Boys Don't Cry [part II - fin]
Continued from part I
But boys don't cry, or at least hardly ever, because they're raised that way; to be tough, and strong; to be there for us to cry on, when we need to. Call me old fashioned, but I like 'em that way. Crying doesn't work with me. Students who whine or cry get no consideration from me. The ones who take their failing grade like a man — boys or girls — do.
I almost never cry, either.
What kills Jack is that Paco's dead and no one cares, and it's such a waste.
"It's as though he never existed," Jack said to me.
"Tell me about him," I said.
"He loved cars, but when he first saw Beauty he laughed. Who could ever love such a beat-up, broken-down old BMW, he asked me. It was a total spic thing — his words — women are for fucking and for hitting, not for deep and thrumming admiration and trust. But he came to understand, eventually, the special bond she and I have."
"Paco worked at the car wash where you take Beauty, right?" I asked.
"Yes, but I met him when I voluteered as a teacher of English as a second language at the community centre."
"You taught him more than just English, though, didn't you?"
"I tried to," said Jack. "Paco's father left him and his mother at some point during the waxing days of the Reagan administration. His mom was killed in 1993 and after that he lived in an orphanage. He has a brother someplace, whose father was not his. And he was a Nuerto."
"A gang."
"Yes. Once, only one time, he allowed me to ask him about his set. He said that when he was with his guys, he was somebody. Everybody knew it, even those who didn't know that he was a Nuerto. He felt like he was somebody. He said that knowing his guys had his back was like being able to go to sleep."
"He never stood a chance, you know," I said.
"I honestly believed he'd make it," said Jack. "He was sharp — so sharp as is unbelievable. He was a star. He did things sharp. He totally blew away my model of class inheritance (Java class inheritance). I remember thinking, look how sharp this kid is to figure that angle."
He taught the kid Java.
"He had a way with the women. He always had some PYT hanging off his arm. They looked at him like he was a god. Like the Caesar of the western world."
Jack disbelieves me when I tell him he makes my knees weak. Me, I disbelieve that I'm the only woman he has that effect on.
"When I taught him Roman history, he got irritated. When I insisted, he got angry. He had no time for them. There was no room in his world view for nobility and grace. He asked me, 'Why you love them so much, mang? They was so interested in they own feet they pissed it all away, Chico.'"
He taught the kid Roman history.
"He kind of had a way with words," said Jack.
"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.
"I visited him in prison in March," replied Jack, "And I asked him, why? Why did you do it? He stole a car, can you believe that? He could have done anything; been anyone, and instead he steals a fucking car!"
"And what did Paco say?"
"He said he wanted a car."
Fuck.
I'm not so sure Jack is an FDR guy. He's not blaming the system for what happened to Paco, even though no one would blame him for blaming the system. Me, I don't blame the system, but rather the circumstance. The kid never stood a chance. Jack was probably the best thing that ever happened to Paco, but he was just a stupid kid. Too young to realize that he needed help, and too immature and inexperienced to recognize it when presented itself.
Instead, Jack blames himself for failing Paco.
Part of me envies Paco the fact that someone had his back, because nobody has mine.
* * *
It was Jack's birthday last week. What can you give a man who lives three thousand miles away, and owns a Rolex and a Porsche? Paco's story, including the portrait of John F. Kennedy by Aaron Schickler, was Jack's birthday present. In the next story, Postmodern Sass has dinner with Howard West.
But boys don't cry, or at least hardly ever, because they're raised that way; to be tough, and strong; to be there for us to cry on, when we need to. Call me old fashioned, but I like 'em that way. Crying doesn't work with me. Students who whine or cry get no consideration from me. The ones who take their failing grade like a man — boys or girls — do.
I almost never cry, either.
What kills Jack is that Paco's dead and no one cares, and it's such a waste.
"It's as though he never existed," Jack said to me.
"Tell me about him," I said.
"He loved cars, but when he first saw Beauty he laughed. Who could ever love such a beat-up, broken-down old BMW, he asked me. It was a total spic thing — his words — women are for fucking and for hitting, not for deep and thrumming admiration and trust. But he came to understand, eventually, the special bond she and I have."
"Paco worked at the car wash where you take Beauty, right?" I asked.
"Yes, but I met him when I voluteered as a teacher of English as a second language at the community centre."
"You taught him more than just English, though, didn't you?"
"I tried to," said Jack. "Paco's father left him and his mother at some point during the waxing days of the Reagan administration. His mom was killed in 1993 and after that he lived in an orphanage. He has a brother someplace, whose father was not his. And he was a Nuerto."
"A gang."
"Yes. Once, only one time, he allowed me to ask him about his set. He said that when he was with his guys, he was somebody. Everybody knew it, even those who didn't know that he was a Nuerto. He felt like he was somebody. He said that knowing his guys had his back was like being able to go to sleep."
"He never stood a chance, you know," I said.
"I honestly believed he'd make it," said Jack. "He was sharp — so sharp as is unbelievable. He was a star. He did things sharp. He totally blew away my model of class inheritance (Java class inheritance). I remember thinking, look how sharp this kid is to figure that angle."
He taught the kid Java.
"He had a way with the women. He always had some PYT hanging off his arm. They looked at him like he was a god. Like the Caesar of the western world."
Jack disbelieves me when I tell him he makes my knees weak. Me, I disbelieve that I'm the only woman he has that effect on.
"When I taught him Roman history, he got irritated. When I insisted, he got angry. He had no time for them. There was no room in his world view for nobility and grace. He asked me, 'Why you love them so much, mang? They was so interested in they own feet they pissed it all away, Chico.'"
He taught the kid Roman history.
"He kind of had a way with words," said Jack.
"When was the last time you saw him?" I asked.
"I visited him in prison in March," replied Jack, "And I asked him, why? Why did you do it? He stole a car, can you believe that? He could have done anything; been anyone, and instead he steals a fucking car!"
"And what did Paco say?"
"He said he wanted a car."
Fuck.
I'm not so sure Jack is an FDR guy. He's not blaming the system for what happened to Paco, even though no one would blame him for blaming the system. Me, I don't blame the system, but rather the circumstance. The kid never stood a chance. Jack was probably the best thing that ever happened to Paco, but he was just a stupid kid. Too young to realize that he needed help, and too immature and inexperienced to recognize it when presented itself.
Instead, Jack blames himself for failing Paco.
Part of me envies Paco the fact that someone had his back, because nobody has mine.
It was Jack's birthday last week. What can you give a man who lives three thousand miles away, and owns a Rolex and a Porsche? Paco's story, including the portrait of John F. Kennedy by Aaron Schickler, was Jack's birthday present. In the next story, Postmodern Sass has dinner with Howard West.
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