fuck knows how long he'd felt fear, true and immaculate.

So a lot was at stake now, even if Ponyboy couldn't let anybody know.

The next day, he chilled at the counter of the video store. Taking out one of the sparklers that he'd strong-armed from a troupe of Cub Scouts, Ponyboy dug for ear wax, whistled himself a happy little tune, and watched Kunjib take out a notebook with a professional wrestler on its cover. Kunjib marked the ledger with inventory numbers for each box, and moseyed over to the back shelves. When he got to the rows of televisions and video machines, Kunjib then loaded each delivered cassette into a different videotape machine. Cracking open a set of blank videotapes from Price Club, he began loading them into the machines too.

A suit was approaching the counter with one of the cardboard box covers, and Ponyboy smiled and entertained thoughts of making a necklace from the guy's teeth. Then he got out of the dude's way, watching the sale. Just like Ponyboy guessed, Kunjib came back from the inventory closet, bringing the suit what Stevie Wonder could see was one of them black Price Club videotapes.

Ponyboy leaned over for a peek at its little dot matrix printer label.

1st Tyme AMATeur debuatants.

NOTICE: THIS VIDEO MAY INSITE BOUTS OF FRENZIED MASTURBATION. The producer assumes no liability for low sperm count, chafeing, or an abnormally muscular right arm. VIEW AT YOUR OWN RISK

Peace out, Ponyboy told Kunjib. Keep on mopping, he shouted to Asaaf.

The sun beat down on Ponyboy like he was its favorite thing in all creation, and he saddled back up onto the bike and cruised down Tropicana Avenue. Ponyboy lifted his hands from his handlebars and navigated with his knees. He held a bottle rocket close to his body, lit the fuse, and shot the rocket into the open partition of a nearby fireworks stand. Someone yelled Fire in the hole and, immediately, a whole bunch of 4-H'ers came running out then and the place exploded.

Ponyboy's mind churned faster than his legs, and he joyously trekked toward his next drop-off. He had all kinds of time for ruminating now. The way he figured it, Jabba had a hundred and fifty-eight concurrent jail sentences breathing down his fat neck, but still was shrewd enough to double-dip, ordering a small number of colored videotapes from his bosses, then selling black duplicates to all the Asaafs and Kunjibs out there. Dude's that smart, wouldn't be anything to do away with a curious little shit like Ponyboy. Nothing but a chicken wing on a yo-yo string.

Ponyboy was riding like a motherfucker now, his legs pumping themselves to butter. He's thinking how every porn store he delivers to is in a fucked-up neighborhood — low-ass rents, a bunch of Asaafs for employees, always looking over their shoulders to see if immigration or whoever is on their tail. Ponyboy, he's Sam Spade meets Oliver Goddamn Stoner, connecting dots left and right. And them Price Club videotapes got to cost lots less than if you bought the real movies from Jabba, correct? Makes sense for the Asaafs to order less videos from Jabba than they needed, pay Jabba enough so that he's satisfied, and make their real money from the bootlegs they print behind the front counter. Jabba don't notice because he's too busy pulling the same duplication scam with whoever he's working for, who's probably screwing over someone else. Bottom line, everyone's filling their own pocket. So long as one of them glossy cardboard boxes is on the shelf, the suit picking through them, he doesn't give a shit. Only thing the suit cares about is, the chick on the box cover bears some resemblance to his wife from back when they started dating, that plus she takes it in her ear.

A beautiful scam. Just beautiful.

Two days later, Ponyboy cut side deals with Asaaf and Kunjib and Mujibar and all the other glottal clusterfucks on his route. In exchange for a small fee, he agreed to haul videotapes in bulk over from the Price Club. But goodness gracious, wasn't it a coincidence: each porn store just happened to order one extra pack of clearance-price generic low-end videotapes?

Now he was rolling. The Chink tattoo artist was more than agreeable, for a small cut, to peddle videos from his cubicle. Where all the stores charged thirty, Pony and the Chink would charge fifteen. The Chink didn't even need that much convincing to volunteer his videotape machine.