conditions were perfect

Here is what is odd: I did not trust him at first, though I am a trusting person. His hair was so long and there was a hole in his shirt, on the inside of his arm, just above his elbow, a place where it seems unlikely to come by a hole honestly. He helped me off the street and we sat down on a park bench together, and he held my hand and patted my shoulder while I breathed heavily. I was not hurt, only frightened.

Though he smiled and murmured comfortingly, I did not trust him. Still less did I want him to accompany me back to the hostel. Least of all, though, did I want him to leave me. Being alone when you cannot breathe is a terrible thing. I've lived through it and hope never to live through it again.

We got into the taxi and he said, "Where is it, dear?"

I still could not quite speak. "It's all right," he said. "Do you know what street it's on?"

"Bloomsbury," I said. My voice was quite hoarse. I wondered if I might begin to sound like Lauren Bacall.

The driver took to the road and Marcus said, "Never mind, we'll find it." He went on patting my shoulder. "Relax."

When I could speak again, I was disappointed to find my voice had returned in its natural form. "I can't thank you enough."

"Yes, yes," he smiled. "You'll be all right. Would you like to tell me your name?"

The modern city is a thing of wonder, especially considering its indeterminate origins. The conventional view holds that changes in climate, along with initial forays into the domestication of plant life, converted the egalitarian gangs of hunter-gatherers to the advantages an agrarian society. Naturally this society made strides forward in production and storage technology, which in turn led to greater population density. Just as people living in proximity tend to breed more people, so do a few commingled ideas tend to proliferate, and in their wake come economic activity, closely followed by politics, culture, religion and arts. Confronted with others, people find themselves, and are instinctively bonded more strongly than ever to the city, not only as a place of provision and refuge, but as a means of personal identity. When the early cities are threatened by famine, disease and the onslaught of marauders, the fledgling citizens evince the virtue known in Roman times as civitas, the spirit of loyalty to a collective entity that transcends their own personal good by making it possible in the first place.

From these early days of embattled civilization, there have been sacrifices that were deemed worthy in exchange for communal security. A lone farmer never had to worry that his sterling plot of land might be corrupted by an unhygienic neighbor's vermin infestation. His view of the bordering mountains was safe from obstruction by the enterprise of a deluxe-model hut. Neither he nor his herds lost their position at the local watering hole to the neighborhood's gentrification or decay. But these nuisances he considered a fair trade for the exchange of goods, services, and ideas, the solace of companionship, and the electricity of possibility that result from life lived cheek-by-jowl. The proponents of metropolis so far outweighed the advocates for isolated independence as to expand not only their real property but also their sphere of ideological influence, with the result that most of us today consider city life to be an unequivocal good, and that its liabilities to be hot, expensive and overcrowded are considerations not worthy to be compared to its advantages. It never occurred to me to question the traffic jam we encountered, Marcus and I in the taxi--it was as natural a part of life as trees with cages around them and noise from the main street on Friday nights--and I was accustomed to finding some way to tune out its annoyance. Thus, as I might never have done if history had not dovetailed to create such opportune circumstances, I told Marcus my name.

"Beth Maysle," I said.

"Lovely!" he said, and I smiled, because we all like to be told that something about us is lovely.

Marcus was a person of very agreeable looks--I expect that he still is. His eyes were a sharp grey-blue color, a very pure color, like steel used in an art sculpture. His hair was pushed up on either side into one of those sort of ridges that men were wearing at the time down the middle of their heads, sharpened to a point that extruded over their foreheads. His clothes were, as I said before, in lamentable condition, but the unexpected brilliance of his smile allayed the unease that his clothes occasioned. I suppose that was the reason for my instinctive distrust of him. The crinkle of a man's eyelids and the boyish curl of his mouth ought not to excuse him so thoroughly from commonplace presentability. Also, he was quite tall, probably six feet and a half, and I expect that, unless he has sustained severe injuries or undergone drastic amputation, he still is.

The lady at the front desk looked desperately relieved to see us. My sister had apprised her of my several conditions, and was paying her to keep an eye on me. I was not supposed to know about it but the blood rushing back to her face when we walked in settled any doubts I might have entertained.

She trilled, "Ooh, hellooo, Miss Mayfield!" and looked askance at Marcus. I took off my coat and dropped it on her desk as we passed, saying, "Send this out with the cleaning, would you?" We went to the common room at the back of the hostel and I offered to fix Marcus a drink. A number of unwashed students were gathered around the pool table; I began to wonder whether Marcus would rather be among their number than sipping poor vodka with me.

"Are you staying here?" he asked.

