Fall 2000 Charles River Review: Outside

Photograph of an individual walking through a city square.

Juan spotted the kid from across the arcade. He looked to be about 12, his friend about the same. The arcade was dark; the smooth metallic and glass surfaces of the rows of video games reflected the flashing neon lights into odd shapes and patterns onto the dark walls and into the hidden corners of the room. The opening of the front door had brought an unwelcome momentary vividness into the cavernous space. The kid and his friend stood for a moment, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. They walked toward the air hockey machine that stood alone in the corner. Juan couldn't remember ever seeing anyone play air hockey; he didn't think the machine even worked.

Juan tracked the kid across the floor. He liked the chilliness of the arcade. Outside, the streets of Times Square were hot, but in here the air conditioner was up high. This was his lair during these long, hot summer days. Sunlight exploded off a bus running down Broadway, like a flashbulb freezing the action of young men playing out violent fantasies on video screens. Juan's dark eyes were well adjusted to the low light. His black hair was cut short and razored close to the side of his head. His lean muscled body showed under his white tank top; his boyish 15-year-old face was expressionless. The sounds of electronic gunfire, explosions, kicks, and punches filled his ears. The constant excitement of sound and light made him feel like a character in an action movie. When he had the change, he liked to play Urban Warrior, but mostly he leaned against the machine and observed the kids, and occasional grown men in business suits, who came and went throughout the day.

Juan watched as the kid pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, spilling them across the floor. The kid crouched down awkwardly to pick them up. Like a girl, Juan thought. These rich white kids all look kind of alike, he thought, with their short pants and their clean sneakers. They sure don't live around here. I never see kids like him in my neighborhood. His neighborhood, Hell's Kitchen, a few blocks west of Times Square, was as hot its name implied. The cool of the arcade was the only comfort Juan found. The neighborhood used to scare him when he was small, playing on the swings in Hell's Kitchen Park. But now it made him feel tough. I'm from Hell's Kitchen, man, he said to himself, I ain't afraid of you.

The kid and his friend walked over from the Port Authority, Juan imagined. They're from New Jersey or someplace. Some big house where they get their white asses washed by a black maid. Look at all that money. All of his stupid allowance. He couldn't use that much change if he stayed here all day.

The kid picked out several quarters and stacked them on the side of the machine. Then he stuffed the rest of the change back in his pocket, put two coins in the slot and leaned forward to start a game.

Stupid little kid don't even know enough to keep his money hid, like in his shoe. That's where Juan had hidden his money after he'd been beaten up enough times on his way home from school. He learned early to look straight ahead or at the ground when he passed the older kids who hung around the park smoking and trying to talk to girls. But still they hassled him. They surrounded him, in packs of two or three, and threatened to beat him up if he didn't give up his money. Even after he started hiding it, he always kept a quarter in his pocket because if he had nothing, they'd beat him up anyway. Thinking about it even now, he felt a chill on the back of his neck. Juan didn't like remembering what it was like being little and scared.

Juan moved slowly across the room, eyes fixed, his silhouette reflecting off each video screen as he passed. He stopped beside the kid and stood watching for several minutes.

"Hey, man. Gimme a quarter."

The kid stood, startled, as the puck dropped into the slot in front of him. With his pale blue eyes and open face the kid looked at Juan without comprehension. Juan held the kid's stare with his brown eyes, so dark they seemed to have no pupils at all.

"Gimme a quarter, man."

The kid stared; he looked confused. Finally, he turned away mumbling something that sounded to Juan like "sorry." The kid pulled the puck from the return slot, put it back on the table, leaned over and continued the game. Sorry? Juan thought. What're you sorry about, kid? Sorry? I tried that when I was a little punk like you, when the big kids hassled me. "Sorry, I don't have no money." "Sorry, I gotta go home." "Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." But it don't matter. They took my money anyway and beat me up. What I'm sorry about is that I was ever little.

"Gimme a quarter, man. Or I'll meet you outside."

The kid didn't look up but from the way he stiffened, Juan knew he had understood. He saw that the kid's hand was having trouble hitting the puck. The kid swung, missed, and the puck slipped past him and in for another point. Juan stood, still and staring. I can wait all day, kid, he thought. I don't have nothing else to do and no place I gotta go. You gotta leave sometime. Until then, I'll be standing right here. With an unsteady hand, the kid picked up the puck and continued playing.

"I'll meet you outside, man."

Juan's voice was low and flat, almost hypnotic. The kid looked across the table to his friend. But his friend avoided the kid's eyes and kept his head down, focusing on the game, thankful it wasn't him Juan had chosen to hassle.

Juan never took his eyes off the kid. The kid's leg started to shake, and he steadied himself on the machine with his free hand as he tried to continue with the game. But his swings became more wild as he swatted at the puck. You scared now, Juan thought. You can try to ignore me but I'm not leaving.

"I'll meet you outside, man. I'll meet you outside."

The kid shivered. Goose bumps formed on his pale, thin arms. He seemed on the verge of crying, or fainting. His reflexes were slowing as he tried to concentrate on the game. He didn't want to look at Juan but all his attention was focused on him. Juan could see tears forming in his eyes and knew he couldn't hold out much longer. Why you being so stubborn, kid, he thought, it's just a damn quarter.

Now the kid was just pretending to play the game. Tears began to fill his eyes; he could barely see the puck.

"I'll meet you outside, man."

The kid held on to the machine with both hands. The sunlight off a passing bus flashed the scene. Then he stood and faced Juan, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Leave me alone!" he yelled, bending forward, his face red and twisted with anguish. "Just leave me alone!"

Juan stared at the kid impassively as the kid tried to steady himself. Leave you alone? he thought. Leave you alone? Man, it don't work like that.

Juan looked into the kid's moist face. It made him sick. He wanted to punch that frightened face. Hard. To feel his fist on the kid's fleshy white skin. He wanted to beat the softness out of the kid. To pound out all that was frightened and weak in him.

The kid was still looking at him, wiping his tears away with the heel of his palm. Juan just stared. Finally he looked away and shook his head. "Shit," Juan said, and turned and walked toward the door and the blinding daylight outside.