It wasn’t a coffin. For starters, it was metal and vertical; coffins are made of wood and lay horizontally. He knew that much. And coffins didn’t have slats at eye level, presumably for airing out sweaty gym gear, or hooks at the back. And the coffins he’d seen looked comfortable, cushioned, lined with silk or satin, to keep the occupant comfortable for eternity.
No, this was definitely not a coffin. It just felt like one.
It was locker 436B on the second floor of Our Lady of the Courageous Caucasian Prep. Colin had just been forced into it by two “things” who made up most of the school’s football team when measuring by bulk. They got away with this behavior, especially when it came to freshmen because freshman didn’t “rate.” In other words, they were the low men on the totem pole of the school’s social hierarchy, and the freshman Colin proved short, skinny, and narrow enough to allow Thing One to win a bet against Thing Two.
“I told you he’d fit,” said Thing One, alternatively called Karl Christensen Jr. It was said that Karl’s mother had left the family either because she couldn’t stand her version of Rosemary’s baby or because of an abusive Karl Sr. The apple didn’t fall far from that tree. Colin assumed it was a $5 bet because he overheard Thing Two counting to five outside the locker. He was tempted to say that he was impressed George Wallace Foss, aka Thing Two, could count that high but thought better of it. The Things forgot about Colin and went off down the hall arguing about who was the better football player. He heard several “douchebag” accusations and at least one “make me” before they were out of earshot.
Had it been another part of the day, say between class periods, there would have been other students in the hall, and he could have pleaded with someone to open the locker. Small, it was a tight fit. But there was no one there now, after school, and he was forced to strain his right hand at an unnatural angle to the inner workings of the clasp, nearly dislocating his pinky in the process of tipping up a lever that unlatched the locker’s door. His prayers had been answered. They hadn’t put the combination lock back on.
He made his escape utilizing movements he’d once seen a street performer use to wiggle out of a straight jacket. The magician had been more dramatic, writhing on the sidewalk, moaning in agony, milking the performance.
Colin’s milking had taken place earlier in the day when Thing One had spilled a carton of skim—he was watching his weight for wrestling season—into his backpack. “Whoops, sorry, Miss,” was the apology accompanied by guffaws from Thing Two and uncomfortable snickers from other jocks in the vicinity. They surely weren’t all brutes, thought Colin. They couldn’t be. Hell, McMahon wanted to be a priest. He could have said something like “Knock it off.”
Win Lowry did say something. He said it later when he saw Colin in the hall. Lowry was Colin’s patrol leader, Troop 464. He’d just made Eagle on his trek over hill and dale to his appointment to West Point. Lowry had a speck of decency in him, maybe two specks. Colin almost liked the guy.
“You shouldn’t take that from them,” said Lowry.
“Lowry, he’s got 12 inches and 100 pounds on me. Exactly how do I not take it?”
“That much, huh?”
Colin once hoped that Lowry, no physical slouch himself, might step in with a good deed like beating either of the Things to a bloody pulp. Colin would have reminded him of the responsibilities of an Eagle Scout, the leadership required of someone on his way to West Point. That was before one of the Things had taken the pants off another freshman in Lowry’s troop and kicked him across a playing field. Lowry did get that kid a towel, albeit a wet one from the gym.
Lowry had said it was best to ignore them. That depantsed kid did not. That boy called up his parents. The parents called up the principal. The principal called up the football coach. The football coach called up the team’s record – “County champs, three years in a row, and season’s about to begin.” The phrase ”Boys will be boys” was said several times along with shrugs and grins. The victim left for a public school a week later wearing a new pair of pants. He would have gone sooner if it hadn’t been in front of a three-day weekend on which the All Saints won 26 to 6 against an inner-city school the All Saints derisively called Coonskin Prep.
“Lowry,” said Colin. “Do you worry about getting shot by your own troops?”
Lowry was out of earshot when Colin said that.
Colin had the dubious fortune to be placed in an advanced math class containing Things One and Two. The pair had to repeat their sophomore year of that particular class, as well as a handful of others. Twice. Passing the class was a must. A prerequisite for the Things passing a football in college, which is why colleges winked at their academic records, SAT scores, and mishaps with local police. Once again, the defense of “Boys will be boys” made up for a combined 11 years in high school.
Colin did well in the class. The Things did not. This brought about another encounter.
This time he was shoved against the locker, an improvement over being stuffed into it.
“Here,” said Thing One shoving a set of stapled pages into Colin’s pallid face. A sharp corner flicked his eye generating reflexive tears.
“Oh, look. Baby’s crying. Baby wanna bottle?” came from Thing Two, who rolled up his pages into a solid mass and slapped Colin on the head several times with it.
The upshot of the encounter had to do with the extra homework the Things had been offered. If they completed the work, they could boost their GPA by 15 points. At the rate they were going, they’d end the term with 100%. That would be a combined 100% if you add Thing One’s 49% to Thing Two’s 51%. The two-point spread gave Thing Two a measure of pride.
Their anxious teacher had explained the extra credit was to give them a boost because he was sure they could pass if they were given a chance. He left out the part about the idea stemming from a pointed conversation with the school’s principal about someone’s standing with the tenure committee and her strong desire to see the footballers graduate. It wasn’t out of any fondness for the pair, but rather her self-interest in getting them out of school before she had to deal with any possible lawsuit ahead of her own annual review.
