Spun
Jason Duke

"Mister Hess? Can I have a word with you, please."
Jesse set his chair back into an upright position, interrupting Angel in mid-braid of his short, stubby blonde ponytail. He lazily stood up, staring-down the kids in the rest of the classroom, the wide bottoms of his baggy pants dragging across the floor as he walked up to the desk of his English teacher, Mr. Daniels.
"Yo. What up, teach?"
" 'What up' is the subject matter of your story. I told you when I gave you this assignment that I wouldn’t accept one of your gang-banger stories," said Mr. Daniels, handing back the story with a grade of F.
"Man, why you gonna punk me out like that, yo," Jesse’s face hardening as he looked at the grade. He threw the story on Mr. Daniels desk, scattering the papers.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me, mutha…"
"Whoa," said the student teacher, Mike. He stepped in between Jesse and Mr. Daniels with his usual wry, disarming smile. Mr. Daniels exhaled an uneasy sigh, removing his glasses as he massaged his wrinkly forehead, the ordeal adding another gray hair to his already gray, balding head.
"Don’t worry, Mr. Daniels," whispered Mike. "Let me handle this."
"Fine. You do that, Mike," said Mr. Daniels. Jesse and Mike stepped out into the adjoining hallway.
"Man, I’m tired of Mr. Daniels shit. He never gives me any props for my stories."
"Jesse, I keep telling you Mr. Daniels is just an old-fashioned teacher that thinks all stories should read like a Hemingway," said Mike, stroking the thin, black stubble along his chin that substituted for a goatee. He put a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. "Don’t let Mr. Daniels get to you. You have potential. You should try submitting your stories to magazines. There’s a few right here in Phoenix that publishes your kind of stories."
"Yeah? So why do you like my stories so much?"
"Because, man, you write from experience, and that’s the best way to write a story -- you write about what you know. You just have to refine your writing skills a little and learn to turn those experiences into fiction. Remember what I told you?"
"Yeah, yeah. A writer’s not supposed to write ver… ver…"
"Verbatim, man," said Mike, playfully pushing Jesse toward the classroom door. Jesse pushed back. "You staying clean?"
"Yeah, man. I ain’t used that shit since I got busted last month."
Jesse strode back into the classroom over to the thin, sickly Mexican girl, Angel, who had been braiding his hair.
"Sorry about that. Mr. Daniels was trying to play me again, but I put him in check."
"Yeah, right," said Angel, giving Jesse an annoyed, sideways look. "You gonna let me finish your hair?"
Jesse went to sit back down when the school bell rang.
"I’ll let you do it tomorrow, promise."
Angel rolled her eyes, folding her arms.
"Don’t make promises you’re not gonna keep."
*
Jesse splashed his face with water, staring into the mirror of the men’s bathroom in back of the Taco Bell. He studied the scrawl of graffiti etched into the glass, slowly running a finger over the mirror’s surface. He followed the maze of lines riddling the glass when he stopped at a name along the bottom of the mirror -- CHUKO.
"Hey, Jesse. You almost done in there, homes?" said a kid’s hoarse voice from outside the bathroom as a fist pounded against the door. "C’mon, yo. Me and Jesus wanna hit this dick."
Jesse wiped his face with the sleeve of his t-shirt, opening the door to a pair of skeletal, baggy-clothed Mexican kids lurking in the hazy twilight outside. They hurried into the bathroom, locking the door.
"What was taking you so long up in here? Damon’s been fiending like a little bitch to hit this dick and shit," said Jesus, picking at the speed bumps along his emaciated face. He flicked on a lighter, touching the flame to a glass pipe. The flame licked at the underbelly of the bowl, the crystallized meth caked to the pipe’s innards bubbling and melting into liquid form, filling the bowl with toxic, milky white smoke that snaked up out of the pipe like an albino demon escaping its prison. Jesus took a long hit, his eyes watering as he fought to hold the poison in, his lungs wheezing as he exhaled. "Ah, energized."
"Let me get a hit now, Jesus," said Damon, wiping at the film of sweaty withdrawal on his pale, oily face. He blew out the stale smoke, hitting the pipe as well. "That’s some good shit, homes."
"Man, you’re both a couple of crack heads," gagged Jesse, the acrid smell of cooked meth stinging his eyes and nostrils as he futilely batted at the smoke. He threw open the door and ducked outside, exchanging the polluted air of the bathroom for the polluted night air. "I’ll give you a dick to suck on!"
"Yeah, yeah…"
"Fuck you, essey."
Jesus and Damon passed the glass pipe back and forth as the door swung closed. Jesse strode over to the round plastic tables scattered with food and trash along the side of the Taco Bell, sitting down. A worker brushed the mess with a wide broom into a long-handled dustpan, glancing up at Jesse.
"Can I help you with something," Jesse said, reading the worker’s nametag. "Freeman!"
"Nah, man. What happened to your boys?"
