Against the Wall (15 page)

I clutch the front of my tank top, right where my heart is. He's telling me this to prove that he's no angel. Well, mission accomplished. But he's also trying to push me away before I get too close.

He probably thinks it's
for my own good
. He told me he didn't want me
for my own good
. He sent back my letter unopened
for my own good
.

Bastard.

Maybe he fucked Oscar's girlfriend out of concern for me, too? Maybe he thought of me the whole time he fucked her—
for my own good
.

This is worse than finding out Chip screwed another girl in our bed. I dated Chip for over a year, and I thought he loved me, but whatever. We're done. His trashy rebound is just a bit of salt in the wound. Eric's betrayal cuts deeper. Even though he's not mine, and I didn't expect him to be celibate, I'm devastated. I know he wanted me this morning. He could've had me. Instead of taking me, he went to her.

I cross my arms over my chest to hide my trembling hands. “Chip read that letter before he came to the club. I think it's what really set him off.”

“Why?”

“Because I wrote that I loved you, and I've never said those words to him. I've never said them to anyone else.”

Eric doesn't have a response for this. He looks utterly defeated, but I feel no triumph. I feel nothing. I'm empty now, drained of emotions. I can't fix what's broken between us. He can't go back and change the past.

We can only move forward, in separate directions.

I toss and turn all night, plagued by second thoughts.

I can't get comfortable on the cot, despite its remarkable similarities to my hard, narrow prison bunk. Inside, I was always on top. My cellie preferred the lower space. I wanted to be up high, head in the clouds.

Although the garage is more private than the couch, it's not private enough. There's no way for me to lock the door. I lay awake for hours, picturing Meghan's hand on my cock. Her gorgeous tits on display. Her mouth, sliding up and down on me.

Finally I say fuck it and jerk off. I've never come so fast in my life. I spill into my old bandanna with a low groan.

And even then, I don't fall asleep.

What happened with Meghan will haunt me forever. I lost control again. She felt so good in my arms, so warm and receptive and hungry for my touch. Her mouth is like magic. She's fucking sexy. If that porno hadn't started blasting, I'd have fucked her right there on her boyfriend's couch.

As soon as we broke apart, I regretted kissing her. I thought I'd taken advantage of her emotional state. She'd just broken up with Chip, who'd brought some hot-pink-thong–wearing piece of ass into their bed. I attempted to comfort her and got caught up in the moment.

We were on the edge of disaster, ready to jump into another ill-fated affair. I had to do something drastic to put distance between us, so I told her about Noemi. I let Meghan believe that I was with Noemi yesterday morning.

It was a dirty hit, and not exactly honest, but it was nothing compared to the bomb Meghan dropped on me. She wasn't crying because she's still in love with Chip. She never loved him. I'm the only one she's ever loved.

What am I supposed to say to that? There's no defense against it, no safe retreat, no countermove that will nullify her feelings.

Or mine.

She's the only one I've ever loved, too. But I can't tell her that. I still don't know how to deal with this
thing
between us. It's a monster that keeps growing even though I've tried not to feed it. No matter what I do, it stays inside me. Whenever I look at her, it drags me closer. When I touch her, it takes over.

Instead of hanging around for breakfast, I get up early and leave for group. I buy cheap coffee and pan dulce at a corner market. My head is fuzzy from lack of sleep, as if I'm hung over. I arrive at the meeting area and sit down, removing the homework assignment from my pocket. I scan the words I wrote once again.

I can't read this out loud. It's too personal.

I'm hoping Benji will let us off the hook. There isn't any accountability in some programs. The leaders come and go, or engage less and less. The participants are even more unreliable. You want twenty violent offenders to show up, act serious, and make steps toward real change?

Good fucking luck.

The other guys trickle in and Benji joins us in the circle of chairs. I hate circles. They're inescapable. Intimate. You have to make eye contact. Ugh. I put the letter back in my pocket, thinking I might be the only chump who actually did his homework.

I'm wrong. Almost everyone brought a letter, and there's no shortage of volunteers to read them aloud. Some of the letters are embarrassingly emotional. Others show a lack of remorse. A few don't make sense, with incoherent sentences and rambling stories. One guy wrote to his daughter to apologize for hitting her. He's crying as he reads. It's messed up, and I don't want to sympathize with him. I don't want to relate to him in any way.

