I, PEDRO TORRES

They came to the door. Two of them. "Peter Torres home?" was the question asked by the shorter of the two. That I knew they were the police was a factor I still cannot explain. Except, I knew. Even without uniforms. All of my inner senses placed me on the alert. The shorter of the two presented his credenitials as well as his personal identification. My fears were confirmed. How I wished he would have flashed them, perhaps, if he had, I could've smiled. It would've seemed more unreal, similar to the movies or television, thus easing my fears. However, it was all routine to him. Although I should not have had fears, I did; police should instill a sense of stability and security in the world around us. Yet, all I sensed was fear. "Why?" I asked. "Is he here?" Again the shorter of the two, obviously the one with authority, responded only with his question. Though three words only, his tone alone clearly indicated that my question had fallen upon fallow ground. "I'll get him!". Again, fear, the motivation. I hated the feeling . This was not the way I was brought up. I was raised to believe the police were due respect. As my father says, they stand as the buffer between a civilized society and chaos. They may not always be right, but their detractors can sometimes be wrong. I don't know what happened to my father's world. Whether my inner turmoil was apparent to them, I never knew. They just stood there on the porch waiting for me to get my husband. They had done nothing but their duty, thus far, and already the sense of unease remained racing throughout my body. A surge, a sense of foreboding rose within me. I was unable to stop; I turned toward the barn to get Pedro, where I knew he was busy mixing the grey roof paint prior to fixing and sealing the roof of the barn. The five gallon can can take almost twenty minutes of steady stirring in order to mix the formula properly; it is only after it becomes totally grey, can it be applied top the surface. Had it only been a little over ten minutes at the kitchen table when he looked at me and joked. "Well, I'm off to my doom." He said this with a smile. As he walked out of the kitchen, I , too, had to smile. The barn is a two storey building, and it was to paint this roof that was the doom in which he was heading. There, standing in the shade of the barn, holding the long broom handle with both hands, making sure it circled the can as he stirred, Pedro remained true to his task. My approach he did not hear. I could see the sweat pouring out of his T-shirt. This was to be his baptism, the first time he would scale so high a roof; while he had painted other buildings, none were as tall, and the barn dated from the late eighteen hundreds. And, to make matters even more hazardous, the roof had a decided pitch. This we were told was done to forestall a heavy layer of snow from spreading it huge weight over the roof for a long period of time. It made sense to us when the realtor pointed it out; funny thing, though, we had none that winter; our first winter, unfortunately, the roof did leak; we had had plenty of rain; our paint we were informed would seal the leaks until we could afford a new one. He had already placed the ladder against the barn. Every time I saw that ladder, I shuddered. It was the tallest ladder I had ever seen. Pedro laughingly called this mastering of so high a roof his greatest challenge or his greatest doom. While the barn housed two cars and the poultry, that is, chickens, the second tier , as the realtor referred to the upper floor, was the hay loft. The barn had been in disrepair for years, it probably could not recall what hay was or is - we had only moved in not quite a year lago; and were still in the process of bringing the buildings back into working possibilities. I employ the word possibilities since condition might convey the wrong impression. We were still amateurs earning our apprenticeship stripes. Pedro was remarkable. He would not agree - a city boy his whole life - this was all new and he tackled each and every challenge wonderfully well, but I intrude on his story. I told him the police wished to talk to him. He hadn't been driving too long; I hoped he was not to about to receive his first driving ticket. But then again, I wished he were. I was hoping against hope; I didn't really believe it, but I wanted to. Wished to. Unfortunately, Pedro had only just learned to drive about eight months ago; and he was a good driver which surprised me. I had expected him to be a fast driver since just leaarning; but, his biggest surprise was his abiding by all of the rules; always made me and everyone else buckle up - would never start the car until we all did. I wanted desperately to believe it was only a driving ticket. He looked up at me from the five gallon can and smiled. Flashed as he always did, the famous Pedro Torres smile; relieved that an unscheduled break in the stirring had occurred. Sometime, I would help him mix the paint; I knew the relief he was experiencing ; for stirring that gray paint was definitely in the category of hard work. No matter how many times you do the mixing; it just doesn't get any easier; the paint demands its twenty minutes plus. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, he grabbed the end of his t-shirt and raised it to wipe his face. Together, we walked back to the house. "Did they...?" I just shook my head. To utter another sound would convey my fear. "Do they make friendly visits like the parish priests?" he joked. As we came around the corner of the mud driveway, we found the police, now, multiplied by two, standing there with weapons drawn. Pedro would have said guns but our upbringings were different. In jest, Pedro threw up his hands. The police scattered, surrounding us. "It was only a chicken," Pedro laughed. That is Peter Miguel Torres. His indefinable sense of the ridiculous; the belief that when life is about to kick you in the teeth; don the steel jacket and joke. He could do that about nearly everything; again, I intrude, this is his story. It was easy for the police. The girl claimed rape. Pedro stared at them in total disbelief. "Ya gotta be kidding!" he laughed. "Who?" No allege, no accuse, a simple statement; no one thought it necessary to add anything else. The girl could not be lying. One need only look at Peter Torres and they knew. They charged him with rape. I could only close my eyes and shake my head. A grievous error I knew was being made. They believed her; not him. no matter Pedro's witnesses; no matter our attorney; the jury believed the girl. They knew about the girl; they didn't know him except that he wasn't local. He was New York. They charged, caged and convicted him. Him! Little did lthey know it just wasn't in his nature. He is many things; oh yes, Pedro would never want you to believe he had an innate angelic nature; quite the contrary; but he is wrong; while he is many things to many people; no one would ever say rapist; but the jury and the girl did. It would be laughable, unfortunately, life is not laughable; not when the judge said he is to be sequesstered away for five years with no time off for good behavior; sequestered; such a lovely sounding word housed in a cruel and evil meaning - to seize, until the owner pays the debyt or satisfies some other demand - to lplace apart from society; sequestered, withdrawn from social intercourse - in rural isolation, to commit for safekeeping - that is the work they used - the judge said lpeople like Peter Torres must be made to understand laws; women are not simply sexual objects placed on this earth to be at his disposal. Rape of an eighteen year old girl is reprehensible; the judge shouted, although it was widely acknowledged the girl was noted for her lack of judgment; Pedro would agree with the judge and add rape at any age would be reprehensible; not just at age eighteen. Despite what many people think, my husband is rather high moraled; he would never violate another individual; I am only his wife. Five years remained as the sentence. Pedro loves words; the affair started in his youth; a nun; but, again, I intrude upon his story. Sequestered and reprehensible were added to his vocabulary. And, to prove they were totally fair minded; they picked up Charlie, Pedro's buddy; the girl said he was there but didn't do anything. They say memories can be imprisoned deep within your mind; but, in truth, memories like just below the surface. Six and relax; the guards beome lax; the doors of the mind slip open with ease; memories come spewing forth from their prison. Rocking PJ to sleep on their never-to-be forgotten old wooden porch of Tomorrow, he and I stared down the long dirt road that eventually takes itself to the highway. We just sit and rock and wait. PJ waiting for sleep to conquer; me, for he who can never come back. Listening to those night sounds rising from the surrounding moonlit field and flloating on the quiet, lazy breeze rolling down from the distant hills;, cool and relaxing; again, thoughts I wish to keep locked up seduce the barrier guards. Life belong to PJ. We had agreed. No looking back; no sorrows. I lack my husband's discipline, and I often wonder if his words were more for my comfort than for his child. l It was still warm when we first moved in to Tomorrow. How we use to sit her, Pedro and me. Me, in the rocker; Pedro sitting on the steps, just looking out over the land. Pedro purchased this old rocker for me. I use to dazzle him with rural summer tales of my parents sitting on the porch back in Vermont in their rockers, and me in my little one. On one of his first odd jobs, cutting grass; he took payment of an old rocker rather than money. "Foolishness, I know, but enjoy," he smiled. Our summer was just closing. We were spinning fading summer dreams of what the future held for us; how we would never leave here. To remember how it was supposed to have been, and how it really is still generates tears. But, I did promise him PJ would never know. I