"They can’t take a piss without holding each others dicks, that’s what."
"Shiiittt," said Freeman. "You fellas go to Apollo High School?"
"Yep… you got it. So why you working at Taco Bell, man? No disrespect, but can’t you get a better job than this?"
"Well, it’s the best I can do at the moment. I was taking classes at Glendale Community College a few years back, but I fucked up."
"What happened?"
Freeman hung his head, staring at the ground in painful remembrance.
"Got hooked on dope…"
Jesus and Damon barreled over to Jesse like two energizer bunnies. Freeman continued sweeping, wandering back inside the Taco Bell. He emerged through the backdoor a few minutes later, passing beneath a flickering streetlight as he toted a rubber garbage can across the parking lot to a dumpster. Jesus’ predatory eyes narrowed on the slim, black man.
"Man, homeboy takes out the trash every night at the same time like clockwork. I’m surprised nobody ain’t robbed this place yet. That shit would be so easy, too. Just wait for him behind the dumpster with my gat, then snatch his ass and make him open the backdoor. I could do it right now if I wanted."
Jesus lifted up his flannel, flashing the handle of a 9mm.
"Do it, homes. I got your back, essey," said Damon.
"Man, that dick you been sucking on made you stupid?" said Jesse. "I’ll check you later. I’m out."
A cherry-red ’62 Park lowrider pulled into the parking space adjacent to the table, blocking Jesse’s retreat. The tinted passenger window rolled down, revealing the brown, slant-eyed face of an older Mexican youth with thick, black eyebrows.
"Hey, Jesse my man. What up, homes? Long time no see."
"Yo, what up CHUKO," Jesse said nervously, looking away. Jesus and Damon ran to the passenger side like two dogs begging at their master’s feet.
"CHUKO, man," said Jesus, leaning against the door. "You gonna front me that eight-ball or what, essey?"
"Shit, here!" CHUKO palmed Jesus a large seal full of dirty white powder and rocks. "You been slinging that shit pretty fast, huh? Almost as good as my boy, Jesse, here. When you gonna come back and work for me, essey?"
"Sorry, yo," said Jesse. "I’ll check you all later. I gotta bounce."
"Nah, homes. Sorry ain’t gonna cut it," said CHUKO. "Once you get set up with a spot, there ain’t no turning back."
"I’ll page you tomorrow, promise."
"Yeah, you better mutha fucka." CHUKO turned his attention to Jesus. "Get the fuck off my car, puto."
The tinted window rolled back up as the lowrider drove away.
*
The lifeless school hallway waited expectantly for the clock’s hour hand to reach 3:00 PM. A giant paper banner with the neatly painted words "Welcome To Apollo" hung beneath the clock. Patches of buffed graffiti marred the otherwise white-washed walls and bland, dark-gray lockers lining both sides of the hallway, their ranks broken by numbered doors embedded with tiny square glass panes.
The hour hand triggered an oppressive bell. The doors swung open one after another and like crazed animals fleeing a freak show menagerie, the students held captive inside piled out into the hallway, quickly making their way to their next classes.
"Jesse. Over here, essey."
Jesse peered through the crowded hallway, spying Jesus and Damon huddled near an open locker. A white stoner kid wearing a Slayer t-shirt flashed a twenty-dollar bill, exchanging the money with Jesus for a seal of speed.
"What up, yo," said Jesse, catching Jesus and the kid in the middle of their transaction. The kid pocketed the seal, hurrying off.
"Hey, don’t forget to tell your homies I got plenty more of this shit," Jesus yelled after the kid.
"What up, homes," said Damon. "You gonna kick it at my house tonight? CHUKO’s gonna be there. He said he wants to talk to you, homes, so you better come."
"Yeah, essey. I don’t think he’s fucking around this time," said Jesus. He turned to Damon. "Hey, hold onto my gat for me."
"Bet," said Damon, eagerly slipping the 9mm into his waistline.
"I don’t know, man," said Jesse, shaking his head. "Why’s CHUKO want me selling for him again? It’s not like I owe him for that shit I got busted with last month. I already paid him back his ends."
"Yeah, well he seems to think differently, homes," said Jesus. "Just come to Damon’s tonight and smooth things out with him. We’ll back you up, right puto."
Jesus playfully slugged Damon in the shoulder, who nodded.
"Yeah, right essey."
Jesus caught a glimpse of a security guard’s blue and white windbreaker at the opposite end of the hallway. The guard eyed the trio suspiciously, raising a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
"Ah, shit. B-out! B-out!"
The guard stalked through the crowd, scattering the trio like dead leaves into the wind. They rounded a corner at the end of the hall, exiting through a set of double-doors.
"Stash the tweek for me," said Jesus, shoving the eight-ball of speed into Jesse’s hand. Jesse hesitated. "They ain’t after you, homes. Just hold it til after school and I’ll get it back then. I’ll meet you up at the park. Here, take it mutha fucka!"
