Better to Die a Hero Read online

A typical day that summer started around 9:00 a.m. with a large bowl of Rocky road and three hours of computer games. A large bowl of Neapolitan covered lunch, followed by three hours of intense study of the latest and greatest role-playing games. Bryan would show up around 3:00 p.m. to go over pre-gaming strategies and to explore the subject of women, gaming, and comic books. Dinnertime usually meant two large bowls of French vanilla ice cream covered in hard-shell chocolate.

  Various friends would start appearing at six for a role-playing campaign that lasted well past midnight. The between meal snack of gaming champions consisted of chips and cola.

  Steve role-played several righteous heroes that summer: Samson, a barbarian; Brandon Peck, a philanthropic space pirate and his favorite; J.B. Frey, a cyborg sheriff with a heart of gold. Guided by Steve, these imaginary characters made a difference in their fictional worlds. The way Steve lived his life that summer made a difference in the real world; he started his sophomore year thirty pounds overweight.

  The young man had packed on the weight so fast that rows of stretch marks lined his lower back and underbelly. Since then he had gained a steady ten pounds each year.

  If only I could turn back time and live that summer over again, he thought, I know I could do things differently.

  He sat in an introspective trance oblivious to the lecture being given, but not so dazed that he would miss the bell signaling the end of class and the end of a Friday school day. The last bell of the week rang and acted like a Pavlovian stimulus triggering a wave of relaxation that swept through his thick body. Muscular tension flushed away through the bottoms of his feet and his mood elevated as if by reflex. A not so gloomy Steve Pierce walked out of senior history.

  The teenager did not stand out of the crowd as he made his way to his locker, other than his five-ten frame sporting two hundred and forty pounds, at least sixty pounds excess according to a chart he had downloaded from the Internet. Every pair of pants he owned proved two or three inches too small in the waist, stretching the material to its limit, giving the impression of contents under pressure. He left the bottoms out on an ample supply of oversized polo shirts to conceal the adipose spillover and to ensure no flashing backside in case of a pencil drop bend over.

  The shirts were a good investment. The school year passed with no hurtful remarks about unsightly stretch marks or comments like—just say no to crack.

  His pudgy face cloaked any angular features that might exist. If not for vibrant blue eyes, he would be considered plain, as the overweight often are, their true face hidden behind the generic mask of chubbiness.

  Excitement permeated the air as students made their way through the crowded halls. The girls broadcast wide smiles and laughter while the boys bantered loudly, attempting to be eavesdropped upon making weekend plans with their friends. Steve maneuvered around his classmates and noticed himself twisting at the shoulders to fit through the oncoming masses. Nothing unusual about that, a common way to move through a crowd, he was sure. A thought bothered him: he was always the first person to make room. When he and another male were on a collision course, he would twist out of the way in accommodation, but most often, the other guy would continue shoulders straight on. The teenager made his second mental note for the day—let the other guy move out of the way.

  Steve spotted his best friend, Bryan Sahbiny, at the locker they shared and he looked to be entertaining some friends as only Bryan could.

  Bryan’s olive complexion and black hair reflected a Turkish heritage, and though he stood at six feet, his actual height approximated six feet and three inches, an implausibly droopy posture robbing him of the additional inches. This poor stance combined with a thin build evoked an unhealthy image; however, Steve never worried about his friend's health, because Bryan's father was a respected physician.

  Neither had Steve been overly concerned about his friend's wardrobe. Most of Bryan's slacks rode high at the waist, revealing far too much sock and a white T-shirt beamed out from under collared shirts embellished with the most unpopular patterns. When classmates told Bryan his mother dressed him funny, they were right. He never purchased a single item of clothing without his mother’s approval. The final addition that shouted to the world—here stands a nerd—an ink-stained pocket protector that hopped daily from ugly shirt to an even uglier shirt.

  Steve approached and sighed, thankful that Bryan did not need glasses. At least a piece of repair tape would never find its way to the center of his friend’s face.

