Rumble Fish

"Eleven. I can remember it. I was in the Little Leaguers."

The Little Leaguers was the peewee branch of the local gang, the Packers. Gang stuff was out of style now.

"Man," I said, "a gang really meant somethin' back then."

"Meant gettin' sent to the hospital once a week."

Okay, so he was edgy. So was I. I was the one doing the fighting, after all. "You're almost talkin' chicken, Smokey," I said.

"I'm almost talkin' sense."

I kept quiet. It took a lot of self-control, but I kept quiet. Smokey got nervous, since quiet ain't my natural state.

"Lookit," he said, "I'm goin', ain't I?"

I guess the thought that he was really going made him brave again, 'cause he went on: "If you think this is gonna turn out to be a rumble, you're crazy. You and Biff are gonna go at it and the rest of us is gonna watch. I doubt too many's gonna show up for that much."

"Sure," I said, only half listening to him. We had come to the pet store. We turned into the alley that ran alongside of it, crawled through a hole in the back fence and came out onto the vacant lot that led right down to the river. The lot was damp and it stank. The area around here always stinks from that river, but it's worse in the lot. Further down, a bunch of plants and factories dump their garbage into the water. You don't notice the stink if you live there awhile. It's just extra strong in that lot.

Smokey was right--only four of the guys who were in Benny's were there waiting for us. B.J. looked around and said, "I thought Steve was gonna be here." He said it sarcastic. They never could understand why I let Steve hang around.

"So, maybe he's late," I said. I didn't really expect him to show up, except that he said he would.

Across the field was Biff and his gang. I counted them, just like the Motorcycle Boy taught me to. Know everything you can about the enemy. There was six. Even enough. I was getting so high on excitement I couldn't stand still.

"Rusty-James!"

It was Biff, coming across the lot to meet me. Oh, man, I couldn't wait. I was going to stomp him good. It seemed like my fists ached to be pounding something. "I'm here!" I called.

"Not for long, you punk," Biff said. He was close enough for me to see him clearly. My eyes get supersharp before a fight. Everything gets supersharp before a fight--like with a little effort I could fly. During a fight, though, I almost go blind; everything turns red.

Biff was sixteen, but not any bigger than me; husky; his arms hung off his shoulders like an ape's. He had a pug-ugly face and wiry blond hair. He was dancing around worse than I was.

"He's been poppin' pills," Smokey said behind me.

Now, I hate fighting hopped-up people. They're crazy. You get crazy enough in a fight without being doped up. You fight some cat who's been washing down bennies with sneaky pete and they can't tell if you kill 'em. Your only advantage is a little more control. I never do dope, as a rule. Dope ruined the gangs.

Biff looked high. The light from the street-lamps was bouncing off his eyes in a way that made him look crazy.

"I hear you're lookin' for me," I said. "Here I am."

I've done this lots of times before. I'd get in a fight about once a week. I hadn't lost a fight in almost two years. But Biff was a little tougher than the usual kid. If the gang wars had still been going on he would have been leader of the Devilhawks. He didn't like anybody to forget that, either. You can't take it for granted you're going to stomp some snotty-nosed seventh-grader, so when you go up against somebody like Biff Wilcox you think about it.

We started in on the warm up, cussing each other out, name-calling, threats. This was according to the rules. I don't know who made up the rules.

"Come on," I said finally. I like to get down to business. "Take a swing at me."

"Take a swing at you?" Biff's hand went to his back pocket and came out flashing silver. "I'm gonna cut you to ribbons."

I didn't have a knife with me. Most people didn't knife-fight these days. I usually carried a switchblade, but I got caught with it at school and they took it away from me and I hadn't gotten around to getting another one. Biff should of told me it was going to be knife-fighting. God that made me mad! People don't pay attention to the rules anymore.

Biff's friends were cheering and screaming and my friends were grumbling and I said, "Anybody lend me a blade?" I still thought I could win--Biff wouldn't have pulled a knife if he thought he could win in a fair fight. All I had to do was equal things up.

Nobody had a knife. That's what comes of not gang-fighting. People are never prepared.

Somebody said, "Here's a bike chain," and I held back my hand for it, never taking my eyes off Biff.

