The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez (5 page)

“You Gotta Love This Kid”

A
fter school, I shoot hoops with Jocko, so I don't get home until about five. My father isn't around, and I'm surprised to see Crash and my grandfather sitting side by side on the steps of our large back porch. Crash is brandishing a huge Nerf gun, which looks like one of those old Gatling machine guns. He's aiming it at the bird feeders, which are hanging on cast-iron poles at opposite ends of our koi pond. The gun holds about twelve Nerf bullets, which, contrary to the manufacturer's claim, can put a dent in your cheek. It's a quiet, sunny afternoon, the little birdies chirping and the koi pond's artificial waterfall babbling, so I'm wondering what poor creature Crash plans to annihilate, and how he enlisted my grandfather in this attack.

“What's going on?” I ask.

Crash turns and angrily whispers, “Shhh, you'll scare it away.” It's obvious he's been crying, because his cheeks are stained with dried tears.

I lower my voice. “It?”

“The hawk,” Crash says.

My grandfather tells me to go inside, where he'll explain. “You okay by yourself?” he says to Crash, and Crash nods. “If that bum shows up, give 'im both barrels, you hear?”

It takes me a while to get my grandfather into the kitchen, where we sit on bar stools at a tall round granite table facing a window that looks out onto the backyard.

“What happened, Grandpa?”

Nowadays, it's not always easy to get a straight answer from my grandfather, but after I help him find the right words, events come into focus. As it turns out, when Crash came home, he sat outside with my grandfather, doing his homework. As moody as Crash is, he has a few places he finds peaceful, like the porch. He loves birds, so he's in charge of filling the bird feeders, and he keeps track of species that stop by. He's even researched the kinds of seeds that attract different birds.

But as he was sitting there today, a large hawk swooped down, grasped a robin in its claws, then soared away. It's probably the hawk we've seen hanging around on lower branches the last few weeks. I thought its presence was odd, though cool, because I had never seen one up close.

“How did you know about this?” I ask my grandfather.

“Your father called, and . . .” He's trying to grab hold of Crash's name among the jumble of choices whanging around in his head.

“Crash, Grandpa.”

“Yeah, Crash said you're all a bunch of losers and he just wanted me here.”

I almost laugh, imagining my father's response to that.

“If Crash doesn't want the hawk to attack the birds, why did he tell me not to scare it away?”

“Revenge,” my grandfather says.

“So where's Dad?”

“He went grocery shopping. Some other guy's on his way.” And he begins searching for a name again. “Dodo or Bilbo, something like that.”

“Aldo?”

“Yeah, that's it. Sounds like a dog, doesn't it?”

“Why's he coming?”

“Don't know,” my grandfather says.

After I get him a glass of water, we return to the back porch, sitting on opposite sides of Crash.

“Sorry,” I say. “It must have been pretty traumatic.”

He looks straight ahead. “Why would you care? You think hawks are cool.”

“Not this one, Crash. He's a bad apple.”

He looks up at me. “You mean that?”

“Yeah, he's one nasty hawk.”

“You think this gun will scare him away?”

“If it doesn't, we'll get a bigger gun, right, Grandpa?”

“You bet. One of those flamethrowers will do the trick.”

“But wouldn't it fry the bird feeders?” Crash says.

“Then we'll have to buy them special suits. What are they, Benny?” he asks.

“Asbestos suits, Grandpa?”

“Yeah, those.”

This makes Crash smile.

“Why's Aldo coming over, Crash?” I ask.

“When I got upset, I called Irene, and Aldo said the same thing happened to him once, so he knows what to do.”

“Hmmm,” I say.

“Will you do me a favor?” Crash asks.

“Sure.”

“Hold the gun while I go inside and pee.”

“No problem,” I say, taking the weapon from him.

“You'll pay attention, right? You won't start talking to Grandpa and space out, will you?'

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you're a blabbermouth.”

Grandpa lets out a loud laugh, saying, “You gotta love this kid.”

Aldo Audubon

W
hen my father comes home, I'm surprised my mother's with him.

“Crash called you, too?”

“No, I ran into your father at the grocery store.”

