The World's Strongest
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He hadn’t really meant to put the kid in the hospital. It was just that he made him so angry, he really didn’t have a choice. Vance was really a good-hearted boy, but when someone insulted his pride, he kicked into action, literally. So when Jonathan had sent comments his way, Vance flew across the playground and took a handful of Jonathan’s collar in his fist. The shorter boy’s face scrunched in fear, staring wildly at the fire in his captor’s icy-blue eyes. This was not exactly going the way he had planned, they were supposed to be in opposite positions, with Jonathan having the clear upper hand. He was not to be defeated by this poor, homeless freak, but here he was, muscles sized up in fear over what would inevitably come. The old, fat lunch lady began to hobble across the blacktop, but Vance was too blazed over with anger to notice. He brought back his right fist slowly, preparing to throw everything he had into that one punch, longing to feel the shorter boy’s bones crumble under the force of his fist, reveling in the fear that radiated off his prey. His irrational side, the one which all members of the male species possess, was taking over, machismo turning his vision red. As his fist flew, three other boys dove on him, but by the time Vance really felt it, Jonathan’s nose was already broken.
So as the situation stood, Jonathan would be hospitalized for a good day or so, and the thirteen-year-old Vance would probably be expelled from school. Sighing, he stuffed his fists into his pockets and began the three-quarters of a mile walk home. He owned no backpack and he did no homework, it was really a miracle that he was attending school as he, at the time, had no living situation. Well, that wasn’t true, he had a living situation, but it involved a run-down foster home with a drunken would-be wrestler named Dan. Dan had no life. His life used to be wrestling, but that never pulled through. He went to the tryouts, beat one guy, then was ground into the dust by a fellow who weighed thirty pounds less than him. Word spread like a forest fire in Florida, and some punks thought it would be funny to rob their run-down trailer. Thus, Vance and Dan had nothing.
He strolled in through the screen door, hastily counting three giant holes that were not there the previous morning. If he squinted and turned his head a little, they kind of looked like Monica Lewinski. “Dan! I’m back!” he called, carefully avoiding the word “home.” He treaded the path to the kitchen, grabbed a root beer, popped it open and plunged further into the mobile home, sidestepping an openly exposed rat nest. “Dan?” he repeated uncertainly. There was no answer. He found himself in the main room, where the TV used to be before it was stolen, and found the old man in the only piece of furniture in the place, the old, worn armchair. Sighing, he checked for a pulse and found one on his neck, the beating slow but steady. Dan had that annoying habit where he would get drunk and pass out on the armchair. The first time Vance had found Dan like that, some five years ago, he had become flustered and scared. But then his rational side took over and he checked hesitantly for a pulse. Now it happened almost every day, and he would always check and make sure Dan was alive. He pondered the whole “Boy Who Cried Wolf” story, wondering if he should just stop checking every time, but he knew that as soon as he stopped checking, Dan would enter the eternal slumber.
Scratching his right arm with his left hand, Vance entered his bedroom, which was about the size of a closet. He let himself fall to the floor, letting out another sigh of exhaustion. He wouldn’t allow himself to fall asleep, though, because he was always haunted by bad dreams when he slept, nightmares where he ran from nothing until he finally found himself in the middle of nowhere, all alone. His dreams never made sense. Or maybe they did, and he just was no good with symbolism. He watched some ants with mild fascination. They appeared to be on parade or something, because they all walked in a line, carrying little white things. Looking closer, though, he saw that they were really just bringing food to the queen, blindly following the trail that the other ants in front of them left behind. Vance had heard something once about ants being the strongest creatures on earth, because they could carry ten times their own weight at one time or something. That interested him, because it made him think about what he himself was capable of. He only weighed about ninety pounds because there was never anything to eat, so he would have to carry nine hundred pounds at one time. If he was really strong, he might be able to do it, but he only weighed ninety pounds. So it was kind of a seesaw effect. Finally, after struggling internally for twenty minutes, he decided it was time for dinner.
He jogged over to Manny’s Diner, a little restaurant run by a guy Vance had known since he had first been told to live with Dan. Surprisingly, the owner’s name was not Manny, it was Merco. Manny had been Merco’s father, but he died of some disease or other, leaving Merco the business. Merco was a pretty nice guy, in Vance’s opinion. They had worked out a deal over the past years: Vance could eat there, but he had to do his own dishes and cook his own food. Being poor and hungry, Vance had no problems with this deal, and he happily ate one meal a day, every day but Sunday as Merco closed the restaurant. That was the only bad thing about Merco. He was ridiculously Christian.
“Heya Vance!” shouted Merco from the other side of the kitchen. Vance knew Merco so well, he just strolled in through the back door, opened the fridge, and decided to make a nice big BLT that day. He threw some bacon on a pan and sat down in a chair to watch it fry. Merco pulled a chair up next to him and looked the boy in the eye. “How are things at home, little buddy?” he asked, genuinely concerned. Vance just shrugged, seemingly concentrating deeply on his frying animal flesh. Merco nodded once, taking this as a sign that Dan was back in the trailer, passed out in the armchair as usual. “How about those Sixers, huh?” mentioned Merco, changing the subject quickly. Vance glanced at him and Merco motioned vaguely to the radio.
“Mutumbo shoots, OH! Just bounces off… Oh! But here’s Iverson, coming up for the rebound and YES! Allen Iverson seals the deal with three seconds left on the shot clock!” reported the announcer. The excitement in his voice was clearly audible as he made his overview of the game. Vance looked back at the bacon, grabbed a spatula, flipped it, then set the spatula on the counter.
For a while, Merco didn’t think the boy was going to say anything, but then he glanced quickly at the restaurant owner and muttered, “I like the Lakers better.”
The older man was taken aback for a second, but then his tan face split into a wide grin, and he broke into a deep laugher. He slapped Vance jovially on the back. “You’re all right, kid, you know that?”
Later that night, Vance curled in his closet, listing carefully to the sounds of Dan gradually arising. He would get himself up and then drag himself into his bedroom. After that, Vance would sneak out of his room and curl up in the armchair for the night, inhaling the smell of Dan and his alcohol. He could sleep better there anyway, and he would be gone before Dan woke up. Usually he went to school, but now, he decided, he would just go. Something inside him told him to leave, and he wasn’t one to argue with his instincts.
By the time Dan woke up the next morning, Vance was gone. The Lakers beat the Sixers in their next game. On Sunday, Merco closed the restaurant like usual, noticing that Vance had never cleaned up his bacon grease.
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Jessie Balick, May 23, 2002