"Only temporarily," I said. "My apartment is being sprayed."

"Oh," he said. "Where do you live?"

"Vicker Street," I answered. "And you?"

"Oh, I live just on the other side of the street where you..."

"Oh, dear!" I said. "I've taken you terribly out of your way."

"No, it's all right," he assured me, putting his hand on my arm. I suppose he was afraid I might fling myself out the window or something.

"Look," I said to him, setting down my glass. "I want you to understand. It was only an accident..."

"Of course," he murmured.

"No! I hadn't eaten anything all day and I've been worrying about things--I'm just a nervous person. But the point is, I just fell down. I wasn't trying to..."

He waited for me to finish, and when I didn't, he patted my arm again.

"It doesn't matter," he smiled. "Really. I'm just glad you're all right. But it's a shame you have to stay here while your apartment is getting sprayed." He looked at the unwashed students as he said this, and the grimace on his face filled my heart with song.

"Well," I said cheerfully, "it really isn't that bad. And it's only for a little while. I just try to stay out as often as possible."

"What will you do later today?" he asked.

"Hm. Maybe I'll go to the zoo."

I waited for him to offer a comment on this proposal, and when he didn't, I shifted in my seat. Then I cried out in pain.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know," I said. "I think I've cut myself."

Marcus took hold of my ankle and lifted it up gently, and slowly he drew up the hem of my skirt until my knee showed. There was a small gash there--it had reopened and was bleeding again.

"Damn!" he said. "Do you suppose there's any disinfectant around?"

One of the unwashed shrieked, "Holy crap! She's bleeding!", and bounded over to where we sat. She bent over beside Marcus.

"Can you find us some disinfectant?" he asked her brusquely, and she bounded away with the upward and forward motion of a springbok.

"Wouldn't you rather stay in a hotel while your apartment is sprayed?" he asked me.

"I never stayed in a hostel before," I told him--the first truthful thing I had told him since we left the taxi.

"Really? Not even during a gap year or something?"

"A gap year?"

"A wild excursion abroad with the girls?" The disinfectant arrived and he kept talking as he applied it, hoping, I suppose, to distract me. "A last romantic fling across the continent before settling down? Surely there must have been something of the kind in your past."

"Mmm," I murmured, "once."

He looked up and smiled brilliantly, again, saying nothing.

He straightened up, and looked about him. Then he tore the lower border off the back of his shirt and brandished it before me. "It's clean," he said, "and it will do you until you can get a proper bandage."

It seemed he thought it was time for me to walk him out, so I began to.

"How did you know?" I asked him.

"Know?"

"About the past," I said.

"Your wild romantic getaway past, you mean? It's obvious." He tucked my arm into the crook of his elbow. "You don't bear any trace of the frustrated woman who put off the opportunity for free expression."

I found myself laughing--and you ought to understand that I had not laughed for a very long time prior to that. I was caught by surprise.

"Well," he said, "thank you for a lovely afternoon."

We stepped into the threshold of the hostel. The sky was evening grey and purple, and the street was quiet in the interim lull between the market hour and the nightlife hour.

"What will you do now?" I asked Marcus.

"I work nights," he said.

"Really? Doing what?"

"I tend bar at the Rose and Crown," he said.

"Every night?"

"Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays," he said.

"Do you like it?"

He gave a short laugh. "It's a job," he said. "I don't mind it." He lifted my hand up and kissed it like a courtier.

"Thank you," I said.

"Take care of your knee," he said. "I hope for your sake that the apartment spraying is taken care of soon."

"A day or two, they told me," I said.

"Good," he said. As he left, I saw something leave the third-floor window of the building adjacent to the hostel. It looked as though it might be the head of a flower borne out by the wind. A great mass of the unwashed students eked out from behind me, then, and trundled chattering away into the dusk. When I looked again for Marcus, he was just disappearing around the corner.

The hostel foyer was quite empty by that time. The lady at the front desk was painting her fingernails, and looked up at me when I came in.

"Hello!" she said, her face and her voice as bright as metal. "All right?"

"Has my sister called?" I asked.

In answer, she lifted up the telephone receiver and offered it to me.

"Beth!" said Molly. "How are you? Mrs. Foster told me you came in with a younger man."

"Did she?" I sighed. "Younger than what?"

"When are you going home?" asked Molly.

"I don't know yet," I told her. "Maybe I'll go tomorrow."

"I think you should," said Molly.

I was silent until she spoke again.

"Who was the boy?"

"He wasn't a boy."

"The young man, then."