  Chimpanzee screeches rose above the slamming lockers and hallway chaos. Steve caught glimpses of Bryan through gaps in the crowd, flailing his arms, only stopping to smoke an invisible cigarette. His friend was imitating the cigarette-smoking chimp they had seen on television a week earlier. Only the hunched posture, that sometimes reminded Steve of a vulture, kept his friend’s imitations from perfection.

  Please Bryan, don’t do the horny chimp routine, Steve thought.

  Bryan lifted his leg high at the knee and gyrated his foot madly. He spun on one foot and transitioned smoothly to the hip-hop robot. He ended a routine this way at least once a month to display his dancing talent, even though he had never once attended a high school dance.

  “You did get them, you turkey!” Steve said, snatching one of two computer games out of their locker. He flipped the glossy box over and admired the photos on the back. His mouth dropped open. “Look at the graphics on this thing.”

  “Intergalactic Defenders here we come,” Bryan said, raising his fist in charge.

  “I can't believe you've been lying to me all day about this.”

  “It was worth it. You should have seen the look on your face.”

  That's just fine, Steve thought, I have a surprise of my own tonight. He had planned to tell Bryan about the girl that would be stopping by, but now his friend would have to wait.

  Steve handed the game to someone in the crowd and tossed the books for his afternoon classes into his locker as if they were contaminated. He surveyed the disheveled heap of textbooks and binders and concentrated, trying to recall any weekend assignments. Too many Monday mornings, he’d experienced shamefulness when the first words from the teacher were “take out your homework assignment” and he sat empty handed. It wasn’t too bad if the papers were passed to the front, but when the assignment was passed to a neighbor for grading it was horrendous sitting there, with nothing to do, everyone aware of his ineptitude.

  He scrutinized the contents of his locker, his gaze moving from book to book and no homework came to mind. The second copy of Intergalactic Defenders lay on display. For the last several months, copy protection technology was in advance of software piracy. Several months would pass before the trend reversed in favor of the pirate. Steve decided to thank his friend for the purchase later.

  “I can’t believe you kept a straight face all day,” Steve said.

  Bryan replied with pride, “I'm a damn good liar.”

  Steve took his spring jacket and new gym bag from the locker, careful not to topple forward the stack of neglected books. He slammed the thin metal door shut; it sounded great on Friday afternoons.

  Steve noticed Bryan’s empty backpack. “I'm the guy who doesn't take books home.”

  “This is an Intergalactic Defenders weekend. I declare homework illegal on such an occasion.”

  Steve opened the gym bag, held it to his face, and sniffed the newness.

  “What the hell is that?” Bryan asked, pointing a gaunt finger. “Illegal! Illegal! I declare that bag illegal.”

  “Now listen—.”

  “No, no, didn’t you tell me you couldn't get off the toilet the last time you went running.” Bryan spun, slammed his back to the lockers, and slid down to a sitting position. He feigned a struggle to stand. “Help me. I’ve gone running and can’t get up.”

  Steve’s face turned serious, “I've got to do this. If I don't run now the next time I do, I'll be sore all over again.”

  Bryan stood, his eyes rolled
up in their sockets. “All right, I'll head to your place and get a head start on networking our computers and installing the game. I can come back and pick you up any time.”

  “No, I think I'll do four laps around the track and run home. That should be about three miles. I should be home in forty-five minutes.”

  “Jesus!” Bryan said, his head shaking ever increasingly.

  “Another thing,” Steve said, “that crate of my dad's stuff is in my room. There are six antique guns and a sword in it. Plus bullets scattered everywhere, so don't pull any triggers and don’t cut off your pecker.”

  A real sword to Bryan would be like the bottle to a baby. Steve, acquiescing to the damage that would be inflicted by the time he got home, hoped it would be limited to one of his precious childhood keepsakes and not his hyperactive friend.

  “Hee, hee, guns. Cool. Hee, hee, guns and swords,” Bryan said, wringing his hands.

  “You'll look pretty funny going into premed this fall with a hole in your foot and no pecker.”