Just like I expected, he tried to make the most of that moment, lunging at me. I was quick enough, though, grabbing the chain, dodging the knife, and sticking out my foot to trip him. He just stumbled, and whirled around, jabbing at me. I sucked in my gut and wrapped the chain around his neck, jerking him to the ground. All I wanted to do was get the knife away from him. I'd kill him later. First things first. I jumped on top of him, caught his arm as he swung the knife at me, and for what seemed like hours we wrestled for that knife. I took a risk I thought was worth taking and tried holding his knife hand with one arm, and used the other to smash his face. It worked, he loosened his hold on the knife long enough for me to get it away from him. It fell a few feet away from us, far enough away that I didn't bother trying to reach for it, which was good. If I had gotten a hold of it, I'd have killed Biff. As it was, I was pounding his brains out. If he'd give up on that damned knife he might of stood a chance; he was older than me, and just as tough. But he didn't come there to fight fair, so instead of fighting back, he'd just keep trying to get away and crawl over to the knife. Gradually I started to calm down, the red tinge to everything went away, I could hear everyone screaming and yelling. I looked at Biff. His whole face was bloody and swollen.

"You give?" I sat back on his gut and waited. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. He didn't say anything, just lay there breathing heavy, watching me out of the one eye that wasn't swollen shut. Everybody was quiet. I could feel his gang tensed, ready, like a dog pack about to be set loose. One word from Biff would do it. I glanced over to Smokey. He was ready. My gang would fight, even if they weren't crazy about the idea.

Then a voice I knew said, "Hey, what's this? I thought we signed a treaty." The Motorcycle Boy was back. People cleared a path for him. Everybody was quiet.

I got to my feet. Biff rolled over and lay a few feet away from me, swearing.

"I thought we'd stopped this cowboys and Indians crap," said the Motorcycle Boy.

I heard Biff dragging himself to his feet, but didn't pay any attention. Usually I'm not that stupid, but I couldn't take my eyes off the Motorcycle Boy. I'd thought he was gone for good. I was almost sure he was gone for good.

"Look out!" somebody screamed. I whipped around, and felt the knife slide down my side, cold. It was meant to split me open from throat to gut, but I had moved just in time. It didn't hurt. You can't feel a knife cut, at first.

Biff stood a few feet away from me, laughing like a maniac. He was wiping the blood off the blade on his already-splattered T-shirt. "You are one dead cat, Rusty-James." His voice was thick and funny-sounding, because of his swollen nose. He wasn't dancing around anymore, and you could tell by the way he moved he was hurtin'. But at least he was on his feet, and I wouldn't be much longer. I was cold, and everything looked watery around the edges. I'd been knife cut before, I knew what it felt like to be bleeding bad.

The Motorcycle Boy stepped out, grabbed Biff's wrist and snapped it backwards. You could hear it crack like a matchstick. It was broke, sure enough.

The Motorcycle Boy picked up Biff's switchblade, and looked at the blood running down over the handle. Everybody was frozen. They knew what he had said about gang-fighting being over with.

"I think," he said thoughtfully, "that the show is over."

Biff

held his wrist with his other arm. He was swearing, but softly, under his breath. The others were leaving, breaking up into twos and threes, edging away, leaving quieter than you'll ever see people leave a battle ground.

Steve was there beside me. "You okay?"

"When did you get here?" Smokey asked him. Then, to me, he said, "You're hurt, man."

The Motorcycle Boy stood behind them, tall and dark like a shadow.

"I thought you were gone for good," I said.

He shrugged. "So did I."

Steve picked up my jacket, where I'd thrown it on the ground. "Rusty-James, you better go to the hospital."

I looked down at my hand, where it was clutching my side. I saw Smokey Bennet watching me.

"For this?" I said scornfully. "This ain't nothin'."

"But maybe you better go home," the Motorcycle Boy said.

I nodded. I threw an arm across Steve's shoulders. "I knew you was gonna show up."

He knew I would have fallen down if I wasn't leaning on him, but he didn't show it. He was a good kid, Steve, even if he did read too much.

"I had to sneak out," Steve said. "They'd kill me if they knew. Boy, I thought Biff was gonna kill you."

"Not me. It was Biff who was gonna get killed."