"The younger man," I said testily. "Didn't Mrs. Foster tell you?" I sighed. "I fell down in the street and he helped me get home."

"You fell down in the street!" I heard her breathing heavily. "Oh my God!"

I handed the receiver back to Mrs. Foster and walked down the empty hall to my room.

a love of the sport

My name is Pierre. I'm ten years old, and I'm going to be greater than Muhammad Ali. Watch.

I beat up a twelve-year-old when I was nine, after I'd only been training for four months. Now I bet I could probably beat up a fourteen-year-old. I haven't even hit my growth spurt yet.

My stepfather, Ted, works at the Italian restaurant. I hate it when he gets home early.

My mom drinks a lot.

I'm going to be greater than Muhammad Ali. I'm going to fight in Vegas and Europe and win all the cups and money. I'm going to have a house in California.

I'm in the fifth grade.

I'm not a stupid fighter, like Ernie Toledo is. He's punch drunk. That happens when you get hit too many times. I'll never have that problem because I won't let them hit me more than a couple times, so I never will be punch drunk, not even when I'm old and close to retirement.

And when I retire, I'll live in California and have some dogs and a big car.

My teacher is Mrs. Reilly. She's pretty. She's really pretty, I guess. She has yellow hair and earrings, kind of long ones with pearls, and she has green eyes. If I was older, like sixteen or eighteen, I'd fight her husband.

But I guess that wouldn't probably be any good, because she's not the type. Probably I'd have to save her husband in a fight outside a bar or something. And then she'd be like that lady in the movie with the priest. Then we'd have to wait for her husband to get sick, or have an accident or something, and die.

Mrs. Reilly gave me this old book. I wouldn't have read it, but I did because she gave it to me. And anyway, I didn't read it until the school year was almost over. It was the Easter holidays, so I read it because the gym was closed for a couple of days, because Leo goes to church and thinks everybody should go like he does.

I kind of liked the book. I don't read books almost ever, so I don't know if it was really any good, and I didn't really like it, but I guess I kind of thought about it for a while, since I didn't have much to do and I couldn't go to the gym and I wanted to stay out of Ted's way.

Mrs. Reilly asked me what I thought about the book, when I gave it back to her. I didn't know what to say, so I made something up to tell her. Her eyes got real big and she said I should come with her to the teachers' lounge after school. Aw shit, is what I thought.

When we went to the teachers' lounge, she sat down with me next to this old fellow who had glasses and a bald head and probably couldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight, and she said I should tell this fellow what I thought about the book she gave me to read. So I told him, just the same as what I told her, and while I told him I thought, go ahead and expel me or whatever you want, old man, I'll just go to the gym some more, and I thought some things about Mrs. Reilly that I guess I shouldn't have.

I shouldn't have thought that way at all, because the old man's eyes got really big, like Mrs. Reilly's had, and he looked at her and he looked at me and I was thinking, aw shit, and then he asked if I read any other books. I didn't say for a minute, then I said, no, because if they were going to expel me anyway, why should I lie? And then he and Mrs. Reilly excused themselves for a minute and talked, and then they came back and that was when the real mess started. Because they talked to me for about an hour, and I was thinking how I was going to be late for work, and the end of it all was that they made me a proposition that I should read some more books they would pick out, and I should talk with them about the books after I read them, and they would get me places in the end that I never could go otherwise; they would see to it, the old fellow and Mrs. Reilly.

I just looked at them and then I saw the clock and saw I was late for work, so I said yes to their proposition and I ran out of there. I didn't finish my route until late, and by the time I got home, Ted and my mom had eaten all the spaghetti he brought home from the restaurant, and there wasn't any left for me.



When I went to the gym the next week, there was a kid I didn't know. He was sitting on the bench by the window, where the mothers or the girlfriends usually sit when they're waiting for a fighter to finish his workout. This kid had a hat in his hands that he was practically tearing apart. He was even working at it with his teeth.

Leo came over to me and he pushed me in the head, and he said, "Hey, Peerless. What's the good word? Been keepin' in shape?" He puffed out his stomach so I could punch it. I put up my dukes and I threw a left jab, to show him my left was as good as my right cross. He said, "That's good, that's good. Not too much, now. Make me lose my lunch. Did you have a good Easter? Did you go to church?"

I went with my mom. We sat in the back and she fell asleep, and I could hardly understand anything the priest said.

"Yes, Leo," I said.

"That's fine. Did you have a good Easter supper?"

"Sure." We ate cold manicotti and green beans. I hate both of those, especially manicotti.

