The old man sat and the young boy stood beside him. Their heads together at this moment, grey wisps, the remains of what had been, pushed over the brown-speckled pate, and the blond of youth, that exists while the hair is too young to have settled on a color yet. The boy was not quite twice as tall as grandpa's knee, and his eyes were downcast to his hands, where some object held his attention. His grandfather spoke in his ear, glancing from the object the boy held in his hands to his face, to check his reaction. The boy never spoke, his face never changed from the still, serious contemplation of what he held. At long last he pushed it into his grandfather's hand, and walked some distance away, till he found something else on the ground which grabbed his attention. He put his hands on his knees and half-squatted above it, looking, waiting. The old man held the object in his hand for a long time without regarding it. Then never taking his eyes off the boy, he transferred it to the pocket of his overcoat.
The boy has been in school for 3 hours, now. Mr. Hatfield's class is boring. Mr. Hatfield is angry, but that is normal. He tells us we think like fishes. Don't know what that means. Think like fishes. Think about water. On his desk a drawing – a large skull with wings coming out both sides. He is good at drawing – especially good at skulls and wings and one cartoon character - Road Runner. Maybe a few other things, too. One of the girls in class was called Road Runner, because she talked so fast. She also had good tits. She asked him to draw Road Runner on her desk, and he did, and it was a really good one, but she erased it after one day. He adds a tiny bit of detail to one wing while Mr. Hatfield at the front talks more about stupid math. He never gets it. Well, sometimes. But it is really difficult, and stupid. So math is the best time to draw. The first time Mr. Hatfield saw the drawing on his desk he grabbed his arm really hard, and pulled him back to the back of the room and gave him Ajax and wet cloth and made him clean his desk and it was gritty weird all day. The next day, though, he was bored, and started drawing again. In two days it was all back again, and this time Mr. Hatfield didn't say anything. Didn't say shit is what Tony said. In his head he said “Didn't say shit” in his own voice to hear how it would sound, and it sounded really good, like when Tony said it, but he wouldn't say it because it was wrong. Mr. Hatfield didn't say shit about anything, now. Some days Dani brought cards, and they played cards at Dani's desk, and talked about which girls had good tits while Mr. Hatfield talked at the front. Mr. Hatfield didn't tell them to stop or pay attention, now. The sound of the class changed, and he realized that Math was over. When people take out their books, it means reading time. He opened his desk, (he knew Mr. Hatfield could see the drawing on his desk when he opened it, and hoped he wouldn't say anything,) and got out his book. He liked reading.
He stood against the silvery thick-painted pole, his hands thrust deep into the old army jacket his uncle had given him. He wore it every day, now. It's heaviness across his shoulders was a comfort to him, made heavier by the weight of his hands, pushed down against the inside of the pockets, and wrapped tightly around him, accenting his frame. The jacket, along with the untied laces of his shoes, together formed a shield against the happy shining wealth and prosperity of his classmates, who arrived every day in a stream of jaguars and benzes, clad in Polo, distressed denim, only the latest items of envy. He arrived early every day, so no one would see him arrive on his bicycle – an old, chipped and scarred, groaning and squeaking contraption that he rode in the cold every day. But it didn't matter – they all saw him leave on the bicycle – he might volunteer for teams, in order to stay late, but nothing he did really hid the differences between him and them. His classmates granted him a gracious tolerance for his poverty, because anyone could see, and everyone knew that he didn't dress like them, didn't have a pool, had never gone skiing, didn't play tennis. He lifted weights, evenings, when he could sneak past the counter of a neighborhood gym. And he stole magazines, among other things, about weightlifting, from the corner store. He stole amino acids and proteins and “natural testosterone enhancers” that would later make his hair fall out. He stole a walkman from a store, and then had to go back in to steal the batteries for it. He stole because he was entitled. In a world where the rich had everything, in a world where he was ashamed to say yes to her, lest she see someday ask to see his house, in a world where he rode a squeaking bike to school in the cold, and arrived early every day, to wait for his friends beside the red lockers, he was entitled to what he stole.
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