Ironman by Chris Crutcher Read Free Book Online Page B

spoons speedin’ by, because if you don’t, they’ll flatten you out like a dime on a railroad track.”
    Shuja said, “Oooh, shit” again, but Mr. Nak talked right on through him. “An’ that same person, who you grew up with, an’ who told you red was green an’ cars an’ trucks was forks an’ spoons, told you anytime somebody asks your name, what they’re really lookin’ for is trouble, an’ you best nail ’em before they nail you.”
    Even Elvis snorted a bit at that.
    â€œWhat do you think your first day at kindergarten’s gonna be like?”
    Shuja said, “Gonna be a buncha ass whuppin’.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause ever time you open your mouth, you gonna be lookin’ the fool, plus you’re gonna light some kid up jus’’cause he wanna know your name. Maybe even the teacher.”
    â€œWho you gonna be mad at?”
    â€œEver homey in the place.”
    Mr. Nak sat back. “Now why you wanna get all burned up at them? They’re right .”
    â€œYeah,” Shuja said, “but they messin’ with you.”
    â€œAre they messin’ with you, or jus’ tryin’ to tell you the truth?”
    Shuja snorted. “Tryin’ to tell you the truth? You five years old, man. They be laughin’ an’ pointin’. Tha’s the way with little kids. They won’t be carin’ ’bout no truth.”
    â€œLaughin’ an’ pointin’. Makin’ you feel how?” Mr. Nak asked.
    An unmistakable voice boomed here, Lar; for the first time in two weeks, Elvis speaks: “Like an asshole. So what?”
    Mr. Nak pointed his six-shooter finger at Elvis’s chest. “Right you are, pardner. Right you are. Just exactly like an asshole. An’ that is my point. Twenty-five freshly scrubbed rug rats, wearin’ brand-new sneakers an’ got their hair all slicked down wet and flat against their heads, an’ twenty-four of ’em know the right names for things. But not you. You gonna feel real smart? Don’t think so. Gonna feel worth a damn—like bein’ sociable? Un-dern-likely. Why? Because you’re feelin’ lower ’n a snake’s belly in a wagon wheel rut,that’s why.” He pointed at me. “An’ who you gonna be mad at, Beauregard, my boy?”
    I said, “I guess I’d be mad at just about everybody.”
    â€œYou’re gonna be mad at yourself,” he said quietly. “Mad at yourself for feelin’ the fool, as Shu puts it; mad at yourself for bein ’ the fool. To keep that fact in hidin’ you act mad at everbody else, because you got to hide the truth. You’re mad at yourself for bein’ somethin’ less than ever other person in that room. You don’t know why, but you are. An’ I’ll tell you somethin’ else: The more of them thirty-five pounders you coldcock, the madder you’ll be, because no matter how many of ’em you knock out, you’re still the dumb one. The humiliated one. The out-of-control one.”
    Now that doesn’t seem like it should be right, Larry, but it sure felt right.
    Shelly, who I am fast falling in love with even though I’m meeting her in the next closest thing to a maximum-security prison, raised her hand.
    â€œYou don’t have to raise your hand in here, Shelly. Everbody’s got the same right to talk as everbody else.”
    â€œMr. Nak, nobody told any of us red was green. At least they didn’t tell me that. And nobody told me traffic was silverware.”
    â€œAn’ a lucky girl you are,” Mr. Nak said. “But what about other things that were misnamed for you?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œAnybody ever tell you everthing’s really okay when you’re feelin’ low enough to sniff whale dung? You think ‘low’ is one thing, they tell you it’s another? Ever