once believed the nighttime sounds coming from the fields composed a natural mid-summer pastorale, lacking only the discipline imposed by a skilled conductor. Tonight, listening to those sounds, I know full well the sounds are not just a simple pastorale; rather, the sounds of survival. Nature, the true conductor. There, on that plain wooden porch, the creaking of the old rocker blending in with the other night sounds, the child in my arms, I railed inwardly against reality. Perhaps because tonight is the end, I can't seem to stem the escape of my thoughts which refuse my will and flee their prison, nor do I want to; even though a promise is a promise - tonight, I can be forgiven; Pedroalways said PJ shouldn't know of our unhappiness; "it ain't fair to the little guy," he counseled. "Let him have your life;not mine." Out there, where the moonlight yielded to the darkness of the fields, hunter and prey it would remain. I am Virginia, wife of Peter Miguel Torres; the child, PJ, four years old. Like all mothers, I cling to old habits. No longer my little baby; now, my little boy. Will I ever see him as other than Old habits die hard. Or, is it simply I still want what could've and should've been. I want to go back; desperately, want to go back. I want what is rightfuly mine. Reality, though, confronts me; even here, in my once cloistered fortress, reality reigns. From where I rock the child to sleep, I gaze down at the old mud road wending its own way, seeking always its outlet toward the main highway and a world living at a pace I do not envy. In the distance, headlights of the speeding cars are mirrored prismatically when the tilt of the earth and the time of day meet, just before nightwall; a sight, jarringly reminding me of a real world. One never too far removed. There, sequestered amid the ripening corn, my own creation once comforted me. But, no more. Now, my own creation tortures me. I believed this would be our salvation. Now and again, the sounds of screeching tires; blares of horns, wafted by the breeze, trespass. Though battle I did, reality poked and probed, probed and poked, scanning each entry carefully searching for a vulnerable gap. And, always, that vulnerable gap. His feet, no more, will tred upon that now dry mud road of late July. If they did, he would be doomed. Pedro could not wait. Thirteen months, plus an additional eighteen, are several lifetimes when yuou are Pedro Torres. The forming years, his and mine, poles apart - no bridge can span the distance; in romantic daydreams only can the bridge exist; as Pedro once told me, "it takes more than a token to sub into my world; you can visit; you can see; but you can never fully grasp it; we ain't all the same though you may think we are; and we may not want your life that you think is so great; the same goes for me, I can buy a train ticket to you life, I can visit, and I can see, but I can't understand it; as a kid, Virginia, I saw emeralds in the kbroken pieces of a seven-up bottle; as a kid, Virginia, what would you have seen?" Many's the night, after tucking little Pedro into bed, I would sit alone rocking, wondering how it might have been, but no more; he is gone' and tomorrow I leave Tomorrow and go back to my parent's home In Vermont. Reaching back into time, too easy for me; for him, maybe no so easy. For him, today was all. Tomorrow never came into his world. His famous disclaimer, which I heard for the first time when I first saw him on the street, 'Man, there ain't no tomorrow' he shouted at the man carrying a sign stating that the world was going to end tomorrow. And, he laughed at what he called always those f alse prophets coming in from the desert. Naming our farm, Tomorrow, was an effort to dampen the habits of his youth, I failed. Time ran out. Life was true; Tomorrow never comes. How can I judge, being his wife, the bearer of his child; and the fact that I love him. I would tell him, "I wish things were different." He would laugh and reply, a reply he often heard from his mother, "if wishes were horses, beggars would ride." What follows is his story; not mine. He wrote it to please me. I thought in the writing, the urge to flight would llessesn. Life is a peculiar taskmaster. To me, his attempt was proof of his good intentions; a chance to utilize his words, his fascination for words; as we all know, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. How he tried. The lessons which I hoped he woud perceive, another of his newer words, from the writings; proved otherwise. The lessons I learned from my scholarly upbringing, did not stem from life, and I discovered to my own dismay are open to a myriad of interpretations. Interpretations which I was too subjective to see. The child and I returned to my roots, Vermont. What follows is the life of my husband, Pedro Torres, his life, his times, his words. It was forwarded to my by a disinterested party with the note, 'the scribblings were the only possessions the bastard left'. The word 'bastard' caused me to smile. If they meant to demean Pedro; they missed by a wide mark; it also tells me they never knew him. Pedro, himself, often said 'no disrespect to me mom, but I don't think she ever married the man said to be my father; so it is more than likely bastard fits me!' If he is, it is only in the literal sense. You may some day come across him, tell him, I understand; but I will never forget him. As an aside, reader, if there is to be a reader, I chaptered as best I could as I read it; if you find it disruptive, plame me, Virginia Torres. My husband's story follows. End of CHAPTER ONE. NOW, BEGINS CHAPTER TWO. I guess I write this to you. Is that how I'm supposed to start? I've thought and thought about this Virginia. It don't bode well. For some reason or other, I kinda like the word, bode. And, I don't know why. Maybe it's because I don't get a chance to use it much. Truth, Virginia. I know why I like it; it's giving me a chance to stall. Oh, Gin, this thing ain't gonna come easy. I looked at it in my mind, it's like the first time I ever saw a jigsaw puzzle, and you had all the damn pieces scattered all across the cardtable. I can't figure where to begin. I know, I remember you telling me, pick one piece, one with a straight back and look for another with a straight back until you find two pieces that fit and go from there; remember how long it took me, Gin. Forever and a day. And now, look at my future. Forever and a day. Hey, I think you did. Maybe there is a method to your madness. You shoulda set me some rules just so I could break 'em. I'm up to here with rules; this place is full of 'em. Right now, I wanna break 'em all. A promise is a promise. I will make the attempt. Just you remember. It ain't gonna be easy. Yes, I'll try to s tick to good grammar. Why you whould want me to do this is a puzzle in itself. Too many pieces in my mind, and some, not so nice; I ain't sure about some of them; this here pencil in my hand - it's got some job to do. All right, I'll try. But you were always there across from me at the table to make it easier. I know. Do it alone. And, not to ask you for help. It's funny, KVirfginia, at one time, I never thought about being alone; at one time, now that I think about it, I never thought. OK! to the chore at hand. That's what your father always says. A lot of people say but never do; he always does, doesn't he? Where, here goes. One piece at a time. We may both be sorry. The pencil don't move. I know you want good grammer, but, seriously, it don't move. I sit here looking at my tablet filled with blue lines; I look at the pencil; the pencil you gave me to start this baptism of my life. I look at the gibberish I wrote trying to get started; and the next line is waiting for me to begin, and I don't know what to write. I look. Just the white page and the blue lines staring at me. I hate this place, Gin, yes, I do. I do. They just said lights out in thirty minutes. Now I know what I hate, Gin, it's rules. Virginia, rules. I know ya need 'em but sometimes they don't make sense. I hadda laugh; it's good to laugh in here, but rules made me thing about something. It's just like the straight back piece in the jigsaw puzzle. Hey, maybe I'm getting some help from above. I remember I hadda laugh. No matter where you went, it was the same thing. The small printed headings never change. LAST NAME, first, FIRST NAME, middle, MIDDLE NAME, last. I hadda laugh again. And they think I am screwed up. Me! I'm supposed to be one of society's problems. Holy hell! Is it the whole world that is upside down and only me who is downside up? Another laugh sneaked out when the appplication asked me to list my occupation and/or last place of employment. I remembered looking up quickly from the four sheets of this application to see if anyone else noticed my laugh. Nope! No one looked. Why should they? They were all wrapped up like me filling out this damn form. Not even the children looked. Why should they? What an influence you are on me, Virginia; see, I wrote children, not kids. Even subconsciously, I must be improving. Now where was I! Oh, yeah. These children still think they're free. That is, if they think at all. Free, that's another laugh. Ain't nobody alive that's free. Whether we like it or not, we're all dependent - even me, and I don't admit that to no one. The only things free about these kids, oops, it just sneaked out, Gin. I wonder if this pencil or this thing that I am writing is gonna make me retrogress. Retrogress, another word I like. I can't think about it now, I'll lose my chain of thought - kids or children. To be honest, Gin, a kid I was - a child never. The only thing free about these kids here in this room is their noses. And, their noses run, run free. Dripping, like the tap in the barn, then wiping it with their coat sleeves. That's our sign, Virginia, not yours, but me and mine. The Christians, the Cross, the Jews, the Star of David, Islamics, Mecca; but me and mine, coat sleeves. Look at them that helps