"Me, I ate enough to qualify as a heavyweight." Leo rubbed his belly. "Got to work off a few pounds--so what do you say, Peerless? Ready to give the old man what for?"

"Sure!" I threw a combination in the air while Leo went to get the pads. I danced in a circle, keeping the line straight all the way up my backbone to the top of my neck, like you're supposed to, and I kept my hands up. I saw the kid again. He saw me and jammed the hat onto his head, where it covered his eyes.

Leo came back with the pads. "Whatcha say? Whatcha say? Keep those feet dancin', Peerless! Keep those butterfly wings movin'!"

I worked the bag as he walked slowly backward toward the floor mats. After we worked the pads for a while, we went to the heavy bag and he called out combinations for me. Then we worked the speed bag for a while. In between, when I wiped sweat out of my eyes, I saw the kid. He wasn't watching me; he was watching the two guys fighting in the ring.

"Say, Peerless," said Leo. We were on the side of the ring, too, watching the guys, the side farthest from the kid. "See that little squirt over there?"

"What squirt, Leo?"

"What'sa matter, you blind? The pipsqueak warmin' the bench, right across from us, there." He jerked his chin toward the kid.

"Sure, Leo. I see him."

"Does he look familiar to you? You know him or something?"

"No. I never saw him before."

"You never saw him?"

"No."

"You don't go to school with him or nothin'?"

"Jesus, Leo, he looks two, three years younger than me."

"Hey." Leo cuffed my chin, but it didn't hurt. "What's that you said? Kid, don't you profane God's name in my gym, hear me?"

I rubbed my chin to show him I was sorry. "I just mean I wouldn't know him even I did go to school with him. He's younger than me. He's not in my grade."

"Hm." Leo rubbed his own chin.

"What's he doing here?"

"Hell if I know. He's been here since I got in this morning."

"You don't know him, either?"

"I never saw him." Leo shrugged. "Maybe you can go see what he's up to."

I looked at Leo.

"Sure." He took me by the shoulders, turned me around and gave me a push toward the wall. "While the boys finish up in the ring. Go see what he wants, go on."

I didn't like having to go talk to the kid. He was squirming around on the bench. His eyes were fascinated by the fighters in the ring. I stood right by him and he didn't see me until I said to him,

"Hey."

He looked at me for a second. Then he looked back at the fighters.

"Hey!" I said again.

He looked at me again.

"What's your name?" I said.

"Stewart Everett Thomson," he told me. He looked at me for a minute, but I didn't tell him my name. Then he looked away.

"You been here all day," I told him.

He kept staring at the guys in the ring. His mouth hung open a little. He nodded.

"What do you think you're doing here?" I asked him, and I stepped to him. But he didn't look at me, he kept looking at the fighters.

"Hey, Stewart. Kid. I'm talking to you." I stepped right up to him and I poked him on the shoulder, like Leo says to do when you want to make a point without actually picking a fight--like you're hitting a typewriter key. Up and down.

The kid, Stewart, still didn't look at me. He scratched his shoulder like a fly had landed on it.

"Stewpot!" I poked him again, harder. This time he did look at me. "I'm talkin' to you, Stewpot. Don't you hear me talkin' to you?" I was starting to feel really good. I felt like I was Leo, in a bar, where somebody had said something about my mother or my sister, if I had one. Leo told me that one time, in a bar, some guy said something about his sister. They had to take the guy to the hospital, because Leo put a brick through the hood of the guy's car after he'd finished the guy off. And it all started just like this, like hitting a typewriter key.

The kid looked at me. His eyes got real big.

"I said," I said, moving right up into his face, "What are you doing in my gym, kid?"

And you know what he did? He said,

"My mother's gorgeous and my father's Jewish!"

He practically shouted it, almost before I had said my whole sentence to him. A vein popped out in his neck.

I jumped back. I turned around and saw the guys in the ring had stopped fighting and were looking at us. One of them was chuckling, scratching his face. I heard him ask the other guy, "What did that kid say?"

I looked at the kid. He was slumped over on the bench, and playing with that hat again. His head was down, but he was looking up at me from under his eyebrows. I backed up from him.

Leo was in the ring, coaching the fighters. One of them looked over and pointed at us. Leo looked down.

"Say, kid," he said, "you box?"

The kid's nose wiggled like a rabbit's.

"Yeah, you. You know how to fight? Huh? A little one-two?" Leo feinted in the air, showing the kid what he meant.

"Sure," said the kid. He stood up.

"Fine. Fine." Leo told me to come with his finger. "The Peerless here can work you out a little, while I work with the guys."

I jumped up between the ropes. "Leo!" I whispered. "What the hell?"