Near the end, Benji turns to me. “Are you ready to share?”

I'm not. I don't want to bond with these losers. But the letter is burning a hole in my pocket, making me queasy with guilt. Maybe reading it will give me some kind of release. Maybe Meghan is right, and I'm not really free.

“This is to a kid,” I say, unfolding the paper. My hands are shaking, which makes the script harder to read. “I don't know his name.”

Benji nods to encourage me.

“Dear Kid, I killed your dad.”

Jesus. I'm already self-conscious, and the words sound harsh out loud. Why don't I just add a line about fucking his mom?

I clear my throat and continue. “I didn't mean to kill him, but my intentions don't matter. He's dead because of me. You won't remember him because you're so young. I don't know if he would have been a good dad to you. I'm not sure that matters, either. Sometimes we have bad people in our lives, and we love them anyway.”

Fuck. I have to take a deep breath to get myself under control again.

“I lost my dad when I was ten. Someone killed him in a fight, so we have that in common. He wasn't a good dad but I have some good memories of him. I'm glad I got the chance to know him. He taught me how to work on cars. You won't have any good memories of your dad. He can't watch out for you or teach you anything. He won't see you grow up. I took him away from you, and I'm sorry.”

When I'm finished reading, I glance around. No one is looking at me in horror. I don't know if I feel better or worse. My story isn't shocking to a group of violent offenders. My family history isn't unusual here. I fit right in. It's an ugly place where no one wants to belong, but it's better than being alone.

Benji seems pleased, as if we've made some sort of progress I can't see. “Thanks for sharing,” he says. Then he grabs a stack of papers to pass out. “Your next assignment involves community service. It's part of the class requirement. You need to spend eight hours at any non-profit organization and get it signed off.”

There are some mild grumbles around the group. I'm relieved this session is over, and not unwilling to do grunt work. I think most of the other guys feel the same way. We want physical tasks to complete, rather than emotional ones.

I browse the list of suggested activities and volunteer sites. We can serve a day at a homeless shelter, join a trash cleanup crew, help paint over graffiti. I fold up the paper and put it in my backpack, along with my letter.

“Good job today,” Benji says, squeezing my shoulder. Normally I don't like guys touching me, but he's not threatening me or invading my space. I warm at the praise and shuffle out with the rest of the group.

The sunshine is blinding.

I have a few hours to kill before my meeting at the YMCA, so I head to the library. I've been wondering about colleges. Getting a degree seems impossible, unattainable, but a week ago I would've said the same thing about working as a professional tattoo artist. So I do some research on local art programs. Then I roll the dice and fill out an application.

I won't hold my breath, though.

Ideally, I need to focus on short-term goals, like moving out of Noah's. As soon as I have my own wheels and enough money saved up, I'll start looking for a guest room or a trailer. Maybe a studio apartment in a really bad neighborhood.

After I'm done at the library, I take the bus to the YMCA on Main Street. I've never been there before. Gang members don't join afterschool programs. I didn't even go to school regularly. Raul kept me home to do drug deals and run errands for him. When he got locked up, I had to drop out altogether to support myself.

The Y is noisy inside, with acoustics like a basketball court. The linoleum floor squeaks under the soles of my tennis shoes. There's a rec room with some teens playing videogames. I stop at the front desk and introduce myself to a cute, curly-haired black girl.

She tells me to have a seat.

I sit for a few minutes, reading the motivational posters on the walls. It's a lot of
DARE TO KEEP KIDS OFF DRUGS
and
BE ALL YOU CAN BE
bullshit. I was more comfortable in group therapy, with my fellow thugs. This place is for straight edges. I'm not an appropriate choice for doing a mural with a teen group.

Has this YMCA director seen my art? The nude hitchhiker? And that's my
classy
shit. I'm a tagger from Castle Park. I do wild style graphics, street scenes, and porn.

I've almost talked myself into sneaking away when Mr. Arroyo comes out. He looks like a Mexican professor. He's wearing glasses, a pin-striped shirt, and khakis. I stand up to greet him. “Eric? I'm Anthony.”

I shake his hand warily.

“The wall for the mural is about two blocks down,” he says. “I thought we'd take a look at it first.”

“Okay.”

We head that direction and walk the first block in silence.

“Matthew tells me you just got out,” Anthony says.

“About a week ago, yeah.”