us. All dressed in drab colors and telling us where to go,what to do, this booth, that booth. And, all by the numbers. Never saying please. I've often wondered why? Even I learned long a go to say please. Me Mom taught me for one; and so did the Catholic school. The warning buzzer just sounded. Soon, it'll go dark. So I better hurry to complete this thought. Back to this application or I'll never get my money and be stuck in this old burg. Sugar, sugar, sugar. Notice, Virginia, five letters; not four. But, they called lights out; good night, Virginia; you really are something, I think I almost forgot where I was. Me pencil and me tablet staring at me when I turned over on the cot and wondering if I had the nerve to use them again. Light comes in early through the high windows every morning, whether or not the sun shines; but I like the light, sunny or no; as long as it is light; it means another day is beginning and one day less. Believe it or not, I was eager to see what I had put down; eager but scared; I hoped it wasn't mushy. The decision made, I looked at what I had put down last night. It's the past you want me to think about; not the present; I'll buy that. But to you, the Virginia of my tablet, I hate the present. I'd like to hate the judge, but I can't; he was only doing his job; maybe I'm here for all of my past since. Let's face it, Gin, I wasn't about to be nominated as one of the ten nicest guys in the world; on that you can bet the mortgage - will we lose the farm because of this; that'll be the greatest loss; for I loved it Virginia; it's terrible, but I miss the farm, and I don't know whether it's you or the farm, but everything was so ... you and the farm were like one; it was like starting fresh; I ain;'t gonna let myself get maudlin, nor these pages. Finally get to use the word, maudlin. It fits. O.K day two. I don't think I embarrassed meself with what I wrote so far; though, it ain't much. Maybe it will help pass the time, and that's what you want; time sure does hang heavy in here. Well, Gin, we'll see how it goes. Back to this application, or I'll never get my money and be stuck in this old burg another day. I read the application again from the beginning and started to answer the questions. TORRES, PETER, MIGUEL. I was born, Peter Miguel Torres despite the order demanded. Address: 194 West 36th Street, New York, New York. Zip Code. Who knows? Occupation: Social Worker. I closed my eyes and laughed. I laugh a lot to keep from busting people apart. I looked at my name again. Peter Miguel Torres. That will throw these amoebi for a loss. "Cut it out or I'll crack ya good," yelled one of the mothers to her kid. I watched the poor kid turn around and stare at his mother. I smiled at the kid and thought of myself. He was only playing - trying to have a little fun in this lifeless limbo which I learned in school you only went to if you were not baptized. I don't suppose the nun meant to lie. It's just that she didn't know baptism didn't let you escape the earthly limbo. I know. Know full well. I was baptized, and here I am, right smack in the middle of limbo all over lagain. Limbo. The place you went to if you died before your baptismal. The place you stayed until the end. The place where there were no more tomorrows - only forevers, until God, in his goodness, opened the pearly gates and admitted you into his paradise. I believed that, At five, you can believe almost anything. Nevertheless, the nun would describe the other limbo with a little more kindness than this place. I wondered when this present limbo would end. Peter Miguel Torres. That's me! And, I ain't about to list my real occupation or tell these sucking snoopers nothing but what they want to hear. Hell, I need the money, so I erased out social worker. I wonder what they'd do if I let it stand. Now, I ain't dumb. I know I shouldn't use ain't. What the hell, you all know what I mean. When it comes to dealing with these 'slummers', you do what makes them feel good; it gives them a sense of power; a sense that they have no real need to fear some stupid bastard like me. And, it is best to use their language, like, I know I should be a useful member of society. Use it, and most the them think and believe you are really trying. It's hard to believe how stupid klmost of them are. And, maybe it ain't their stupidity; but what there books tell them, cause they certainly do not employ common sense. How do you like that, Gin, employ instead of use. I'm showing off. What the hell, it makes me feel good. Interruption, Ginny, the daily routine begins. Maybe, tonight if there is time. By the by, I found out about the pencil. Thanks. And, thank the chaplain. You must carry quite a bit of weight with him. He made them break a rule. We ain't allowed pencils. Anything pointed. The guards forget I have one. I'm supposed to turn it in nightly; but they forget; and I forget. Anyway, I keep it well hidden along with my tablet. I stick it under the mattress if you can call that a mattress. Ginny, you keep impressing me. Again, maybe tonight I'll write some more. Ain't, ain't, ain't and ain't. I don't mean to put you on Virginia, then, again, maybe I do. I don't mean that Ginny, it's just that I'm a bit sour - just overlook it. The day was not a good one. I'm having a hell of a time adjusting; God, I call on the Blessed Mother every five seconds. But you don't know about Her and me. She's been my great protector. You may find out too much about me and discover I'm not worth much. Rumor has it that I'm a 'troublemaker', and what is worse, a 'Spic troublemaker', and to top it off, a New York City Spic troublemaker. Guards push me. I got me Memorare, thank goodness. Between you and me, kid, you know my speech can be normal like everyone. I'll behave for you. These pages better make me behave. Any lapses can be attributed to slips of the tongue, or in this case, your pencil. "Should they fear me, Virginia? You would say not." A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, or so said the nun. I ain't never been the violent kind. Yes, Virginia, but that was just that once. This ain't gonna work, Virginia. Believe me! It's like having you sitting over me wanting me to put my best foot forward. I can't put my best foot forward cause I'm looking backward. And back then, I didn't know about putting my best foot forward; and even now, I don't know about best foot forward - or is it best feet forward. You want me to write about my life, past life, like when I was a kid; but now I wonder if I ever was a kid. But, last night, when I began, I sort of fell into it; now, this morning - you're too close - I wanna do right by you; but if I do, I won't be doing what you want me to do. I got to do this my way; why? cause, Ginny, in here, maybe its these lines on these pages is the only place where I can be free til I get out of here - last night, I think proved that - again, I almost forgot where I was. I can't go home tonight; it's frustration time. I want it your way; I do, but in here, I'm still me. Still Pedro. Still Mowgli; still in love with you. How can I tell you about me in a nice way; it wasn't nice. I wasn't nice - and I don't want to lose you or get you made at me; I want you to love me; but on looking back, I think I must be the most selfish person in the world - it was always me I was thinking about; always me, except, when - and then - it was too late - I thought with you I had made up the time, but life demands paybacks - I know you don't believe in it - but that's the difference between you and me - I can't get over my early teachings. That's not quite true. Its just that I do believe it; you only think you can get away with it; but you only fool yourself - now, I see it; but I never did back then. I never see it in the present - isn't that funny - only in looking back - I know it ain't funny, but how else do I describe how dumb I am. Day eleven. I done some thinking today; I was on kitchen duty today, cleaning tables and picking up slop from the floor; not exactly what I'd call the best job in the world; but it gave me some time to think about these pages; for some reason, these pages help me, maybe its knowing I can get away from here; anyway, I don't want to worry what I put down. I swore today that I would only tell the pages the truth; so these pages become my close buddy, and I made the decision that I ain't gonna write this to lyou; I'm going to write this to Dick and Jane. I never liked them kids; all blues, whites, yellows and greens and some dog named Spot or some stupid name like that. I can tell them all about me cause I don't care what they think; nobody is ever gonna read these pages - but when I think I'm writing this to you, a little guard sits up in my mind and says you don't want Ginny to know that; it is as you say that writing it down can be a calming featuare until I get adjusted to this here kind of life; although I don't think anyone ever can. