Authors: Chris Crutcher
Angry Management
Author of Deadline
Angry Management
Three Novellas
In memory of
Jeremy Salvner
I’m not big on writing fantasy, but for the purposes of this trilogy I have stepped over the line and whipped up a bit of magic myself. I’m bringing together characters I created separately over a fifteen-year span. In this book, they’ve stayed the same ages they were when I created them. Hey, the Hardy Boys have remained teenagers for more than three quarters of a century.
So Sarah Byrnes and Angus Bethune and John Simet and Matt Miller and Montana West are living outside of their original times and in some cases outside of their original settings. If that bothers you, I salute you because it means you’ve read more than one of my formal novels.
Writing this was a great challenge for me. I’m asked over and over again whether or not there will be a sequel to
Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes
or
Whale Talk,
or if I’m ever going to write an entire novel in which Angus Bethune stands front and center. I don’t know the answer to the last question—Angus could certainly shoulder his own book—but I don’t generally get the notion to write a sequel to a novel that I’ve already taken
two years to write. But during those two years I always fall in love with my characters, and I loved revisiting some of them in this other, shorter form.
But
Angry Management
isn’t simply a tribute to those characters I love: it’s also a tribute to some of my fans. Those who have read
Whale Talk
may remember John Simet as the swimming coach/teacher and mentor to T. J., the main character. I remember Simet quite differently. Not long after my novel
Ironman
was released, I received an e-mail from a student at the University of Nebraska. He referred to several of my novels, and I was taken by his knowledge of their details. At the bottom of the e-mail was his auto-generated homage to the Nebraska Cornhuskers football team. My team was the University of Washington Huskies, and the last time I’d seen the two teams play, the Huskies had killed ’em, and, after thanking him for his generous comments, I mentioned that. Within minutes I received a second e-mail: “They play tomorrow,” he wrote. “If UW wins, I’ll buy every one of your books in hardback and send you the receipt. If the Cornhuskers win, you have to use my name in a book.”
“You’re on,” I wrote back.
I had not been paying recent attention to college football. The Huskies were on their way
down,
and the Cornhuskers were in the running for the national championship. If I recall correctly, Nebraska beat the Huskies by three touchdowns plus.
When the game was over, I hopped on the computer and e-mailed John. “Do you want to be a freeway sniper or a one-legged transvestite?” I typed.
“I don’t care,” he wrote back. “Just put my name in a book.”
Done.
A name I’m sure you won’t remember from reading my books, unless you are a
true
trivia expert, is Matt Miller, whom you will meet, should you read on, in the story “Meet Me at the Gates, Marcus James.” Matt Miller had one mention in
Deadline
as a member of the football team—even minor characters would call him minor. But Matt Miller is also a young man who came to a bookstore reading a couple of years back. After the reading he handed me his copy of
Deadline
and asked me to sign it on the page where his name was mentioned. I was so taken with his intelligence and his sense of humor that by the time we finished our conversation, I was determined to give him a bigger role somewhere down the line.
We are down the line, and I give you Matt Miller.
—Chris Crutcher
Mr. Nak removes books from cardboard boxes and places them in some order that makes sense to him, onto the bookshelves occupying three of the four walls of his small office. There are fiction books, biographies, left-leaning political tomes dating back to the Reagan years. Bronze statues of horses divide sections; framed pictures of his recent first trip to his ancestors’ homeland, Japan, hang on the one newly painted eggshell wall, along with his all-around cowboy plaque won in an obscure senior rodeo circuit on the dusty plains of West Texas.
He plops into the oversized office chair and places his boots on the desk, gazing around the room, letting his eyes fall on the rodeo plaque. Fifteen years ago, he left a job much like this one to get back to his Japanese cowboy roots; now he’s back. Sixty-two is too damned old to make the lightning trip from saddle to dirt one more time. Symmetry. He nods, grateful that Global Community Health was willing to hire him as a full-time counselor at an age when many counselors retire.
“We have kids in this two-state region who need help, Mr. Nakatani. Our jurisdiction covers three school districts, large in area but not so much in population. Last year was a rough one; we had two suicides—one by gun and one by overdose—and at least one major racial incident. We need to get some prevention going.”
“Sounds like the job for me, ma’am,” Nak said. “I ain’t braggin’, but I’ve worked with kids in tough situations all my life. Been in a few myself. I think your right, getting a jump on ’er, by the way.”
“You come highly recommended from your years in the Clark Forks school district, and you’ll be working with some of those kids. But we’re expanding our embrace, if you will. Some of the grant money for your salary was written for kids who aren’t in the direst of straits; kids who have run into some hard luck or ones with a fragile emotional makeup. You know, kids who will make it if they get a chance to work some things through,” Dr. Hairston said. “I’ll make sure you have whatever you need.”
“’Preciate it.”
That was it. Shortest interview he’d ever had.
Two suicides, a major racial incident, plus the various and sundry stuff kids go through to get to graduation. Hopefully.
World’s dangerous enough without bringing your
own firearm to your head, or your mother’s prescription pills to your gut.
Nak thumbs through his list of possible clients; the terminally tough crowd first, then the kids recently graduated or ready to graduate that Dr. Hairston thinks could use a little boost. He was impressed when he read Global Community Health’s mission statement. It was the first preventative program he’d read about that might be worth its salt, and the first that seemed adventurous enough to work with clients’ real lives. He appreciated that they worked with and through the school districts. This seems like a good place to wrap things up.
Sarah Byrnes, Angus Bethune, Montana West (some of these names sounded like they were concocted by a bad fiction writer), Matt Miller (that’s a little more like it), Trey Chase. Sixteen names in all.