"Ssh!" Leo swatted my nose.

"Why you gotta make me fight with that kid? He couldn't beat up a wet noodle."

"Say, what's your problem? Did you find out what he's here for?"

"No. I was asking him but he wouldn't tell me, and then he shouted some crazy thing about his mother and his father..."

"Yeah? What'd he say?"

"That his father's Jewish."

"Hm. And you don't know him from school, you say?"

The kid had taken off his shoes and his coat, and clumsily got himself up into the ring. Leo hopped back down and found some gloves his size. They looked like they were made for a baby, or a midget. And he got him a mask.

"Okay, kid. What'd you say your name was?"

"Stewpot," I told Leo. I was angry.

"Stewpot. Stewpot. That's fine. Okay, Stewpot. Let's have him, huh? Aim for the head and the chest. Head and the chest. That's fine. That's fine." Leo got back down out of the ring. Stewpot was windmilling his arms like a wind-up toy.

"No," I said, while he swiped at me. "No. No. You're not throwing a fucking baseball, lame brain. It's like this." I threw a cross and tapped him on the chest. He looked down at his chest, then he looked up at me.

I was this close to just clobbering him. "I said, it's like this."

The side of his glove connected with my cheek, like my face was carved out for the occasion. I saw stars for the first time ever in the ring. I fell against the ropes and down on the ground. I couldn't get up, not because I was hurt so bad or anything, but because Stewpot had completely taken it out of me. I stared at the mat, not wanting to look up again. I thought of Leo and the other fighters looking down at me, and I wished I could sink into the floor.

When I did finally look up, Stewpot was standing with his gloves clutched in front of him, like a little girl with hands folded.

"What the hell, Stewpot?" I spat at him. I started to get up. "What the..."

"Why should I care about posterity?" he shouted. "What's posterity ever done for me?"

I stopped, pressing my hand against my head because it was starting to throb. His arms and legs were like twigs. I couldn't think where he got the force to hit me like that.

"Are you crazy or something?" I shouted at him. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

Leo came back over. "Say! Say! What's the matter here? Peer, what are you shouting for? What happened here?"

"Leo, I'm not playing with this crazy..." Leo won't let anybody swear in his gym, so I had to stop and think of what to say instead. "...this crazy schmuck and let him sucker-punch me and then babble at me. He's stark raving crazy, Leo! Listen to him! Say that stuff again, Stewpot."

Stewpot stared at us both, clutching his little baby boxing gloves together.

"Stewpot." Leo squatted down on the mat. "You got something to say? To me or to Peerless here?"

Stewpot looked at me, then back at Leo, then at the ceiling. Then he said,

"Well, Art is Art, isn't it?"

I folded my arms. Leo looked at him, just struck dumb. Stewpot kept talking.

"Still, on the other hand, water is water. And east is east and west is west and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does. Now you tell me what you know."

Leo stood up slowly. He stared at the kid. Then he let out a yell. A laugh.

"Ha!" he bellowed. "Ha ha!" He pointed at Stewpot to the other guys, who were watching us all in the ring. "You fellows hear that? Did you hear what he said? You know what that is? That's Groucho Marx! Groucho Marx! Comin' out of this kid's mouth!" He slapped Stewpot on the back. "That's unbelievable. Unbelievable! Stewpot, kid, how old are you?"

I didn't hear because I was getting down from the ring, and I started toward the locker room. I took my gloves off and I threw them hard, one after the other, into the bin. I stripped the tape off my wrists and threw it in the corner. I didn't care if I left a mess. I put my street clothes on and I wet down my hair at the sink. I picked up my school bag and my sack with my gym clothes in it.

I was halfway to the door when Leo stopped raving to the other guys, who were crowded around Stewpot by now, too. Leo shouted at me, "Hey, Peerless! Where do you think you're going?"

"I got to work," I shouted back at him. "To hell with you," I said, under my breath.

"What? Is it already five?" Leo looked at his wrist for a watch, like he always does, though he hasn't got a watch and never has had one. Then he looked at the clock on the wall over the list of gym rules.

"Aw, shucks, Peerless. That's too bad." He jogged over to me. "Say, take this kid with you, huh? See if you can find out about him. Where does he come from? What's his game? See? It'll be a scream."

I hoisted my bag up on my shoulder. Leo stood back, and he put his hands on my shoulders.

"You're gettin' tall, Peerless. Did you know that? You are. Do me a favor and eat some extra dinner tonight, huh? We gotta make sure your bulk keeps up with your height." He slapped his hands on my shoulders. "Good workout today, kid."