  Bryan pretended to get serious, “I know a little about guns and a shit load about swords. I'm not going to shoot my foot and the sword has yet to be forged that could cut off this dick.”

  Giving his gangly friend the last word, Steve smiled, shot a salute, and headed to the gym.

  7

  BETTER TO DIE A HERO

  CHAPTER 3

  Steve entered the boy’s locker room and power walked to a secluded corner. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of sweat and dirty towels and wondered if some day he might become accustomed to the stench. He knew it best to leisurely change into his gym clothes, to act as if he owned the place, but he could not. He threw his shirt off and stepped out of his pants with comical speed. Just as fast, he hopped into newly purchased sweats using the bench to keep from falling. He stuffed his clothes into the backpack and hurried to the exit.

  He passed a large mirror that ran the length of the wall, his reflection looked odd, and he stopped. It was his reflection and yet there was a detachment. He didn’t recognize the voice in his head that echoed his own name, his sense of self drifted away, and his vision blurred slightly.

  Snap out of it, he thought. His sense of being fell back into his mind and he recognized himself. He left the locker room and took a deep breath.

  He exited the building into the fresh air and felt better. The track and surrounding fields were deserted, supporting the school newspaper’s schedule that marked the Benjamin Franklin Wildcats at an out-of-town track meet. The area was completely free of any blue and white jerseys. Benjamin Franklin High ranked as not only the best high school in Queens, but also the best public high school in New York. The achievement was scholastic in nature not athletic. Rarely did any of the sports teams make a good showing at state. The students of Benjamin Franklin had the highest G.P.A. average on the east coast as well as the top S.A.T. scores. Still, the students esteemed athletic prowess well above scholastic aptitude and an absence of jocks on the track put Steve at ease.

  “Four easy laps around the track and a leisurely jog home,” he said, tossing his bag on the grass. He inhaled deeply three times, a wide smile crossed his face, and he pushed off.

  Not on the track but a minute, his thoughts turned to the future. It was widely known Bryan would follow his father’s example and earlier that school year, as expected, his friend accepted an invitation to New York University's premedical program. That funny kid was going to become a Pediatrician. Nora Chan, the girl stopping by this evening—the surprise he’d kept from Bryan—accepted enrollment to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The girl really had it together.

  Steve guessed she would probably end up working for NASA or Microsoft. The wave of fear he’d become so accustomed to slammed into his chest, his stomach tightened into a knot at the thought of graduation, only two months away. He hadn't applied to a single school, hadn't given a career a moment's thought. Visions of pizza delivery, dishwashing, and living at home overwhelmed him.

  The onslaught of anxiety and two fast laps caused a stabbing pain in his side. He gained control of his pace, but it did little to alleviate the burn that erupted every time a foot slapped the track. According to an article in a runner’s magazine, a recent and unprecedented purchase, this common hurdle among beginning runners must be run through. He forgot the discomfort for a moment as he remembered burying the magazine deep within the closet, in an attempt to keep it hidden from Bryan. Defending himself from his friend’s staunch anti-fitness views was an ordeal he wished to avoid as often as possible.

  No conscious decision on the young man’s part brought a vision of Nora. He pictured her in the gymnastics team’s blue and white tights and his mind's eye ran the length of her shapely body, starting at perfect feet, up tawny shins, to thighs long and slim yet sporting a firm muscularity. He paused at her flat stomach then moved up to her moderate, but firm breast; he could only imagine how they might feel to the touch. The girl’s neck was long and silky smooth, her chin sharp, lips full and shapely. Her short hair shined a glossy black.

  Steve found most Asian girls in school to be attractive, but Nora was special. She had a quality that transcended any ethnic heritage. The girl glowed with an inner beauty the smitten boy guessed was due to the great compassion and goodness comprising the foundation of her character. He imagined placing his hands on the girl’s waist, gently pulling her in and pressing his lips on her soft neck.