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing or so said the nun. Dick and Jane, you will never like me and I ain't too fond of you; but you don't have anything to fear from me. I ain't the violent kind, like some. Just once I lost my head. I don't know what got into me; I do, but I was ashamed; but all in all; thus far, I can't be described as violent. I'll use the word my wife taught me, 'latent'. Yeah, maybe I am violently latent or is it the other way round. You, Dick and Jane, ;living in your white tornadoed homes, miss a lot in life. Miss the way of survival in a world completely different from yours. If I put my thumb to my nose and my four fingers waving in the air, do you know what it means? You never came across it in your first grade readers or in your comfortable weedless grass-lined homes. I am the week that pops up in your grass. I remind you that all is not well; you can dig me out; but you won't have got rid of me. No matter the hard work you put into it, the weed survives - like popping up in another spot or in your neighbor's yard. But, I'm not really a weed - you think you can kill the weeds with your poisonous chemical compounds, but the weed outwits you. For all of your social programs, we still survive to not like you. I put my thumb to my nose; some of us may need your programs; good for you and lucky for them; but not everyone of us is lucky. If your social workers are stupid enough to give me some of your money; your loss; my gain. I don't make the laws. Hustle - something your workers don't understand. I'll take your money; but you can't tell me how to live. Suppose I don't want what you want me to want; suppose I just want to be me. Am I Puerto Rican? Well, Dick and jane, I resemble one; well, slightly. I speak their tongue. I speak english too. I can manage everywhere and anywhere. Therein lies my strength. And, your bleeding heart weakness. You think social programs can buy myloyalty; you are a fool, Dick and Jane. My mother is not Puerto Rican. She was Nordic or Aryan. My father, well that's debatable. According to her, my father was PedroTorres Ridriguez. She once told me that when she went into the hospital to have me yanked into this world; she had been living with this guy called Pedro Torres Rodiguez. When he discovered that I did not resemble what he considered a Puerto Rican or even someone of slightly Spanish descent; he promptly informed my mother, 'adios' time had arrived and to get some American guy to support me. No, that's not true. It weren't me mom who told me that, I was Rosie; me mom never talked to me about that. No, she never did. And, I wasn't the brightest kid. I never asked her about it. I never thought about it. Sometimes it is easier to penetrate lead than my head. Welfare was the guy's name who turned out to support us. He paid the hospital bills. Me mom and me were then permitted to leave. God bless 'em. Then, if my memory of what Rosie told me is accurate; me mom set about to look for any American guy. She ended up with another Puerto Rican who didn't seem to care about me, just as long as he didn't have to support me. Me mom served her time with him; then, he left. Next up, a German guy discovered me mom. He was about fifty-five. Years later, Rosie to me me mom use to smile that as nice as he was, he was just unable to show his true feelings toward a woman. He strictly used a woman to gain his release from man's nature. Me mom was the kind of woman who needed to be wanted. A weakness which would do her in. She hated duty love. She was real in a duty world not of her understanding. More's the pity she didn;t see the world as it really is. Sexually, me mom and me are not alike. we're both warmblodded; there ends the similarity. Mechanical is profitable. Emotional was her preference. She needed it. I always meant to ask her why. She never spoke about her life before me. I was so self-centered I always thought her life began with me. She spoke to Laurie about it. But never to me. I think she knew. With you, Virginia, I am akin to me mom. The first guy I can remember at home was black. Back then, it was still in the interim period where black was called black, a colored guy or Afro-American or Negro. See, Dick and Jane. I fall in like everybody. Although I must admit it don't mattter. Color or technicolor - it's still the individual. He was easy to get along with; and he liked me too. I really believe he loved momma and me. They made a perfect match. Each one needed the other. Once in the long ago, when she was a looking back, she told Rosie that poor Willie followed the advice of Welfare and took a job. He agreed to support both of us. But, on his third day of the job, traveling home from work, he was run down by one of New York's gypsy drivers out to make a fast buck. Did you ever stop to think why hacks go like cracy? Simple! Money! Every fare means more money; more tips; people need money to survive. Ergo, my present situation. Close to three weeks have gone by. Three weeks less to serve. Well, me mom and Willie never got married. Although, according to Rosie, they were planning on it. She collected nothing. Poor Willie had nobody but us. We were the only two at the funeral; which me mom paid for. She mourned him. Doubly so when it was discovered that she expected another child. Quickly, she shought another member of the black race. She got lucky. Only one disadvantage. She told him about the expected child; he said it didn't matter; he liked her for her honesty, he said something like you don't find it around much these days (remember, this is Rosie's version - and she don't lie); but the true disadvantage, he was in his early sixties and endeavored to keep up with her youthful wild spirit. He was speeding north going one hundred and eighty in a body of sixty-three. We liked him. He didn't drink and he didn't smoke; he worked and was, best of all, kind; but his heart gave out. She lost him and also the expected child; And, we mourned. Again, we were the only two at the funeral; he had pre-paid his funeral costs. The double loss was an experience for me mom. She took to religion. Now, when me mom got anything, she got it in a big way. Dimly, I can recall being dragged into church daily. Sometimes, two or three times depending upon her urge. We prayed in church. We prayed on the street. We prayed before crossing the street; I mean we prayed. By the time I was six, I knew more prayers, more of the Bible than most, and also more hunger. She poured what little money she had into the collection plate everytime it was passed. And, let's face it, it's passed quite a bit at every service. At first, I use to hate the sight of the basket approaching. Meals at home became lean. Man, I can remember being hungry. At first, I use to whine - to be honest, I ust to cry that we needed the money more than the church. After all, I use to point out that one look at the church buildings, and one look at our small apartment, all three rooms and a small shared bath, and you could easily tell who was the poorer. She scolded me for denying God. I wasn't denying - I just thought that He had too good of a thing going at our expense. Nevertheless, I learned well at church. She would put it in; I would take it out. l She was always so wrapped up in the service, the prayers and the hymns that she never noticed. All the people were wrapped up in the service, the prayers and hymns. I began to wonder why the church would permit the collection basket to be kpassed around unattended. I figured they weren't too smart. I also remember the sermon which gave me the idea. The priest was talking about something to do with the poor. I listened carefully. Even at six, I knew the word, 'poor' well; and I knew he was talking about us. He closed his sermon by saying that the Lord helps those who help themselves . I took the white collared man at his word. Like everybody, I got greedy. Coins were not enough. Then, even one dollar or two failed to quench my avarice. I think I knew greedy at six but the synonym, avarice, cam later. See Dick and Jane, I goo got a vocabulary. Food prices were going up; my taste buds were increasing rapidly for many new and different things. I also got the shock of my young life. I learned they weren't too dumb after all. Soon the nuns began to pass the collection plate around; keeping a watchful eye on everyone. And, I think especially on me. I think it was from this experience that I began to develop and perfect the unguilty look - not me, sister or mister, I'm just a poor kid. I was even rotten at six years of age. I, too, had the watchful eye. The church was going to erect another building which they calimed they needed badly or so they said. They had this minature made of cardboard which showed how the building would look. On top of this miniature was a slot where people deposited their pledges in envelopes. Then, they would put it in and go into the church and pray. You had better believe it. That miniature did not escape the evil eye of I, Pedro Torres. I wondered how in hell they got the money out. After trying to figure it out in my head, I came to the conclusion that the roof had to lift off. Excusing myself from the church service to visit the bvathroom, I tried it. Wrong! They weren;'t too dumb. The roof was not the key to paydirt. And, it wasn't the cellophane openings where the stain glass windows were to go. I retreated temporarily back into the service where the priest was still talking. I was kinda hoping that he would have finished by now. Some of them priests run on at the mouth forever. Another reason why I couldn't linger longer exploring the miniature is that if I stayed in the bathroom too long, me mom would have thought I was constipated. That meant castor oil. I hated castor oil. "To get to heaven," the priest was saying, 'one must climb the ladder. One rung at a time. The bottom of the ladder must stand on firm ground. Everything and everyone had a beginning but God. This then is the soul. A soul free from sin. And, from the bottom begins our climb upwards to our reward which is heaven." As he finished his sermon, I nodded in agreement. Of course, my reward had to be under the miniature. There was no other place for me to try, and I had never thought of lifting up the miniature to look; I'm also not too creative; it never occurred to me until I heard the priest give me the idea. I nudged me mom, whispering I hadda go again. I had to chance castor oil. I hadda find out. She looked at me in disgust and shook her head negatively. But, I had no choice. I hadda find out while everyone was in here praying. I began to wiggle and squirm until she could stand it no longer. I could see she was mad. I made a face like I was about to burst. l She relented. I headed toward my hopeful reward. And, it was. But I got paid back for my lie. She dosed me with castor oil. I couldn't go out for two days. My trips to the bathroom on further visits to God's house as me mom began to call it, were limited to one. Otherwise, it was castor oil. So I made each and every visit