I went out the door and I didn't look back. But after I'd gone a block, I could tell that Stewpot was following behind me. I could hear his little puffs of breath and his skipping footsteps. When I was a block away from the newspaper office, I turned around.

"Here's where you get off," I said.

He blinked at me. His stupid hat was covering his eyes again.

"I have a job," I said. "Don't you have somewhere else to go? Don't you have anything to do besides follow me around and ruin my life? Huh? Go home. Go take a long walk off a short pier."

He laughed. I couldn't believe it. He doubled over like someone had punched him and he cackled like an old woman, clutching his gut. He pointed at me.

"That's good!" he said. "I never heard that before."

I turned around and walked into the warehouse. The other guys, Joe and Eddie and Gus, were already there, folding up the late edition. Eddie whacked me on the shin with a rolled-up paper when I came in. I got my stack and dropped to my knees, down with the rest of them.

"You're late," said Eddie. "What happened? Bus hit you?"

"No. I was at the gym."

"Aw, right. The Greatest."

Eddie used to push me around, since I'm a little smaller than the rest of them. Leo says you never hit a guy unless a guy hits you first or insults your women relatives. But one time, Eddie stuck out his chin and said he could see I was mad, so why didn't I go ahead and pop him one? I looked at the other guys and they were saying, "Give it to him!", so I gave it to him, and he fell on the ground, and boy was he surprised. I told Leo about it and he said I was born lucky. He said a lot of guys ask for it but he's never seen a guy actually ask for it. Eddie doesn't ever push me around now, not even as a joke.

"Say," said Joe. "Who's that kid?"

"That's nobody," I said.

"What's he watching us for?" Eddie made a spitwad and chucked it at him. "Scram, son!"

Stewpot tried to dodge. He took off his hat and crushed it between his hands.

"He a friend of yours or something, Peerless?" Eddie asked me.

"No. I don't know him."

Mr. Berle came to where we were working and said he wanted to talk with me. The other guys kept their eyes down. I followed Mr. Berle to the back office.

"Pierre," said Mr. Berle, "something very serious has happened."

I looked at him. I waited for him to tell me.

"You know what the minimum age requirement is to work this job?"

"I think it's twelve, Mr. Berle," I said.

His eyebrows bunched around his nose. "That's correct," he said. He took a few steps closer. "Pierre," he said, "it's come to our attention that you are not twelve. That, in fact, you are ten years old."

I stared at him. "Who told you that?"

"One of our subscribers suggested it," said Mr. Berle. He sat down in his chair. "In fact, she brought us evidence."

"Evidence?"

"A school record," said Mr. Berle. Then he bit his lip, and stood up again. "Pierre, I cannot let this stand."

"Am I fired?" I whispered.

"Well." Mr. Berle opened his hands. "Yes."

It felt like someone had broken my neck. I said, "Jesus, don't fire me, Mr. Berle! I'm turning eleven in a couple of days and that's only a year off. I'm just as good at my job as the guys who are twelve, sir!"

"I know. I know that, Pierre. But the office could get in serious trouble if it were found out..." He looked at me as if he were making up his mind. "You can finish out the week, until we find someone to replace you." He smiled. "It won't be easy to find. I'm sorry, Pierre."

He stepped to the door and patted my shoulder. He walked out, leaving the door open. I stood there for a minute. I looked at his desk, covered with papers and wooden trays and pencils and who knows what all. I thought of what it would feel like to sweep it all over with my arms. It would make a big crash and things would fly everywhere. I could bust the leg off the chair and beat all his hanging pictures to the floor, and then throw the chair through the window.

I walked back out to the warehouse floor. Eddie was holding Stewpot in a headlock. Joe and Gus were laughing.

"What the hell's he saying?" Eddie was laughing, but his face was screwed up like he was pissed off.

"Girls are like pianos!" Stewpot squeaked. "When they're not upright, they're grand!"

The other guys screamed with laughter.

Eddie whirled Stewpot around, holding him by the shoulders. "Are you crazy or what?"

"No," said Stewpot. He was looking at Eddie as if they were having a heart-to-heart talk. "I'm not."

I stood back and watched them.

"Then what's the matter with you?" said Eddie. He slapped Stewpot on one side of his face, then he slapped him on the other. "What's the matter with you? If I ask you a question you give a straight answer, son. That's how it is, see? See?" He slapped Stewpot again.

"Ow!" Stewpot yelped. "Smartness runs in my family!"

Eddie stopped slapping and looked down at him, like he was a little lap dog that might bite. "Yeah? And?"

