Running the Gauntlet

*Another story with graphic language. Please be forewarned.

“Tables are made for glasses, not little asses!,” my mother coldly reminded me. I was sitting on the table in the front room, looking at the calloused underside of my left foot. We weren’t allowed to wear shoes in the house. It was kapu. Bad luck. Forbidden. There was dog shit all over my foot, from Robby, our mutt. We found him when I was four. He was big. Lean. Stupid. Running in the street. We kept him inside the house, so he wouldn’t get away. He was half blind in one eye.

I, being the unfortunate one in this case, smelled it after I went ankle deep. I sat on the table, gauging the damage. The shit ran deep. It was caked on, warm and black-brown. Robby had worms. I knew I was in trouble now. There was no way around it. Should I choose to get off the table, I would smear feces all over the floor and take an ass whooping from my mother. If I didn’t, I failed to follow her orders and, as a result, I would take an ass whooping from my mother. She wasn’t one for listening to explanations. I got up, trying to balance on my right foot.

“Eh boy, why you standing on one foot? I no can play games today!” My mother wasn’t what we would call gifted in the maternal department. To put it frankly, she was a bitch.

“O well,” my tutu would say, “you only get one mama, an she’s it. Besides, she’s preppin’ you all for the real world.” My mom walked over to me then, arm raised to strike. Then the smell hit her and she pulled her head back, arm coming down in the same instant, five knobby knuckles rubbing across my brow. “You stepped in dog shit? What are you, lolo? You stupid little keiki!” As I turned to deflect some of the force, my foot came down against the carpet, hard. The blows continued as she ranted, banshee-like, “What? You think you can put stinky feet on the carpet? You big man? You don’t like rules, big man! Ok, here, take this! Clean this shit up. Else, I kill you!” She meant it, too, I know. After the whooping stopped, I hobbled to the bathtub, letting only the toes of my left foot touch the ground.

“Not the tub, lolo! Go outside and use the hose!” Needless to say, I turned to get out the backdoor, tears streaming but unafraid. The screen door slammed behind me as I walked toward the hose, moving correctly now, through the dirt and turning on the spigot. My brother met me at the faucet, his hands cupped to catch the water.

“Got your ass beat again, huh?”

“Yeah. Stupid dog.”

“Stupid you, man. Why you step so deep? Walk light, you know.” My little brother, Kiki, thought he was a zen monk at 3. He was six at this point. We were only ten months apart. Practically twins, except we were so different. He had freckles and red, curly hair. I got the olive skin, white blond hair. Blue eyes were split between us. As we got older, Kiki’s eyes turned green.

“Whatevers. I gotta clean that up. Stinky fuckin’ dog.”

“Momma gonna hear you!”

“So, I take whatever she got.”

“Bachi, you take it. Like you take it now, tear-face?

“Say it again.”

“Huh?”

“Say it again. I dare you. Say it again, we fight.”

“Tearface. T-E-E-R-F—“

I hit him, then, left fist flying and we turned over and over, swinging and biting, turning red-faced as the muddied water dirtied our already-stained clothing. We ended up on our asses a few minutes later, in the grass, wiping our hands and mouths.

“Told you,” I said.

“What you said?”

“I told you, I’d hit you if you said it again.”

“Tearface. See, I said it again. I’m a tiger.”

“You’re a nothing.”

“You gonna turn off the faucet?”

“Yeah. But we cant go back in the house now. We dirty and wet.”

“I‘ll watch out.”

“Yeah, ok. I go. You watch. I change, we switch. Throw your clothes out the window, OK?”

“OK.”

“We gonna bury ‘em in the garden.”

“How ‘bout we throw ‘em over the fence?”

“No luck, man. Mrs. Stevenson throw ‘em back.”

“Yeah. You right. Dat crazy old hag.”

“OK, OK, watch for me. You see her, you whistle long time. Not too loud, though. Else, Mama know.

“Maybe first, we check da window. You know, we climb in, its easy.”

“K.” I ran over to the window, past the honeysuckle bushes and pushed my stained hands against the glass. I pushed in and up. It budged. I pushed harder until my face got hot, but the pane no longer moved. “Eh,” I yelled back to my brother. “I think its locked.” He motioned me back over with his hands, sitting with his back against the stucco wall of the house. I ran to him, ducked over and beginning to worry if our plan would really work.

“OK,” Kiki said, “are your feet dry?”

“Yeah yeah. Here I go.”

“Malama pono!” I peeled open the screen door, slowly. It creaked and Robby came over, sitting in the doorway. Coming in and shutting the door without turning around, I climbed over the beast and sprinted on my toes, crouched over, to the large wooden couch from the islands. Kneeling here, I panted and looked back to see Robby, face printed on the screen door. I waved him in.

When he got to me, he said, “I thought we do this one and one.”

“No. Same time. I go. You come. You whistle if you see, I wave if I see.”

“OK man.” I peeked around the corner and Mama was doing dishes, whistling softly at the sink. I ran to the entrance to the hallway and turned in time to see Kiki getting up as Mama turned around, half suspicious. Frantically, I waved him back and he ducked out, just in time. I came down low and looked at Mama, making her turn around with my mind until the coast was clear. Again, I waved Kiki in.

Once together, we made for the first door on the left, our bedroom. “I feel like a ninja,” Kiki said as I had my hand upon the doorknob. I quieted him and we moved in, undressed, and put on new clothes. In one movement, we opened the window and threw out our dirties, slamming the pane as I turned around. Mama was in the doorway.

“Why is your hair all wet? Where you been, both of you?!”