count. She didn't mind one visit during the service; and I think it was because the bathroom at our house was not the cleanest; no matter how hard she tried to keep it clean; the other two guys that used it was just sloppy; to tell the truth, it was old from use and refuse. At first, I only took one envelope and made sure it had no coins. Then, I had to change my plan cause some of the people who donated wrote checks; I was too young for checks; but that was how I first learned about what checks can do. I limited myself to two envelopes at a time. This to avoid suspicion. I had a head on me as a kid. I never did quite understand what the church wanted another building for in the first place. It was never filled no matter what time we went in. For me and me mom, the meals improved at home. I use to tell her that the butcher or someone gave me money for running errands. It pleased her to see that I cared. I was so believable. I spent as many hours on the street as I could. I loved them streets; and I could have been running errands except that I was totally caught up with my buddies doing hundreds of important things like exploring the streets, the people, the weakmesses of everyone. On my streets, there are more weaknesses in evidence than in others; on other streets; people disguise them; around us, people don't seem to think we can see. I forget what day this is. I missed a couple; the pages add up and to remember what day it is ain't easy, and then I have to go back and see what number ofday it is; and to find out this is something like day twenty-two. I think pages, I am just gonna pick up from the point where I left off. That should be easier since it is my life I am writing about, and I should be able to pick up with no trouble at all. Listen to me pages; I sound like a veteran writer; when in reality, I don;'t know what the hell I'm doing; but we'll see how this works. O. K., the people don't seem to care how they act on our streets, I get the picture. Yes, I do remember, unfortunately. My resource depleted. Me mom lost her religion and reapplied herself to her trade. Me, I was afraid to go back into the place alone. I remembered also the priest's words, "God watches and waits His turn." And, I believed in God. Since she was nop longer putting money into the collection plate, the relief money and her work provided well. Well, maybe not by your standards, Dick and Jane, but by our standards. I got born in the mid seventies. In May. This pleased my mother. She believed that all people born under the sign of Taurus would be strong. She told me I had to be strong. She use to call me, 'El toro, the bull'. We'd both laugh. About eight or nine years of age, I would sit home and watch television and do my homework. Sounds funny. It ain't. No, I hadn't changed. I had just adapted to the present environment. Me mom enrolled me in a Catholic school in New York City which is my home. I love it. My home ground. I use to think there weren't another place in the world, and to me, the world was New York City. To get back to homework. If you have ever gone to Catholic school; you know that it does not pay not to do the work assigned. If you fail to do it; you must stay after school; or else they dream up some other kind of devilish scheme, so that, in the end, you do it just to get them off your back. Theirs is a one way street - their way or else detention and/or pay penalties, like staying after school - you surrender and do their work just to get away from them. Funny thing, though, you do learn in spite of yourself. And, the public schools, like me mom use to say were beds of infestation. I took her at her word. I never made the public school system; though I tried damn hard to. I figured infestation meant lots of fun. Despite the fact that me mom was not Catholic by birth, it was Catholic school for me. Despite the fact which was up for grabs, my mother clung to her belief that I was one-half Puerto Rican. He had been Catholic - it didn't matter to me mom whether he was a good or bad Catholic - just that he was Catholic; therefore, I had to be reared Catholic; she didn't want the Catholic god angry with her. Someone once told her that if your child is Catholic and not Catholic reared, the Catholic god would strike you dead or send the plagues of Job upon you. Momma was superstitious and not about to take any chances; she figured - since she were still alive; she had enough problems without the threat of Job hanging over her. It also made her feel that at last she was doing something right. She kept telling me how lucky I was that I was Catholic. There were times I would catch her looking at me and just shaking her head. She swears that I resemble Pedro physically; at home, she always called me Pedro; but only when others were not around. She also said I was a stubborn as he. Now, I wasn't a white as me mom, I always thought I looked a lot like other Puerto Ricans. Catholic school was fine. That is, once, I straightened out. And, she certainly straightened me out. Boy, she was tough. God! I remember that as though it were yesterday. It's too late tonight to write it out; I thinkl I'll just site here and muse; there goes the lights; it's a full moon out there tonight; you know pages what I just learned; you know the expression, once in a blue moon, well a blue moon is two full moons in one month; and that happens they say once every thirteen or fourteen months; which is why a blue moon is a long time. Now, why did I just think of that. A blue moon. So I just sat here thinking about that day. Sister Mary Dolor saved my future life and I never knew it. But that's a story I'll start when I put me pencil to you next time; you gotta admit, pages, I am pretty faithful I try to write something every day or at least every other day - well - I try to not let the time get me to out of hand. Sometimes I am just so tired at the end of the day. Hey, pages, one thing - it's proving not too difficult to pick up where I left off. Saturday morning. You'll be coming tomorrow. It makes my day as that fellow Clint says; only in my case, it augurs well; another word that fell out in my hearing; our traveling priest used it; he comes here seeking out the Catholics for confessions and services. Actually, he sees anyone who asks. One nice thing, he don't push though; and he don't promise nothing; just let's us know if we need him; he always says, he's around. I kinda like that; it's funny, Gin, between you and the pages, the weeks go by quickly; you did me a great favor by pushing these pages on me. I wish it were Sunday every day. But since the day before Sunday is less hectic; I'm going to try to start this Saturday when Sister Maryu Dolor saved my life. It's etched in my mind forever. 'See DICK. SEE JANE. SEE DICK AND JANE RUNNING. SEE DICK AND JANE RUNNING WITH THEIR DOG. DICK AND JANE AND THE DOG ARE IN THE PARK. JANE IS RUNNING AFTER DICK'S DOG IN THE PARK. DICK AND JANE LAUGH. THE DOG IS LAUGHING. DICK AND JANE AND THE DOG ARE HAPPY IN THE PARK'. "Peter! Peter Torres! Pay attention!" "Hey you fucken Spic, ain't you gettin dressed today?" I hadda laugh. He took me from the reverie of my past into my present. And, it was a reverie. Between Sister Mary Dolor and you tomorrow, nothing can get my goat. Remember Farmer Brown using that expression, 'it gets my goat." Anyway, I just kept on writing and stayed lost in my past. I think Virginia knows me well - this is good for me until I get accustomed to - no, I ain't gonna count the days. Every chance this guard gets, he calls me spic; but only when no one else is around; this way, I can't prove it; what he doesn't understand is it don't bug me. I may be in here; but I don't have his 'hang ups'. This pencil needs a bit of sharpening. This could be a problem. As you know, we ain't allowed sharp things. And this is not one of the guards to ask favors from. Guess what pages, our local padre got me a lead pencil with a small cardboard of lead to fill it. I don't guess I'll ever use it all; but it should keep me going for quite a while; that priest was kinda nice; didn't ask questions and didn't ask me to come to Sunday mass; he could be very clever - oh, I hope I don't feel guilty taking the pencil and not going to mass. My nun would kill me if she knew I gave up church going. O.K. pencil, let's see you get me through the rest of this Saturday cause tomorrow is Sunday; and that is Virginia's day. 'PETER, PETER TORRES, PAY ATTENTION! Yes, it is me, she calls. Calling to me when I was eight or nine or was it seven. I think it was, who cares. I wasn't even innocent then, and then, again, maybe I was. It was two thousand years ago, and who remembers an innocence of so long ago. But, I do hear that call. And, her, I must obey. Goodby for now, Dick and Jane. I didn't know where your park was, but it was nothing like Bryant Park at the time. If you and Jane had gone to my park, you would have been mugged, raped, shot up with, what was it, I ust to call it, ah, yes, lemon drops, as in where troubles melt, and your goddamn dog would have been sold for booze and whooze. You see, Dick and Jane, the nun beckons me. Not Pedro Torres, but Peter Miguel Torres who doesn't exist anymore. He's from back there. Like the third person this nun told me about. She explained to me that I was one of three people, the 'I' who lives; the 'You' who just watches the 'I'; and 'he', he who remembers. The I lives the moment, the you just watches in amazement at how dumb the I is; and He, he who records; he, the memory bank of the I; the he who tries to understand why the I does the stupid things that the I does without thinking. The he is your conscience who reminds the I that nothing was gotten away with cause he records it. When she first told me I only thought I understood what she was saying - as I said, you can believe many things when you're a kid. Now, I look back at how I just described it and don't know what the fuck I mean - yet, in here, I do pages. I do. Listen to me, now I'm making