"Sure." Stewpot rubbed his face. "When I went to school, I was so smart my teacher was in my class for five years."

Eddie grabbed his shirt front. I walked up and I pulled Stewpot away from him. I reached out and pushed Eddie so hard he hit the back wall.

"Just leave him alone," I said.

Eddie stared at me. "This kid," he shrieked, "is nuts!"

"Yeah?" I said. "Not half as nuts as I am, Eddie. You want to find out how nuts I am?"

I stepped at him and Eddie jumped. I picked up my sack of papers. I pulled Stewpot's crushed hat out of his hands and set it on his head.

"Don't do that to your hat, Stewpot," I said.

Stewpot pointed a finger at Eddie and bellowed, "Go, and never darken my towels again!"

I pushed past him and hit the road. I wasn't even surprised when he tagged along after me.

He was still following me when we got to Waverly Lane, the start of my route. I chucked the papers onto the porches without stopping to look first.

"Gee," said Stewpot. "You're a good throw."

I didn't say anything.

"What did that boss want with you?" Stewpot asked me.

"He wanted to give me a medal," I said.

"Really?" said Stewpot. "Where is it?"

"In my pocket."

"Can I see it?"

"No."

"Is it gold or what?"

I stopped walking and I faced Stewpot. "Why don't you get lost?" I said.

"I just want to know," said Stewpot.

"I should have let Eddie beat you up," I said.

Stewpot's head fell to the side, like he did back at the gym. He was smiling. "You sure showed him," he said.

I kept walking, and throwing the papers. I came to the corner of Glen and Maple. Mrs. Reilly lived on that corner. She wasn't a subscriber to the late edition, but I knew where she lived because I took the regular route during the summer, when one of the other guys went on vacation. I stood there, looking at her house for a minute.

"Where are we?" Stewpot asked.

I decided to go up and ring the bell. I heard somebody inside and then she came to the door. She was wearing a different dress from what she had on at school. She was wearing a yellow-flowered apron. The pearl earrings were like little white butterflies, dancing around her ears.

"Why, Pierre!" She opened the screen door. "What a surprise! How are you?" She looked at Stewpot. "Hello, there. What's your name?"

"Stewart Everett Thomson," he said.

"Pleased to meet you, Stewart Thomson," she said.

"Mrs. Reilly," I said.

"Yes?" she answered.

"Ma'am," I said.

She looked at me. Then she looked at my sack with the words "Evening Herald" printed on it.

"Mrs. Reilly," I said.

"Pierre." She squatted down. "You shouldn't be doing a job like this, at your age. It's against the law."

"But ma'am," I said. My throat was all clogged up.

"And that's not even the point." She sighed. "I don't mean to make it sound so frightening. But Pierre. You have so much intelligence and potential. You should be at home reading, and doing creative things, things with your mind. Your time is limited, you know. I know it must seem like a long time to be a child, but it's really only a few years. That's not very much time to prepare for the demands that will be made of you when you're a young man. We want you to be ready to work and succeed." She fingered the sack. "And this--this isn't a bad thing, but it's standing in the way of your preparation."

I looked at the ground. She stood up. I could tell she was waiting for me, for something.

"Pierre," she said. "Is there anything you want to say?"

We seemed to stand there for a long time. I wasn't going to say anything just because she thought I ought to. I wanted her to feel uneasy, like she might fall down and somebody might wipe the floor with her, like I felt in Mr. Berle's office.

Then I heard Stewpot whisper something. He startled Mrs. Reilly and me. I had forgotten he was there. We both looked at him.

"What did you say, Stewart?" Mrs. Reilly asked.

Stewpot looked at me. Then he looked at her.

"I love to go to Washington," he said, "if only to be near my money."

I went blind for a second. I pulled the newspaper sack over my head and threw it down on her porch. I turned around and thudded down the steps. Mrs. Reilly was calling after me, but I didn't look back. I didn't see anything at all until I was on my street, almost in front of my house. Then I realized Stewpot was running after me, yelling, "Peerless! Peerless! Wait!" He was like a stray dog, only worse. I stopped and waited until he caught up with me. I was breathing so hard that I almost choked.

"What do you want?" I shouted at him. "What is your goddamn problem? Shit!" I pushed my arm across my eyes, because they were itching. "Do you know what's going to happen now? I'm going to go upstairs and there's going to be nothing left to eat. And maybe, if I'm real lucky, Ted will tell me all the things that are wrong with me, and he'll tell me all about how he got thrown out of college, and how his father beat him up, so I should be grateful. And then, if I try to read my books, he'll take them and say he's going to read them himself, and he'll spill wine all over them. What then, huh? Are you going to come to my classroom and tell jokes to Mrs. Reilly? Maybe you could just follow me around my entire life and tell jokes so people don't ever pay attention to me anymore. That would be great, Stewpot. I could just sit there and you could tell jokes, like we're on goddamn Shari Lewis!" I turned around toward my house. Then I turned back to him, and I pushed him into the street.