“We’ve separated these kids into two groups, one with kids we think can fly and one with kids who desperately need survival skills. Once you meet them, you may want to move them around, but that’s all up to you. It’s your program, Mr. Nakatani, we think we have the best man for the job.”
He looks at the header on their stationery.
IF YOU THINK YOUR LIFE SUCKS, IT PROBABLY DOES. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.
Global Community Health has done a hell of a job selling their wares, Nak thinks.
“My name’s Noboru Nakatani. My few friends call me Nobi, or Nak. You can put Mister in front of that if your so moved, but I got no requirement. The folks runnin’ this rodeo think all y’all can learn to ride; sit tall in the saddle, to use a metaphor I’m comfortable with, so I’m here to help you find the right saddle and bridle. I know some of y’all don’t know each other, and none of ya know me, so we can start slow, but in the end if ya want to make things work, ya got to tell your story and ya got to tell it true.
“I call this group Angry Management. I call all my groups Angry Management. Tell ya why. Back in the day I worked with a young man named Hudge. Kid had one of the nastiest daddies I know about; that boy operated his whole life in the eye of a particularly vicious hurricane. Least a category five. Kid’s brain wadn’t operatin’ on much horsepower, if you know what I mean, an’ he was scared all the damn time, for good reason.”
Nak shakes his head, slides back in time. “Forgot to feed his dog one mornin’, so his ol’ man
killed
the dog, then told Hudge
he’d
killed him. His dad had warned Hudge when he asked to have a dog that he would have
to care for him an’ he damn well better not forget or there would be consequences.” Nak looks toward the window. “That man could lay down some
consequences.
“It was Valentine’s Day, first one ever where ol’ Hudge stood a good chance to get one. Got all fixed up, combed his hair; even put on a little deodorant—an’ forgot to feed the damn dog. Only time he forgot in three years. The ol’ man shot that dog. Laid him right there on the porch so Hudge couldn’t miss him when he come home.” Nak looks at his boots. “Hell, ol’ Hudge tore up the two valentines he got ’cause he blamed wantin’ ’em for makin’ him forget, then got so damn mad he tried to pull off his own skin.”
Nak looks around the circle of kids in this first group. “Like I said, Hudge wadn’t all that articulate. The group I had ’im in was called Anger Management. Hudge couldn’t quite get it, called it Angry Management. State took Hudge away an’ tried to find ’im a foster home, but that didn’t work out, so they found ’im a residential treatment center. Guess that didn’t work out either, ’cause ol’ Hudge took himself out. That boy hanged himself in a coat closet.” Nak looks directly into the eyes of all who can hold his gaze. “The kid was a real hero to make it as far as he did. I call all my groups Angry Management in his name; make sure I won’t
forget him. So welcome to Angry Management.
“I want to get to know your stories. I want all y’all to know each
other’s
stories, because if we can work us up a little trust, we can probably help each other out.
“We got the Vegas rule, and I hit this one hard. What happens here,
stays
here. There ain’t a lot of things you can do to get the boot, but takin’ what’s said here out to the teemin’ masses is one of ’em. That’s one I need a promise on, so I’ll send this here paper around the room and I’d appreciate it if you’d put your John Hancock on it.”
Trey Chase: “What’s a John Hancock? Isn’t that your…you know…dick?”
“No, that’s usually your Johnson. You’ll have to bear with me. I’m an old guy. A John Hancock is your signature. You got to sign the paper.”
Every kid in this group is a volunteer. Every kid in this group wants to fly. Every kid in this group has too much ballast. The paper circulates, stopping at Trey. He reads it over.
Montana West leans over. “Sign it and quit pretending you can read.”
He smiles, signs. “I’d follow you through fire.”
“I like a good-looking boy with below-average intelligence,” she says back.
Angus Bethune says, “Let’s get some
heft
on this
paper” and snatches it from Trey; signs with flair, the pen nearly disappearing in his beefy hand.
“Since this is the first session,” Nak says, “I’ll tell you a little bit about myself and then answer as many of your questions as I can, and maybe get a statement from you out of the gate.
“I used to be a teacher. B’fore that I was a kid, just like you. Last time I received instruction in a high school, it was 1964. That’s back during evolution for you, but it’s yesterday to me. They tell me this area went down a hard road last year, and they pulled me in to see if I could get a little prevention goin’. In my world that’s a good idea; ever town that cares about its youngsters should do it. Anyway, the reason I’m good at this job, and I am good at it, is ’cause I’ve been down a shit…er…hard road or two of my own, an’ I’m still standin’.”
Matt Miller says, “It’s okay to say shit, Mr. Nak. “I’m the Christian boy in here, and I say it all the time.”
“Christian boy says I can say it, I can say it,” Nak says. “I don’t expect y’all to tell your stories yet. You’ll have to learn to trust each other first, an’ then me. In the end, my hope is that you’ll learn that Angry Management ain’t really where it’s at. When the rage has got ya, it’s got ya. But if you learn to tell your story, an’ tell it loud, your angry won’t get you so often. Any questions?”
Marcus James raises his hand. “This group equal opportunity?”
“Meanin’?”
Marcus looks around. “Well, you might not have noticed, but I’m the only black guy here.”
“You might not have noticed, but I’m the only Japanese guy here,” Nak says. “Got you covered.”
“Well, I’m probably the only gay guy here, too,” Marcus says.
Nak looks around. “Hard to tell. But I’m probably the only cowboy here, so, like I say, got you covered.” He nods. “Any more questions?”
There are none.
“Well, I’m your best friend today, ’cause I’m lettin’ you out early. Go git your stories straight. Let’s call ’er a day.”