the pages real people. I am going crazy; but this is Sunday, so what the hell; no body can visit today - we got a flu outbreak here at the prison. lOnly the virus can get in and out. Damn, damn, that means no visit from Gin - I'd like to scream and curse at someone; but it ain't gonna change anything; the Blessed Mother will calm me. So that's how this think is gonna work. He's donna dictate to the I. Which means, he has all the fun and I gotta write it for him. He only thinks he is; the, I, Pedro Torres, will take over any time I want. I'm taking over if he gets carried away with this conscience thing. What follows is what HE, peter miguel torres, knows to be how it really happened. El Twino - if you disagree, you can interrupt any time. O. K. He looked at the woman garbed in flowing black cloth with her rather large white starched collar and headpiece. She was a nun. And, she wasn't like some of the other nuns who changed into regular clothes; she liked that black costume. You could tell by the way she wore it. She was a sister of the Immaculate Heart Of Mary. He yawned. He looked at the nun; kept yawning; The, he slowly returned his large green eyes to the shiny new reader before him on his wooden desk. Although he had affixed his eyes on the printed page, his imagination flew him out of the room, drafting and dallying as though it were a pigeon feather in the embrace of a breeze. He hated Dick and Jane and the dog; queeries is what they were - even Spot, the dog was suspect. Who ever saw or even heard a dog laugh. Such shit. C'mon, Pedro, let's leave this to me, O. K. He did not miss, though, the sharp ringing of the bell, tolling dismissal. Quickly, his hands shut the book; stashed it in the wooden desk; jumped to his fee right away as on cue; to get out of this prison and dance into the freedom of his streets. It was the late seventies, the eighties loomed just ahead. Also, the beginning of the warm weather. Hot, sticky and close. The school year hung onto life by just a thread. But, when you are not quite nine, humidity, smog, the smell of stale chalk dust, the heavy atmosphere of academic knowledge, the mustiness of old buildings, are of no concern, nor does it impede or stifle the energy of an eight year old dreaming of his streets and freedom. Listen to the 'he' - trying to go literary on me. Watch yourself, 'he', we was raised on 44th Street and Tenth - it ain't Park Avenue. C'mon, he or I'll take over. Just as he reached the door before all of the other children, for he was quick afoot, this Pedro Torres; his name echoed and caromed off the four walls of the schoolroom; his classmates stared. 'NO!", the authoritive voice commanded, "PETER!", turning her strong gaze upon him. 'YES! YOU! YOU are not dismissed. "WHY NOT?" came his snarl to the intrustive question. He waited every day for just this time when the bell tolled his release from prison. The other children passed him by with curled up lip engs as they paraded their daily afternoon freedom before him. Gaily, laughlingly, they skipped out of their cell. Kids can be cruel to their own. He heard his streets beckoning; he ached yearningly to respond to their call. Now, he was alone. Except for her. The monster in black. Standing on the bare wooden floor by the open wooden door leading to his freedom, he turned to face the enemy. She stood by her desk. Miliarily erect. He glowered at her. Mortal enemy to mortal enemy. She, in his eyes, like one of the huge church statues; to her, he must have looked like a smart-assed kid. Her cold, forceful glare confronted his defiance. He studied her feverishly to see if she would advance and forcibly force him to comply and return him physically to his desk. Her eyes never deflected from her victim. He swore to himself never to be taken alive. She appeared to him as if she were swelling herself to the size of Godzilla. With her eyes, cold as ice, she motioned him to return to his desk. He hadda think. But, at the ripe old age of eight, Pedro surrendered to the stronger force fully aware she could heat and hit hard; having already experienced her power. He was also hip to the fact that he could not hit her back. "After all," he reminded himself while he stared at her, "you can't hit a religious person". While the wish reprisal sallied about in his young head, he walked slowly back to his desk; each step placed forward with a stubborn reluctance; for each step carried him further awy from his beloved streets; his kingdom. But follow her tacit gesture, he did. Back at his desk, he sat down sullenly; pulled out the book; opened it, while conjuring up lots of way to combat this monster. "Now read," Godzilla growled quietly, but coldly, when she fully and finally aware that he was going to yield. She watched him closely. He moved his head from left to right and moved his lips to let her know that he was reading. He turned the page. "Aloud" Godzilla commanded. He slammed the book shut and shoved it onto the floor with a damning force. He, then, sat erect, stared at her; meeting her stare as an equal. She, in turn, did not move. Just stared at him. She remained behind her desk; giving no indication of her reaction to his outburst and threat to her authority. He gathered his forces for deadly combat. Still, she did not move. He watched her intently, waiting for her to spring. He knew what to do. He would catch her in the air and chop her in half with his strong hand, just like Bruce Lee. But, she did not move. "Pick up the book and begin to read aloud," she asked quietly, in a firm and well-modulated voice, barren of any tinge of anger. "And, no more nonsense." He thought she spoke like actors do. He tensed. Actors could be tricky. This he knew well. He watched enough movies and teevee. He dared not the slightest movement of a muscle. He was unsure of her. She was more than tricky. She was religious. He knew what he must do. He must run for his life. But, he must think out his plan. Plan was everything. Quickly, he shifted his eyes and positioned them on the building adjacent to the school and began to count the bricks. The plan must be simple. While he counted the bricks, he could mute her commands and directions and concentract on when to make his move. He swore to himself 'not to make a mistake.' He heard her rise but fastened his eyes even tighter on the brick wall. The wooden floor creaked. He counted all the more urgently. He could tell her movement was slow. He listened to the floor. The sound was not close. He wouldn't look. The creaking noise did not appear to be coming in his direction. Suddenly, the bricks disappeared. The monster had drawn the window shade. It was all so fast, nothing but the dirty shade. He was pleased with himself. He hadn't looked at her. He was winning. He knew now that she knew that he wasn't weak. He wasn't afraid. And now, she knew that too. He was 'El Toro', he told himself. "Your reading lesson is not printed on those bricks," she said calmly. He then threw his glance toward the bulletin board which was tacked with what he considered useless information, but was ensnared by the pictures she pinned on the bulletin board; one in particular - the background was in color and showed the leaves of the trees in multi-colors of reds, yellows and browns; but the boy with the basketball was not in color. He wondered how she did it. She was always putting up strange pictures on the bulletin board; always of someplace other than New York City; it was as though she didn't know this was the real world. And, then, he wondered hard to forget. He had been told, nuns could also be witches. "I am older," the nun said in quiet tones as she walked away from the window to the back of the room. Peter let his ears follow; listening to the footsteps. "Than you. I can last longer than you, and I shall win. I shall win!: she said raising her voice firmly, but not yelling, "because in me rests authority backed by force." She walked up the aisle, her black habit touched Pedro as she swept by him. Then, she suddenly turned and shot her fist upward in a forceful fashion and stood directly in fron of him - the fist still straight up. He wanted to duck under the desk to avoide the power stroke, but did not. "You are nothing but an eight year old boy. You will lose," she continued, her tone quiet. She relaxed her arm and it fell into itts normal position. "You will lose to me simply because in this classroom, I am the Boss, the Leader, the Master, the Witch. The witch dressed in black, or whatever words you use to describe me, But, Peter Miguel Torres, in the end, you will do as I say, and in so doing, bow to me. If you decide to strike at me; I will strke back. Since I am bigger than you, I shall hurt you more than you lhurt me," she smiled, "maybe, just maybe, you might produce a teeny weeny sting, like a little bee. Do you understand me?" She said this last line quietly. He was afraid. Afraid because she did not say it threateningly. Almost as though it were a fact and nothing more. He kept watching the boy with the basketball in the picture. Yet, he had heard every word and understood all that she said and was aware that she could be even more menacing because she was truly evil. Evil did not have to shout or yell. Evil has power. He wasn't sure how he knew but he knew. "I am on to you scheme," she said, moving from her position. Pedro clenched his fists and threw his look to the dirty window shade all the while expecting her to shower him with her fists. He bit his lower lip in preparation for the blows to come. She turned and w alked away. She laughed. His eyes shot to her at the sound of her laughter. He couldn't believe what he was seeing and hearing. She remained laughing. "It didn't take long for me", she said as she returned to her chair by her desk, "to figure you out. You behave abominably in order to get yourself expelled from Catholic school. Abolish the daydream, that is all that it is. I will not let them expel you. Obviously, your mother wants you to have a