"Get out of here, Stewpot!" I bellowed at him. "Drop dead!"

He piped up, the vein popping out of his neck,

"I don't believe in dying!" He bellowed back at me, bent over at the waist, his fists clenched at his sides. "It's been done! I'm working on a new exit! Besides, I can't die now! I'm booked!"

I jumped into the street and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

"What the hell does that mean?" I screamed. I shook him. "What are you talking about? Do you even know? Damn it, Stewpot, I bet you don't! You just repeat all this comic stuff like a trained monkey. Why don't you say something you know?"

He beat at my face with his hands flapping like butterflies.

"You don't know anything!" I screamed at him. But my voice sounded like it was going to cry, so I toned it down. "I bet you live in a regular house, with a real dad and a regular mom. You probably get dessert every night. You probably go to ball games, don't you? And I bet"--goddamn, I thought, I'm already crying--"when you go to school, nobody tells you to read some big stupid book and tell them all the answers so they can help you out. You know why? Because you're normal." I threw him back from me. "But guess what, Stewpot? You're not normal. You're a freak. You're the real freak. You're the one who needs help, not me. You need a doctor to screw your head on straight. Look at you, with that stupid hat. What do you think is going to happen to you? You're just going to keep on with that old comic stuff your whole life? People are just going to laugh at you, all the time..."

I slowed down, and stopped talking, because suddenly I realized that he wasn't crying or running away from me, or doing much of anything. He was just standing there in the street in front of me, and listening. He was nodding. He was listening to everything I shouted at him, like we were having a heart-to-heart in somebody's living room.

I heard a dog bark. I looked behind me, down the street. Mr. Vincenzo was walking his bulldog back from the park. I wondered if anybody else had been around while I was shouting. I looked up at the house. I was wondering if Ted or my mom was inside, listening to us.

I looked back at Stewpot. He was holding his hat in his hands and pulling at it again.

"You like it when people laugh at you, or something?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Sure."

"Sure," I said. I looked around the street again, and I took a deep breath. I put my hands in my pockets.

"I like it," he said. "I got five brothers. They don't ever look at me or pay attention..."

I held up my hand. "No more jokes, Stewpot. All right?"

He sighed and stamped his foot. "This isn't a joke!" he said.

We looked at each other for a minute.

"Five brothers," I said. "That's a lot."

"Yeah." He rolled his eyes. "They're all older. Two of them are married."

"Wow."

"They were watching the fight on TV last night," said Stewpot. "I was already in bed but I could hear 'em. They were making a lot of noise. I was sitting on the stairs and I heard them."

"So you came down to the gym today?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to see what they were so excited about."

"Yeah? And what did you think?"

"It was okay."

"Just okay?" I put my hand up to my face. "Well, you clocked me okay, you know."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, you sucker-punched me. That's not really fair fighting."

"But I knocked you down."

He was grinning. Leo says that you have to look out for the guys you fight for two reasons. If you hate them, you'll make them your enemy worse than before. But if you just don't like them much, after you fight them, sometimes they become your best friends.

I looked at Stewpot. "Yeah. You sure did knock me down."

We stood there for a minute. Mr. Vincenzo walked past us with his bulldog. We all said hello. Stewpot looked a little nervous of the dog.

"So. You live around here, Stewpot?"

Stewpot looked around him like he'd just dropped out of the sky.

"I don't think so," he said.

"Where do you live?" I asked.

"Thirty-eight forty Chestnut Street."

"What? Where's that?"

"I don't know. It's close to the school."

"What school?"

"Jacob Klein Academy."

"What?" I pushed my hair back, off my forehead. "Where's that?"

"It's where I go to school."

I sighed. I looked up at my house. I couldn't tell if anybody was home or not. My mom could have been out with her friends. Ted could have been at his sister's house. They could both have been inside, watching television. I looked at Stewpot.

"I guess you better come inside," I said. "You know your phone number? You can use our phone."

We went up the steps.

"Can I stay for dinner?" he asked me.

I stared at him. "Stewpot, you've got a hell of a nerve."

He looked at me, waiting.

"Hell," I said. "Sure. Stay for dinner. That would be a scream." I bent down and found the key under the mat.