There was no subtlety to the Things’ demand. “We wanna pass,” said one of them to Colin. He couldn’t tell which was speaking as his vision was impaired by the still tearing eyeball while the other batoned him with the rolled-up assignment. Thing One went on about Colin doing the homework with the intriguing idea he should make a few mistakes, “So they don’t think we cheated,” and the other saying, “Get it?”
Colin got it. He asked if he could offer some advice, catching the Things off guard. Thing One said he didn’t want advice, explaining with a hint of humility that tutoring hadn’t worked and was otherwise “stupid.” But Thing Two was curious and asked Colin what he meant.
“I’ll make different mistakes. If I make the same mistakes….”
“They’ll think we did copied!” said Thing One, his chin lifting with the pride of insight.
“I got one. You write them out and we fill in the answers in our own writing!” came from Thing Two. There was a smile when he spoke, an uncruel smile for a change, and the batoning had eased to a gentle tapping. Were things looking up?
Colin readily agreed that those were clever ideas. The Things high-fived each other and then faced Colin, arms similarly raised in Seig-Heil fashion. It took him a moment to realize they were high-fiving him. He reciprocated with a jump to reach their towering arms and for a moment felt something more than relief that he wasn’t being forced into the locker. Kinship? Respect? Relief? Perhaps their relationship had changed.
When Colin landed back on his feet, Thing One grabbed his still raised arm while Thing Two pulled his pants down. The Things walked off, high fiving again. Lifting his pants, Colin realized what he felt, albeit briefly, was akin to the Stockholm syndrome, where victims feel affection for their tormenters.
His version of the syndrome lasted for 1.5 seconds, though he was grateful they hadn’t pulled his underwear down like they had done to Jimmy DiBernardo, or given him a wedgie. DiBernardo had transferred after that, also to a public school.
Colin looked into his bedroom mirror that night. He saw a freckled face, not too much acne popping, the hopes of an angel hair, blond mustache if the light caught it just so, and red hair that he hated, but, so his grandfather would say, had roots in the Battle of the Boyne, the Fenians, the Easter Rebellion, and any number of Saint Patrick’s Day parades. “It’s our beacon, boyo. It’s the beacon my own father waved before those Black and Tans! Wear it with pride.”
What would his grandfather say to Things One and Two? Would he do their bidding? Not likely. Not likely at all.
Colin was scribbling answers to the homework thrust upon him. Scribbling because he couldn’t imagine the Things writing clearly. Scribbling because they didn’t deserve better. Scribbling because they’d have to struggle when they transcribed the answers. He made mistakes, different mistakes for each of them, and added up the scores to make sure they passed, if by a hair. Each would get a 69, D+, and be done with it. He reviewed his work, as he always did, which confirmed he was right the first time. Too right maybe. A smile crossed his lips and he got out an eraser.
The math teacher was relieved after grading the homework, immediately calling the principal with the good news, who responded with an encouraging endorsement of tenure for the teacher and a happy conversation that night with the school’s lawyer, who was laying next to her in bed and crossed himself with a “Thanks be to Jesus.”
Thing One was thrilled to see 69 at the top of the page with a “+15 extra credit points” and a “D+ for the semester” below that. He was actually proud he’d made it through the class, got the extra credit, passed, and would graduate. Thing Two also was thrilled, but more thrilled by an additional eight points for a 77 and a C- for the term. “Choke on this dummy,” he said to Thing One. Thing One didn’t take it well. He started to yell something about not deserving it. Thing Two flung his work into Thing One’s eye, causing an involuntary tear, which led him to say something about his crying that ended with a “boo hoo hoo.” The teacher said that as far as he was concerned, they both managed to pass and could take it outside if they had more to say. He closed the door behind them. Forever.
Colin stared at Thing One limping down the hall. Thing One had tears dripping from his blackened eyes, which joined the rivulets of blood from his flattened nose and swollen lip. “Yo, Colin. I wanna talk to you,” the Thing spoke[AL3] [DA4] . Colin’s thought went to the imminent danger of a wounded animal. He backed against a locker, closed tightly by someone else’s lock, as the Thing loomed over him, oblivious to the blood dripping onto Collin’s red hair.
“Yo, Colin,” he said, his voice softer, more hurt than menacing. Colin thought about a thorn in its paw.
“Colin, why did you get Wally a better grade?”
Colin wondered what it would be like having his jaw rewired. He looked to the fluorescent lights, casting a halo behind the Thing’s head. It was a message from his guardian angel, whom he didn’t know he had until that moment.
“Well, because I gave him the easy answers. The ones I gave to you, well, they were real hard.” He would have said ‘really hard’ but didn’t want to sound too clever. “You know, they would expect you to do better on the hard questions.” It was convoluted logic, but the best he could come up with. Colin braced.
“So it’s not because, you know, you like him better than me?” There was a wanting in the Thing’s swollen eyes.
“More than you? Crazy. Of course not.”
“Thanks, man.” And with that he gave Colin a middle five—either so Colin wouldn’t have to reach or because Thing One had broken his right hand—and looked off to see the ambulance carrying Thing Two to have his jaw and two ribs, reset.