Catholic education, and my boy, you will" she said raising her tonal volume but never to a shout. And, you will read aloud. I have come to this school late; during the past month, you and your actions, both in the classroom and in the schoolyard give you away. You are recalcitrant; you are defiant; you have no respect. For a month now, I have been endeavoring to teach you and your fellow classmates. Your fellow classmates are more intelligent than you. They learn. You are a first grader. And, what is more, you are a repeater. You failed first grade. My boy, that is almost impossible to do; but you did it; and did it twice. I am not about to let you repeat a third time. A feat, by the by, you should not be proud of. Before you leave this classroom; before this sun sets and the moon rises, you will read, and real aloud, or I shall know the reason why? Do you understand me!" He listened to her run on and on but remained mute. He hoped his face was a blank. He was scared. She wasn't acting like any of his other nuns. They didn't care whether he read or not; which was not true; but they were older than this one; and his attitude nasty. They, the other nuns, discovered if they left him alone; he would give them no trouble. This one was something different. He kept fearing the heavy blow which he knew was going to come. She rose from her desk. She walked past him toward the rear of the room. He wanted to watch her but she kept moving. When he at last turned to stare at her, she was already staring at him. This was a crushing blow for him. He turned his head toward the front of the room. She remained in back of him. He ached to hear her footsteps again on the move. He hated her. He hated her for making him lose; and he hated her because she was a girl; and boys do not lose to girls. "Pick up the book," she offered quietly, "and open it to the proper lpage and read. Aloud." He stooped over and grabbed at the book, laying it on his desk. He opened it slowly and looked at it. Pretending to read. The nun had now returned to her desk and busied herself with the usual afternoon routine procedure that she no doubt followed in the hours after teaching. He would sneak a quick eye to see the enemy's action. His hate and anger and shame kept rising. "I cannot hear you, Mr. Torres," she said remaining in her quiet mode; not even looking up to see him which irritated him all the more. He was just short of his climatic experience. "Can't hear for what?" he screamed. "How long do you think you can keep me here?" "All night," she smiled and glanced up from her desk work, "if need be or until you learn that I run this classroom. Read and leave. It is that simple. You, Peter Miguel Torres, are the one making it difficult." He hated her because she continuied talking in her matter-of-fact tone while Pedro felt as though he were being tossed around like the clothes inside one of the dryers at the Do-It-Yourself laundromats. 'I HATE YOUR GUTS!" He screamed, the energy forcing him to rise from his desk. "Do you now," she smiled, raising her eyes from her papers which she had been dutifully correcting. She met his eyes with calmness. "At least," she smiled, "you have learned something in my classroom, lo, this past month. I was beginning to fear that all of your twenty-four days under my tutelage had been wasted. Yes, my boy, I have counted the days, and today, is 'high noon' or showdown time. His eyes widened to the fullest, his mouth dropped. He didn't understand all she was saying but he got the message. Her reaction wasn't at all what he had expected. He sat down without realizing he had been standing. He stared at her in stunned silence. "But," she smiled at him, "also realize that just because you hate me, does not mean that I am about to dismiss you before your reading is completed." "What'ya mean, I learned something - I ain't learned nothing from you," he shouted angrily at her. He was angry at himself because he spoke without thinking; he was angry at himself because since everyone else had gone home; he hadn't won anything; he just kept losing; all he could think about was that he was a loser; and it pained him that El Toro couldn't win. And, he discovered instantly why he couldn't win. He didn't have his plan. You gotta have a plan. "Then, you learned it somewhere," she smiled breaking into his thoughts. "Whad'ya think I learned?" he said sarcastically in an effort to cover up for his own lack of control. "To distinguish between like and dislike. I like some people, dislike others. T'is a great comfort to me that you can also make that distinction. It also confirms to me that you do have mental capabilities. You should remember also that you can learn something else from me." He wanted to say wjat. but he couldn't. It would be another admission of defeat. He had to turn all this around and make El Toro a winner. "I mean it. I HATE YOUR GUTS!" he shouted. "Ya think I'm kidding," he screamed almost coming to his full hate potential which dwells inside an eight year old. He was again so full of energy at that moment that he instinctively rose from his desk. Without any to do, the nun quietly motioned him to be seated once more. "I believe you," she said smiling. "And, Peter Miguel Torres, you do not have to shout. I am not deaf nor am I in another room. You are simply being overly dramatic - one of the reasons I seldom watch television. To be dismissed, you do not have to shout, plead, beg. You must, "she simply pointed to his book. New York City's streets could not confuse him. He was sure of himself. He knew that the sun would rise day after day. He knew that night followed day. He knew the time to eat. He knew his buddies. He knew his mother. But, now, she had maneuvered him onto a new street where his tread was unfamiliar. He was receiving his baptism into subtlety. He had wanted to make her angry. His volatile outbursts had always engendered reaction in kind. But to Pedro, this nun seemed to be following the rules of another time, another place. Alien was it to him. He fell back onto the rules of the street which called for quiet duplicity in an effort to undermine his hated enemy. "My mom will wonder why I'm not home," he said forcing a smile and in a quiet tone. He hoped that at the mention of his mother, it would frighten her. He was fighting with clouded thinking. "I'm sure she will," came his combatant's calm response. "Well," he said looking at her completely bewildered that his words did not appear to be affecting her. "When you get home, you simply tell her that I kept you after school because you refused to read. Did you ever stop to think Mr. Torres that it could be you keeping me after school? Would you like me to telephone her? " she inquired politely. "We don't got one," he smiled triumphantly, feeling as though he had won a tremendous victory. He guessed that he had been right. She hadn't contacted his mother. His mother was where his safety was; where his daily life was; where his security was. His home bastion had not been invaded by this black garbed monster. She had been bluffing all this while. He had to admire her guts, but now, he was sure he had regained control of this situation. He would become the nice pliant child, ill-used by society. It was a well known trick that always worked. "Then, " she smiled and nodded, "you will just have to inform her when you get home why you are so late." She concluded on what he sensed was a more triumphant note. She was putting him down, he thought. He wanted to scream in sheer frustration at his own failure to get her to the screaming point; to make her lose her cool as she had made him lose his. But, there she sat unruffled which only increased his ever rising anger and hate. He decided to chance. He would play the nice pliant child ill-used by society. He bit his lip to compose himself. "If I,: he started out doing his damnedest to remain cool and pitiable. "promise to behave in class tomorrow, will you please let me go?" He finished in his most polite manner. He began to relax. This pitiableness always worked in the streets, and the thought of the streets helped him remain calm. "Mr. Torres! Do I like as though I just fell off a Christmas tree?" she said giving him a quizzical look. "Do give me credit for some brain matter. You are an eight year old child. I am aware of the many faces of an eight year old child. I was once a child myself." "Whad'ya mean?" Pedro asked not fully understanding her statement. He thought it meant no; he was sure it didn't mean yes but the Christmas tree thing blew his mind. He couldn't understand. He performed his well-tried performance on the street. It always worked. You adopt a meek and humble approach to an adult, it was a sure-fire winner. Never with your peers, but always with adults. And, this nun was an adult. "It means Mr. Torres, I am not stupid," the nun uttered quietly. "WHY NOT!" he screamed, forgetting his planned duplicity, forgetting his beloved streets. His frustration bolted lupward. He returned back to his old rules forgetting that they had not worked either with this nun. He jerked his head away from her vision and stared at the empty blackboard. "Are you asking me why I am not stupid, Mr. Torres?" He ignored her and kept staring at the empty blackboard. "Are you now in the silent mode, Mr. Torres? Perhaps, you will now listen. You may leave when you have read. That is the purpose of your remaining after school; just in case you may have forgotten the purpose of why we are here - that is, you and I. Your promises of behaving properly in the classroom mean nothing to me. I feel pretty confident even less to you. That is an old ploy, Mr. Torres. I would have expected something better from you. I am not here in this schoolroom to act as your keeper, or in your case, babysitter. And, you should be ashamed that your actions are akin to those of a baby. My function is, if you are not completely aware, to teach. And, you, Mr. Torres, simply refuse to acknowledge this. You are nothing but