“Very romantic,” I say, and she smirks at me. Irene, my grandfather, and I are sitting at the granite table, drinking Cokes. Aldo's outside with Crash, moving the bird feeders around. He's being very scientific, spreading the branches of our small trees, gesturing to Crash, who's holding a bird feeder in each hand.

“What's the Missing Link doing here?” my father asks.

“That's not funny,” Irene says.

“Really,” my mother adds.

My grandfather laughs and says, “He's a real kook, heh? But if Crap likes him, he's okay with me. But what's with the tight black pants? And the kid's got no behind.”

My mother says, “It's Crash, Kieran.” (Kieran is my grandfather's name.)

“That's what I said.”

My father places a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and says to my mother, “I'll explain later.”

Irene comes quickly to Aldo's defense. “I know you think Aldo eats raw meat and beheads people, but he knows a lot about animals and flowers.”

“Is he gay?” my grandfather asks.

“Kieran,” my mother says, and I add, “Very uncool, Grandpa.”

Meanwhile Aldo and Crash come in for a glass of water, and my mother says that won't do, so she tells me to grab some Powerades from a refrigerator we keep in the garage.

“Not necessary, Mrs. Alvarez,” Aldo says, but she insists. Then she hugs Crash. “I'm really sorry, Buddy. You want some popcorn?”

The trouble with “positive” people is they think everything has a simple solution. Right now, Crash wants to suffer. He wants to cry, then track down that hawk and Nerf-dart it to death.

“Did you hear me, Benny?” she asks, and so I leave.

When I return, Aldo is sitting in my seat next to my grandfather, while my sister edges her chair next to his and starts rubbing his forearm. My father takes this in but doesn't seem upset.

“So what's the verdict, Aldo?” he says.

“If we move the bird feeders closer to the trees,” Crash jumps in, “Aldo says the birds will be able to hide from the hawk or escape easier.”

“But then the squirrels will eat their food,” I say.

Aldo nods. “But you can still keep the feeders away from the squirrels but close enough to give the birds protection. We're going to fiddle with them and see what happens.”

“So a few more birds may have to bite the dust?”

“Benny,” my mother says.

“I'm just saying, that's the only way we'll know.”

Grandpa's feeling a little upstaged, so he offers his two cents. “Not if Crap and me are on patrol, and there's always the flamethrowers.”

Aldo's looking like he just entered an alternate universe. He mouths silently to Irene, “Crap?” and then he speaks in a normal voice to my grandfather, “Flamethrowers?”

But Crash has changed his mind about the flamethrowers. “No, Grandpa. Aldo explained it's not the hawk's fault. They have to live too, and without birds, they'll die.”

“Really?” my grandfather says, looking impressed.

“But Aldo says the hawk will come back, so we can at least try to protect the little birds.”

“So no flamethrowers or automatic weapons?” my grandfather says. “How about a bazooka?”

“No,” Crash says.

“Too bad—it would've been fun.”

My father and Aldo laugh loudly at this comment, then look surprised and uncomfortable by their sudden camaraderie, and my father stuns everyone, except Irene, by inviting Aldo to dinner.

“Me too?” Grandpa says.

“Of course, Dad.”

Aldo and Crash leave to finish their bird feeder relocation job, and the rest of us set the table, while my father thaws out hamburger for tacos. My grandfather stays put, and I see him watching Crash and Aldo. At one point, he grabs my arm and says, “You think he's a kook?”

“What?”

“The guy with the tight pants.”

“No, Grandpa, he's not a kook.”

“Then what is he?” Grandpa asks.

“He's a good guy, just a little different.”

I look up and notice my father's been listening. He's rubbing his chin between his thumb and forefinger, like he's wondering how he would've answered Grandpa's question.

Later, for the heck of it, I look up “kook”: “blockhead, bonehead, dork, imbecile, jerk, nitwit, out to lunch.” The jerks at Aldo's school probably call him a dork, or think he's out to lunch, but I'm beginning to think he's what you'd call an original, since I never met anyone quite like him.

Still, there's that Tweety Bird tattoo.

