Read Online The Wooden Sea by Jonathan Carroll - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
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kicked him in the balls so fast and hard that the sound filled the air.
Gasping, the man fell down holding his nuts. As soon as he hit the ground, the boy kicked him in the face--boom boom boom--like trying to kick in a door. With both hands on his crotch the foreman had no chance to cover his head before the kicks rained down.
The boy smiled and stretched his arms out like wings, like he was doing the Greek "sirtaki" dance. Zorba the Greek on your head, bam bam bam. The viciousness and speed of his assault was brutal. The kid went from zero to a hundred, from chat to blood, in a second. And that kid was me.
Seeing him attack, part of me shouted _Yes!_
We lose it, it disappears, evaporates. The edge, the courage, the black madness and abandon of the young. The dazzle of living one hundred percent in the minute. It goes away, leaks out of us like water through cracks. Cracks that come from growing older. They start when you buy whole-life insurance policies and mortgages, or hear the results of not-so-good physical checkups.
They start when there's a need rather than a desire for warm baths. Safety over spontaneity, comfort over commotion. Part of me hated it. Not the growing older, but becoming tame, upstanding, predictable, halfhearted, skeptical about too much. A good-sized chunk of me loved this flipped-out kid stomping a man for no reason other than a shitty attitude, a dismissive look in his eyes.
That part of me wanted to join in on the beating. Am I ashamed to admit it?
Not at all.
I grabbed the boy and dragged him away from the Indian. His body felt like electricity through steel; he was all high voltage and tensile strength. I am _very _strong but didn't know if 1 could handle him.
"Stop! Okay, stop. He's down, you win."
"Get off me, asshole!" He tried throwing another kick but was out of range.
Page 39
"Enough!"
"Don't tell me--" He twisted around and threw a punch at my face. I blocked it and in the same motion, grabbed his arm and twisted it up around his back in a hammerlock. Then I put my other arm around his throat in a chokehold.
No good. With the heel of his cowboy boot he stomped down hard on the top of my right foot.
The pain was like fire. I let go. He jumped away and hands up, started dancing around like a boxer throwing jabs, ducking and weaving. Who was he fighting? Me, the Indian, the world, life.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? You think you can beat me?
Think you can take me? Come on, try it!"
I stood like a flamingo on one leg, holding my throbbing foot and watching him taunt me. The Indian lay on his stomach, hands under him, moaning. Teen me kept dancing around, doing Muhammad Ali routines. A group of workers had gathered to watch our festivities. While I held my foot, one of them stepped out of the crowd and whacked the kid on the head with a board.
Afterward the guy just stood there with the two-by-four in his hand, looking stupid, like he was waiting for someone to tell him what to do now.
The kid was suddenly on the ground on all fours, head hanging low.
Someone was helping the Indian up. I tested my foot to see if it still worked. It hurt, but I'd survive. "All right, that's it, everything stops.
Who's in charge, who's the construction company, where are your permits? I want to see everything _right now."_
"Frannie?" A familiar voice said my name. Still down on the ground, the boy looked up slowly because it was his name too. Nearby Johnny Petangles stood holding a large bottle of club soda.
He stared at me with impassive eyes.
"What're you doing, Frannie?"
I looked from him to the house, the workers, to little Fran on the ground. It felt like every one of them was staring at me but none made a sound. And then the idea arrived. I pointed at the house. "What do you see, Johnny? What do you see over there?"
He tipped back his bottle and took a long drink. Lowering it he burped and clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nothing. I see
Gasping, the man fell down holding his nuts. As soon as he hit the ground, the boy kicked him in the face--boom boom boom--like trying to kick in a door. With both hands on his crotch the foreman had no chance to cover his head before the kicks rained down.
The boy smiled and stretched his arms out like wings, like he was doing the Greek "sirtaki" dance. Zorba the Greek on your head, bam bam bam. The viciousness and speed of his assault was brutal. The kid went from zero to a hundred, from chat to blood, in a second. And that kid was me.
Seeing him attack, part of me shouted _Yes!_
We lose it, it disappears, evaporates. The edge, the courage, the black madness and abandon of the young. The dazzle of living one hundred percent in the minute. It goes away, leaks out of us like water through cracks. Cracks that come from growing older. They start when you buy whole-life insurance policies and mortgages, or hear the results of not-so-good physical checkups.
They start when there's a need rather than a desire for warm baths. Safety over spontaneity, comfort over commotion. Part of me hated it. Not the growing older, but becoming tame, upstanding, predictable, halfhearted, skeptical about too much. A good-sized chunk of me loved this flipped-out kid stomping a man for no reason other than a shitty attitude, a dismissive look in his eyes.
That part of me wanted to join in on the beating. Am I ashamed to admit it?
Not at all.
I grabbed the boy and dragged him away from the Indian. His body felt like electricity through steel; he was all high voltage and tensile strength. I am _very _strong but didn't know if 1 could handle him.
"Stop! Okay, stop. He's down, you win."
"Get off me, asshole!" He tried throwing another kick but was out of range.
Page 39
"Enough!"
"Don't tell me--" He twisted around and threw a punch at my face. I blocked it and in the same motion, grabbed his arm and twisted it up around his back in a hammerlock. Then I put my other arm around his throat in a chokehold.
No good. With the heel of his cowboy boot he stomped down hard on the top of my right foot.
The pain was like fire. I let go. He jumped away and hands up, started dancing around like a boxer throwing jabs, ducking and weaving. Who was he fighting? Me, the Indian, the world, life.
"Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? You think you can beat me?
Think you can take me? Come on, try it!"
I stood like a flamingo on one leg, holding my throbbing foot and watching him taunt me. The Indian lay on his stomach, hands under him, moaning. Teen me kept dancing around, doing Muhammad Ali routines. A group of workers had gathered to watch our festivities. While I held my foot, one of them stepped out of the crowd and whacked the kid on the head with a board.
Afterward the guy just stood there with the two-by-four in his hand, looking stupid, like he was waiting for someone to tell him what to do now.
The kid was suddenly on the ground on all fours, head hanging low.
Someone was helping the Indian up. I tested my foot to see if it still worked. It hurt, but I'd survive. "All right, that's it, everything stops.
Who's in charge, who's the construction company, where are your permits? I want to see everything _right now."_
"Frannie?" A familiar voice said my name. Still down on the ground, the boy looked up slowly because it was his name too. Nearby Johnny Petangles stood holding a large bottle of club soda.
He stared at me with impassive eyes.
"What're you doing, Frannie?"
I looked from him to the house, the workers, to little Fran on the ground. It felt like every one of them was staring at me but none made a sound. And then the idea arrived. I pointed at the house. "What do you see, Johnny? What do you see over there?"
He tipped back his bottle and took a long drink. Lowering it he burped and clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nothing. I see
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