Rating: PG for language.
Author's Note: Okay, I
cheated. Big time. This was a response to a five-minute challenge by
Black Fire on the VA group. First, I read the tag line, but after
fifteen seconds of concentrated effort, I just couldn't see anyone in the
team feeling panic, so I decided not to try it. Then a little while later,
it struck me that I could pick any point in their lives, and I started it
the next day after trying hard not to think too much about the scenario.
This was pretty much stream of consciousness when I did write it, but it
actually took about thirty minutes from first word to final edit. So I didn't
even come close to following the rules, but I wanted to thank Black Fire
for getting me going on a nascent idea that had been rolling around in my
brain for awhile. Hope you like it!
He looked around in panic as he ran headlong down the alley. It
wasn't the first time he had been caught by the local gang when trying
to get home from school, but it was the first time he was going to use his
tactics on this particular bunch. Just a few feet further...
He hit the wall, reaching behind the teetering stack of crates for the
rope. Still there.
"Hey, you skinny little kraut! C'mere!"
He turned slowly to face his tormentors. This was the way it happened every time. The old man never had enough money to live anywhere decent when they moved to a new town, always one step ahead of the local authorities or a group of so-called upstanding citizens. So they found the most ugly neighbourhood, infested with trash like these Dead End kids, to call their home.
--It don't matter where you live, boy. You ain't gonna change who you are, so why bother?--
"I may be skinny," he said slowly, consciously trying to lower his ten-year old voice to something suggesting danger, "but I'm not a kraut."
"Yeah? You look like one of Hitler's little ass-fuckers. And you're going to get it."
"And who's going to give it to me?" he asked, trying a curl of the lip he had seen Cagney do last weekend at the Capitol. "You?"
The leader, over a head taller than he was and at least three or four years older, stepped a bit closer. Not close enough. Come on, come on. "Yeah. Now hand it over."
A blond eyebrow arched. "Hand what over?"
"We saw you comin' out of that pool hall. You're runnin' a scam just like that son of a bitch you call a father. My dad lost fifty bucks to him last week. And I'm gonna take it out of you. With interest."
--Never let the suckers see you sweat, boy.--
He shrugged one shoulder casually. "You're welcome to try. But you're going to have to come over here to do it."
"Why, you--" Fists clenched, the leader bulled forward, fury written all over his adolescent features.
It was just what he wanted. He'd learned quickly, living in a world of primal emotions, that rage and love and fear and hope blinded people to reality. The beetle-browed Dillinger in training didn't even see it coming. One yank of the rope and his carefully constructed tower toppled exactly as planned, and the kid disappeared, screaming, under a mountain of splintering wood.
He scrambled over the wall before the others even realized what had happened. As he barrelled toward the street, he heard their shouts, but no one made an attempt to follow.
"Come back here, you son of a bitch! We're gonna get you for this, you goddamned Nazi!"
Out of breath, he stopped, panting, as he reached the alley that would take him to the worn-out tenement he called home. Stupid bastards, he thought. Couldn't even tell a Pole from a German. Not that there was much difference these days, at least to most people. There wasn't any sense getting beaten up for something that you could change. And Dad was wrong. He would change who he was, one way or the other. Whatever it took. Why not start with the name?
He spent a few minutes debating with himself as he tried out Grants and Flynns and Stewarts. Too corny, a movie star handle. As if he was going to grow up to be a matinee idol.
As he reached the sixth floor, it struck him. He rolled it around on his tongue. Plain and simple. He liked it.
"Dad, I'm home!" he called, enjoying the risk of waking him up early. Now he would be twice as cranky as usual.
"Where you been, boy? And how much you get?"
He held out the money. Sixty-eight dollars, a fortune in May of 1942. Pretty soon he would surpass the old man, and that would be it; he wouldn't need him anymore. Freedom loomed right over the horizon. He suppressed an involuntary shiver, but the decision he had just made immediately comforted him.
"Christ, Taddie, you've hit the motherlode. You learned well from your papa, eh?"
"Sure did," he smiled, blue
eyes distant. "And Dad? My name is Smith now. John Smith."
End