A Dog Named Hobo

J
ocko, Beanie, and I get to school early the next morning, so we rack our bikes and sit on the front lawn. It's cool but sunny. We watch kids shuffling toward us, envying the eighth graders, who get to leave next year for what Beanie calls the “real world,” high school. We're about to grab our backpacks when I spy Claudine walking toward the entrance with her old tan Labrador retriever, Hobo. Everyone knows about the dog, how he's the oldest dog in the universe and has some weird cancer but just won't die. He walks Claudine to school every morning, then shows up right on time for dismissal.

“You have to admit that's cool,” Jocko says.

“What?” Beanie asks.

“The way that dog waits for her every day.”

“I thought the town had leash laws,” I say.

“What, do you want to throw a half-blind dog with cancer in the pound?”

“I'm just saying that if it were Spot, they wouldn't let
me
do it.”

“And they'd be right,” Jocko says, “because that dog smells like a garbage dump.”

“I just think Claudine gets treated differently because her mother's a teacher.” She's actually an aide.

“I agree,” Jocko says, “so why don't we go over and beat old Hobo with some sharp sticks.”

Beanie laughs.

“I'm not saying that.”

“Dude, you're just very harsh on that girl.”

I'm wondering why everyone keeps saying that.

“Speaking of Claudine, who happens to be a girl,” Beanie says, “has everyone gotten their behest?”

It takes me and Jocko about two minutes to figure out he's talking about the invitation to Becky Walters's party.

“Yeah,” I say, “yesterday. But no reason to worry about presents. Mine said to donate money to the breast cancer crusade.”

“Breast cancer?” Jocko says. “How did I miss that? You think her mother has it?”

I hadn't really thought about that. “I don't know.”

“Are you going?” Beanie asks me.

Last night, after Aldo left, I really sweated that one. In a way, it's not something I want to miss, because I've never been to a party with a deejay. So many unknowns, it's almost interesting, but I'm having trouble getting past the idea of dancing. Irene says the girls will dance with or without us, and she'll be happy to teach me a few steps. What no one knows is that I dance by myself sometimes, doing what comes naturally, though the thought of dancing publicly makes me want to puke.

“I asked if you're going,” Beanie repeats.

“Yeah,” I say, “but only if we show up together. I don't want to be there early with a bunch of girls or guys I don't even like.”

“I agree,” Jocko says. Then he starts obsessing on a lot of little details, like how we should dress and if we should wear something pink because of the breast cancer thing.

It's amazing how he'll freak over every dumb detail of everything we do but spaces out on the big stuff, like the fact that girls will be at the party. But then, as I said, he'll talk to a girl as easily as he'll talk to a guy.

Once we agree we're going, we head toward the entrance. Hobo's lying at Claudine's feet while she talks to a friend. “Let's wait a second,” I say.

Beanie agrees, but Jocko ignores us, moving toward the front doors. He's almost there when he takes a detour to pet Hobo, who's resting on his side. Jocko rubs his belly and Hobo's left leg starts twitching. Now here's the weird part: while he's rubbing Hobo, he's talking to Claudine like they're old friends.

“What's that about?” I say.

“You know Jocko,” Beanie says.

As Jocko continues to talk, my feet lead me involuntarily toward Claudine, and before I know it, I'm next to her, then on one knee petting Hobo. I look behind to see if Irene is there, zapping me with a do-gooder spell.

“Nice dog,” I say, waiting for Jocko to add, “Yeah, why don't we call a vet to put him down?” but he gives me a pass.

Claudine's towering over me, squinting, probably wondering if this is some kind of trick. She doesn't thank me, just helps Hobo to his feet and says, “Home, Hobo.” The dog licks her face, then slowly heads off. With every step to the left or right, he looks like he's going to lose his balance. Finally, he stumbles into a right turn and disappears from sight, and that's when Claudine leaves, ignoring us, like we never existed.

“You're welcome, Claudine,” I say behind her back.

“Thanking you probably isn't on her mind, Benny,” Jocko says. “If I were her, I'd be worried every day that Hobo might not show up at dismissal, which would mean he died.”

“How does she know he'll make it home?” Beanie asks.

“She only lives a few houses down the street,” I say.

Jocko smiles. “How do you know that?”

“I must've driven by with my dad one day and saw her out front. What does it matter?”

“I guess it doesn't,” Jocko says, grinning stupidly at me.