“How are you adjusting?”

I don't know how I'm adjusting. Being out is both better and worse than I expected. Higher highs and lower lows. My post-release fantasies didn't include sleeping on a cot in a garage and doing community service. I had dreams of alcohol-fueled debauchery, strip clubs, and more hot girls than I could handle.

I've managed to avoid those temptations, for the most part, but I'm not sure I'll ever be normal. Breaking the law is in my blood. It's like a devil on my shoulder, tempting me to self-destruct. I can't return to my old ways, and I'm committed to staying out of prison. I don't need to get drunk or sleep around to have a good time. I just want some pleasure and comfort.

I want Meghan.

It always goes back to her.

We continue walking until the wall comes into view. It's a nice-sized space in an alley behind a grocery store. Right now it's covered in graffiti, but I can imagine the possibilities. I moisten my lips, warming up to the project.

“We're partnering with several local businesses,” Anthony says. “They want beautiful art with a positive message. I want something that won't get tagged over.”

I understand the problem; it's literally written on the wall. This is contested territory between two warring gangs. Some of the tags are crossed out. That's an aggressive move, sort of like a death threat. “Why me?”

“Your posters are very good. You're young. I thought you might be able to work with the teen group and come up with a design that promotes nonviolence but also speaks to the neighborhood.”

“Speaks to the neighborhood?”

He nods. “There's a lot of gang activity here, obviously. The image and message have to command respect, not mockery. The mural has to be untouchable.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You don't know gang members.”

“But you do.”

“The only thing they won't tag over is
La Virgen
.”

“It can't be religious. We're government funded.”

I look at the wall again, doubtful. It's a tall order. I can't imagine any peaceful, nonreligious message being embraced by gang members. Violence is their way of life. “When do you want it done?”

“Saturday after next, if you can.”

“This is volunteer work, right?”

“Right.”

“I have to do eight hours of community service as part of my parole requirement.”

“Perfect,” he says, smiling.

I don't smile back at him. I think he's a little bit crazy. Anyone with that much optimism has to be. He's putting his trust in me, a complete stranger who got out of a halfway house eight days ago. Either he's crazy or he has low expectations.

I shake his hand anyway. I can't resist a blank canvas this size.

We go back to the recreation center, where Anthony introduces me to the teen group. He leaves me sitting at a table with two girls and a boy who were elected for the mural committee. It's all very official. They even brought sketches for design ideas.

I glance at the first drawing, which is based on a famous painting of an Aztec warrior carrying his princess to the top of a volcano. Her breasts are exposed. The caption reads
MAKE LOVE NOT WAR
.

“I did that one,” the boy says, lifting his chin with pride.

The girl next to him rolls her eyes. “That's so dumb, Paco. Nobody says ‘make love,' and her
chichis
are hanging out.”

“It's a good message,” he replies.

“It is a good message,” I say. “But maybe not appropriate for all ages.”

The girl smirks at the boy. “Told you.”

I move on to the next sketch, which shows a circle of multicolored hands around a dove at the center. It says
PEACE RULES
. Although the overall execution is better, the image is bland and hands are a difficult subject for a large mural.

“He doesn't like yours, either,” the boy says.

“It has potential,” I say, setting the sketch aside. At least it's not R-rated.

The third drawing depicts a heart made out of red roses, with entwined leaves underneath that spell out
VIVA AMOR
. “This is beautiful.”

The girl on the far left blushes at the compliment and stares down at the table.

“We can use all three of these ideas,” I say, grabbing a blank sheet of paper and a pen. “The heart should be at the center, because that's a really strong image. I'll put the volcano scene in the background.” I make a quick sketch of the warrior carrying a more modestly covered princess. “The vine lettering can go at the bottom, with doves on both sides and maybe some handprints below to look like earth.”

The teen committee approves of my plan by unanimous vote. I can't guarantee that the mural won't get tagged, but I think it's a solid design. The key is in mixing some brown pride with pretty imagery. If the teens sign their names to the handprints, even better. They can have ownership in the mural, and kids' signatures will help to safeguard it against graffiti.

It's one thing for a gang member to cross out a rival gang member's sign. It's quite another for them to ruin a piece of art done by neighborhood kids with Mexican love. That's why no one fucks with the murals in Chicano Park.

Anthony likes the idea. I write up a list of supplies and promise to return in two weeks.