  The intense daydream acted as an accelerant pushing up his pace and the ensuing burn in his side let him know that his body wasn’t happy about it; the totally opposite effect thoughts of Nora usually induced. By the end of the fourth lap, the pain subsided to a tolerable level and without missing a step, he ran on to the grass and scooped up his backpack.

  “Hey, man boobs.”

  Steve turned to the insulter. Just great. Pascalli and Anderson were cutting across the track. He had been so focused on his breathing it was as if the two jerks came out of nowhere.

  “You should think about investing in one of those athletic bras,” Pascal said, “you know, to keep you from flopping around.”

  “Yeah, to keep you from flopping around,” Anderson repeated.

  Steve put on his backpack. “I’ve been watching you two for four years now, always ridiculing people about how they dress, how they talk, walk, sit, stand. Nothing is too trivial for you guys. Dudes, you’re both small with small lives. Do yourselves and everyone around you a favor and find a higher purpose in life. Don’t go into adulthood as small men.”

  “You read that somewhere?” Pascal said.

  Steve looked at the two for a moment, then a moment longer. “Yes I did, but that doesn’t make it any less true.” He turned his back to them and pushed off. He hollered back, “If I run into you two ten years from now and you’re still two petty pricks… that will just be sad.” Steve displayed two middle fingers above his head.

  * * *

  The second wind he was experiencing eased the strain on his lungs, but his ever-weakening legs felt no reprieve. He watched his feet landing on the sidewalk and it was as if he were running on wet noodles. Painful wet noodles. Memories emerged of walking this same path home, hundreds of times, all before Bryan started driving. Sweat now dripped profusely and it occurred to him that before Bryan had started driving them to school, walks of several miles a day were routine. The addition of the automobile to their young lives was no doubt a contributor to his weight gain.

  Steve recognized the concrete marking the perimeter of his neighborhood, and the nearness of home not more than two blocks away. The sidewalks were broken and dilapidated, posing a challenge to those prone to toe stubbing. The roots of large trees had pushed up sections of concrete and Steve found it a challenge to shift his weight, to keep balance on a path that for the first time reminded him of an obstacle course.

  He rounded the corner; there was his house. Staggering without grace to the familiar yard, he stopped, tossed the backpack to the ground,
and fell on hands and knees. He stared at the grass for several minutes and waited for his breathing to slow. Only partially recovered, he limped through the front door of the old house.

  “My man boobs actually do hurt a little,” he said rubbing his chest.

  Thick layers of smoke wafted throughout the headspace of the living room. After his wife’s death, Uncle George’s cigarette habit had doubled, in spite of a bout of throat cancer that left the old man with a tracheotomy. The stale smell of their home reminded Steve of the thrift stores he and his Aunt used to frequent. It wasn't a pleasant smell, but no matter, it only lasted for a minute, or at least the ability to perceive it only lasted a minute. Smoke parted as he walked through the modest living room. A layer of dust covered aging bookshelves stocked with outdated encyclopedias. Also caught in the ash blanket, shelves overloaded with neglected knickknacks reflecting his late Aunt’s love of angels, turtles, and unicorns.

  Bryan’s car parked in the driveway indicated his friend hard at work, up stairs, networking their two computers together. Steve made a mental note to grab a soda for Bryan, for as often as he and his uncle invited the kid to treat the refrigerator as his own, he declined to take them up on the invitation.

  “Hey, Uncle.” Steve pretended not to notice a new twist to George’s cigarette consumption. The old man, as usual, held the lit cancer stick up to his trachea hole and inhaled. New to the scene was an unlit cigarette dangling from the man’s thin lips.

  George removed the unlit smoke and holding a cigarette in each hand as if they were an extension of his fingers, he covered his breathing hole. “How was school champ?” His voice sounded gravelly and strained.

  “School was good,” Steve answered. “And I was able to run home nonstop this time.”

  “Good for you,” George said.

  “Watching New York Journal?”

  “Yeah, the parade of talking-head idiots continues. I can’t believe it hasn’t been cancelled yet.”