an eight year old boy. You do not run this classroom. I do! You are next to nothing in this room; that book in front of you has more value. In this room," she said rising, "I am all. And, I am going to teach you whether you like it or not. She stared at him and then resumed her seated position "You see, Mr. Torres, I know your secret." He swiveled his head toward her. Hatred loomed from his eyes. "I know that you cannot read." This was said with a smile. "I can too," he shot back at her without removing his eyes from her. He felt the sting; the fear of discovery gnawed its way up through the bones of Pedro Torres. The fear of being unmasked fill him with humiliation. Her attitude riled him. She was smug. That smile of hers. She was mean. She was cruel. It reminded him of their caseworker. He stiffened. He stood up and returned her stare with a sneer. He was gearing for the final battle. Yet, the smile on her face appeared to offer warmth in the face of danger. He admitted to himself, she did have a pretty smile, he thought for a nun. And, he decided to work on the assumption that perhaps she felt sorry for me. He had to win. He was El Toro. He would use any weapon to defeat her. "I can read," he said lowering his eyes, smiling - acting out once again, the repentant child. "Then, show me; prove me a liar and we can both leave," she continued with her smile. He looked up at her face. Yes, he saw the warmth. It was a trap. Hell was hot; she was from the devil. Oh, she was tricky; he had been right all along. Too tricky. Now, she was using niceness to beat him. That was the cruelest of all. He lost control. "Well," she said, matter-of-factly, waiting for him to begin. "YOU ARE A LIAR! and you are supposed to be a God person who ain't supposed to lie. I can read. It's just - I don't feel like it. Who wants to read about Dick and Jane in the park. Who believes it. It ain't any good. Parks are for winos, muggers, homos and junkies - ya don't know nohting," he finished with a shout and rose from his desk. He took hold of the book and waved it at her. "This ain't any good, and that's why I..." "Isn't, Peter. Isn't any good. Isn't!" "That's what I said," he snarled angrily as though she hadn't been listening to a word he said which also pitched his anger even higher. "No," she smiled sweetly, "no, it is not. In fact, you said ain't too often this afternoon. Ain't is a colloquial expression usually signifying that the one employing it slept at the wrong time when he should've been listening to his teachers. However, I do know what you mean. Dick and Jane are a bit of a bore; but, in order for you to learn to read, we have the Dick and Jane readers. It isn't important whether you like them or not. There are a lot of things in life that we may not like; but, we can learn from them. Nor is it my job to make the classroom entertaining - my function is, again, in case you forgot, to teach. To raise your intelligence level one grade. This is my responsibility. Your responsibility is to learn. School is your job; we have recess for you to play; school is your job; because it is your life Peter, blow it now, and you have blown your life; that's a fact. At this school, we have only the Dick and Jane readers. We simply cannot afford others. We are a Catholic school - not public. These were left over and the publisher gave us a good price; they are comparatively new books." She laughed. "I do get carried away - you do that to me, m'lad. But I do so love teaching. Can you read?" The last statement was quickly interjected when she caught him unaware as he sat listening to her without any frowns. "Answer me truthfully. It will save both your time and mine." Pedro quickly looked down at his book, ashamed that he was caught listening to his dreaded enemy and being swallowed in. And, he had been. He hated her for setting him another trap and hated himself for falling into it. He studied the printed words and the pictures of Dick and Jane in the park which were lushly painted in greens, yellows and whites with various shades of blue. He studied the black words on the white shiny pages and began slowly. "See," he said aloud. Silence, then followed. He was never too sure which symbols represented Dick and Jane; and he prayed quickly to the ?Blessed Mother for help in the hope that he would choose the right one. The Blessed Mother helped him more than he ever knew. "See Jane," he said. "Are you sure?" the nun asked. He knew a trap when he saw one. "See Jane," he said defiantly. "I was right," she said looking at him. She smiled. The smile cut into Peter's open mental and sensitive wound. He bristled and shot arrows at her with his eyes. His vengence mushroomed and detonated. 'DICK AND JANE ARE QUEER!" he spewed out flagrantly and hatefully at her and repeated it again, "DICK AND JANE ARE QUEER, DICK AND JANE ARE QUEER" until his breath ran out. He sank back into his desk, unconditionally defeated. "There persuasion, Mr. Torres, has nothing to do with the book." She smiled, "now". Pedro, wet with sweat, sat still, exhausted. He raised his eyes to his enemy and was unable to understand how she could remain so calm. His explosion had accomplished nothing. Here she was talking as though he had done nothing. He eyed her with complete awe. "Perhaps," she said, rising from her desk, "we can get started. I am sure you would like to prove me wrong. You can, you know. HOW? you must be asking yourself? Simple. By learning. Now that we admit to the problem - a problem it no longer is." She was forced to smile at the defeated boy who fought so valiantly for a cause so worthless. "It's not important what you think of Dick and Jane. What is queer is that an eight year old boy cannot read. And even queerer, an eight year old boy with normal capabilities who spends two years in the first grade. Words, my boy, words, are important. Even now and more so later. Use them; do not let them use you. However, I have all summer to teach you, and my boy, this is one summer you can cross out of your life. Mr. Torres, just cross it out; wipe it out, erase it - pretent it never existed. You are mine this summer - and come September, you will be in the third or fourth grade where you rightfully belong. And, make no mistake. You will learn, or I will beat the living blood out of you and your cells in great juicy spurts. And, my boy, I CAN DO?!. And that's not just words." She laughed as she watched him watch her. She knew his language and how to apply it. She knew he got the message; his face told her everything. His fight was gone; but, on remembering, holy hell, Gin, this is gonna work, I think Gin, I really think, Geez, I hadn't thought back that far - Hey, Peter, ya kinda remembered that pretty good; but I think the nun knew that her victory was only temporary. Pedro sat there, listening to her run on, and run on she did. He wished only for silence so that he could sulk alone in his defeat, but she continued on. "The necessary arrangements will be made with your mother, and Mr. Torres, by the by, in the future, remember, in Catholic school, we enforce discipline - not beg for it. Round one is mine. I fought you hard and I won. Now, you fight to win Round two by learning to read; and no more battles. You exhaust me, kid - now run along. From tomorrow onward, you are mine. Everyday after school; then, all day when vacation starts." Although he heard and watched her form the words with her lips, he was still too dumbstruck to move. "Peter, I said you can leave.". He moved slowly out of his desk, searching her face to make sure that no trickery was involved. He remembered he had not read. His mind was completely confused. He put his green eyes to her as if to see beneath the face. He saw that she looked different. Human. Something in her face. He couldn't quite make it out. Then, her words began to sink in. How could he stay after school every day till summer. He closed his eyes and opened them immediately and stared heatedly at her. She smiled. His mother would do that at times after some scoldings. He felt a kinship; he quickly looked away - he was not about to get tied up with some crazy nun. "Maybe she's only fooling," he mumbled to himself as he walked toward the door. "People are always threatening to do this or that but never follow through," and he comforted himself that his nun was no better than anybody else. He heart began to beat easier. "She ain't gonna spend all her time with me - people, people just don't do that. Nah! It's only words." He felt his own reassurance. He flashed her the famout Pedro Torres smile which he had just begun to perfect, trying to reinforce the fact that he wasn't completely defeated. At the doorway, spotting his path free, his feet ached to flee from this prison. But, he couldn't take his eyes from her face. "Run and play", she said waving him away, "for tomorrow kid, you work." He laughed at the words and the sounds they made. Most of all, it was the 'kid' that made him chuckle. It was the second time she had said it. He took one more look at this nun and his heart sand. She looked as though she meant them words. He hoped against hope that lshe was like everybody else. Then, he raced headlong down the hallway, clomping down the flights of stairs to street level and raced out onto his beloved streets where he could run and play and be free. And, he was there. Now, he was king. He surveyed his wonderful streets and looked back up at the old imposing buildings. He flashed his thumb and four slim fingers to show the buildings, El Toro was never to be tamed. He saw her at the window. She waved back at him. He turned around and walked away. It puzzled his mind. He turned around and quickly shot a glance up at the window; but she was gone. He shook his head. Did she wave? Or did she return his salute?. He looked at the streets, head bowed. "Oh shit!" he mumbled, "suppose she ain't like everybody else. Suppose she really means to.... END OF CHAPTER TWO
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