PRIMED FOR POETRY

                                       New Release from Chris Bowen, The Bell Maker

 

     He walks in like he owns the place.  Chin up and out, daring the world to take a swipe at it.  In truth he is thirteen, so he doesn’t own the place.  Legally, he doesn’t own anything, except a few basic human rights.  Trust fund babies excluded, of course, but I’m playing the odds on this one.  We don’t get too many trust fund babies here.  Wards of the state from time to time, but that’s not quite the same thing. 

     He’s a social transfer.  Social transfers don’t work too often, but there’s a process in play.  Social transfer means he’s done things that don’t permit him to stay at his school across town, but the district needs to try something new.  Perhaps a change in environment might do some good.  Fresh start.  Wash away the sins of the past.  It doesn’t work as much as we would like, but you don’t do it for the kid it doesn’t work for.  You do it for the times that it does make a difference.  Remember, no matter the circumstance, these are still kids, and we are still pulling for them. 

     But this guy.  This guy’s arrogance, his slow saunter, his sense of superiority make it a little more difficult than usual to pull for him.

     “Why did you get kicked out of your other school?”  He smiles as if he’s humoring me now.

     “I didn’t get kicked out.  I’m a social transfer,” he brags.  Straight perfect teeth beaming out at me.  He emphasizes the term “social transfer’ as if it’s a badge of honor.  He says it a little too loudly as if he is proudly announcing he has served time.  I look at his smiling, cool face and I don’t think he realizes how difficult and unfulfilling prison can be for someone well under six feet with such striking dimples.

     “I’m sorry,” I say.  “Why were you socially transferred?”

     “I knocked a guy out.”  He is beaming now.  This is his red carpet moment.  “He was flirting with my girl.”  I nod, seeming impressed with his prowess. 

     “Wow.  Did the other guy get socially transferred, too?”  He laughs as if the question is ridiculous.

     “Nah.  Why?  He wasn’t even able to swing.”  He pauses, then throws a lightning quick jab into the air.  “Bam!  One shot and down!”

     “And it was because he was flirting with your girl?”  He looks at me as if I could be his next victim.

     “Yeah.  That’s right,” he says, dropping his voice an octave or so for affect.

     “She still your girl?” I ask.

     “Duh!”  He laughs.

     “Are you sure?”  He looks confused, almost a little less arrogant.  I continue on.  “I mean this guy is over at your old school with your girl.  All.  Day.  Long.  Six hours a day without your side of the story.  Six hours without you running any interference.  And she probably feels so badly for him.  After all, he did get knocked out and it was really her fault.  Poor guy.  She must feel terrible.”  

     He has stopped smiling.  I watch him have this realization.  His face is changing under the weight of the epiphany he clearly does not want to be having.

     “Truth is, girls usually don’t stay with the fighters.  The fighters are cool at first, but very hard to depend on.  They often wind up in jail or get….”  I pause.  I feel like Colombo in the final twist of an episode.  “Ohh, what’s the term?”  I do some mock thinking and then snap my fingers in the air.  “Social transfer!  That’s right.  Yes, prison or socially transferred.”   This is not the same person that strutted through the doorway moments ago.  “Do you know who they tend to stay with?”

     “Who?” He asks meekly.

     “The guy that treats them well.  Attentive guys.  Guys that write them a poem every now and again.”  I pat him on the shoulder.  “But, it’s going to be okay,” I assure him.  “You were socially transferred just in time.”  These are confusing moments for my new friend.  False pride has proven to be painfully fleeting and unreliable.  You can almost hear it leaving his body.  He looks a little smaller, much more boy than man.  “You got here just in time,” I repeat.

     “Why?” he asks.

     “Have a seat.  I’ll tell you.”  He slumps into a seat.  I take my spot at the front and get the lesson started.  My friend is looking up at me and I make sure we make good eye contact.  “Today starts our poetry unit.”  I smile.  It’s my turn to beam.  I allow myself a little false pride as well.  It’s okay, though.  I’ve been around long enough to appreciate just how fleeting it can be.

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