"Ah-ight, yo!" said Jesse, jamming the eight-ball into his underwear. Jesus grinned triumphantly, fleeing the campus with Damon.
"Check you after school, homes."
"Yeah, right… little punk-ass buster," Jesse muttered under his breath. He started toward Mr. Daniels classroom, passing a men’s bathroom when the guard from the hallway burst through the double-doors.
"You! Hold it right there," said the guard. Another guard rounded the corner ahead of the bathroom. "Hey! Stop him!"
Jesse ducked inside the bathroom, flushing the eight-ball down a toilet, the guards rushing in after him. They slammed his face into the stall, tackling him to the floor.
"Get the fuck off me, yo," said Jesse. "I didn’t do nothing."
"Oh yeah?" the hallway guard smirked. He yanked Jesse up onto his feet. "Why’d you run, then?"
"I had to take a piss, man."
"My ass," said the other guard. "You’re taking a little trip with us to the Security Office."
"Man, let me go. I didn’t do nothing."
The guards dragged Jesse back outside as Mike walked by the bathroom.
"Hey, Jesse… I’ve been looking all over for you," said Mike, smiling wryly. "What’s the problem? I’m the student teacher from his seventh-period class."
"I caught him with his friends selling dope, that’s the problem," said the hallway guard. "We’re taking him to the Security Office to search him."
"Man, I didn’t do shit," said Jesse. "I went into the bathroom and they rushed me. I put that on my mom’s, Mike."
"He’s already late for class," said Mike, "so why don’t you just search him here. If he’s clean like he says, I’ll walk him to class."
"Whatever, pal," said the hallway guard, patting Jesse down. "You wanna take responsibility for the little punk, be my guest."
"There, you convinced now?" said Mike. The hallway guard leaned in close to Jesse.
"Your teacher-buddy here may have bailed you out this time, kid. But next time, you might not be so lucky."
*
"So, you finally decided to join us," said Mr. Daniels. "Can I have a word with you please, Mike?"
"Sure."
Mike strode confidently up to Mr. Daniels cluttered desk.
"What’s up?"
"Mike, you can’t keep covering for this kid," said Mr. Daniels, massaging his forehead. "He’s just going to drag you down with him."
"What should I do then? Stop helping him because he got into some trouble? Everybody makes mistakes, and everybody deserves a second chance. Not that you’d care, but I submitted one of his stories to the city-wide writing competition."
"For Christ sakes, Mike," Mr. Daniels leaned in closer to Mike. "He’s a gang-banger that was arrested for drug-possession! You make it sound like he toilet-papered the ceiling of the boy’s bathroom. He’s as rotten as they come. Look, all I’m saying is focus on the legitimate kids who are here to learn."
"Mr. Daniels," said Mike. "That’s all I’m trying to do."
*
"Mike," Angel said, squeezing through the crowded school hallway. Mike turned sharply as she ran up to him. "Mike, I have to talk to you. It’s Jesse."
"Calm down," Mike smiled. "What about Jesse?"
Angel dabbed at the sweat along her brow, pausing a moment to catch her breath. She looked up at Mike, her eyes wide with panic.
"What is it, Angel? What’s wrong?" said Mike.
"Jesse told me not to tell you…"
"Tell me what?"
"His friend, Jesus, is why the guards chased after him. Jesus was dealing speed when one of the guards saw him. Jesus made Jesse stash the speed and Jesse had to flush it or the guards would’ve busted him. Jesse said this gang-banger he was selling for before he got busted last month fronted the speed to Jesus."
"Where’s Jesse now?"
"I don’t know, but they always kick-it at the Taco Bell off 43rd Ave. and Olive."
Mike stared out over the crowd.
"Go straight home and I’ll see you tomorrow."
Mike started to walk away when Angel grabbed his hand.
"What’re you gonna do, Mike?"
Mike answered over his shoulder.
"I’m going to stop Jesse from ruining his life."
*
Jesse flopped down on a cement park bench, rubbing his face in his hands. He stared down at the sloppy patchwork of paint slapped across the bench to cover up graffiti, straining his eyes as a CH caught his eye, but the rest of the tag was painted over.
"What up, bitch," laughed Jesus from behind Jesse. "Where’s my stash?"
"I had to flush it. School security rushed me right after you and Damon B’d-out," said Jesse. Jesus’ mouth dropped open as he struggled to register what Jesse said.
"Ah, yeah. You just fucking with me. Your ass ain’t that stupid to flush CHUKO’s shit."
But as Jesse’s confession sunk in deeper, Jesus’ face hardened.
"Man, I can’t believe you did that, yo. You done for, now. You gonna have to sell for him again to pay it off," said Jesus. He walked away, shaking his head.
"I ain’t selling shit for that puto." Jesse blocked Jesus’ path. "Besides, it was your punk-ass that wanted me to hold onto his shit in the first place."
"What, mutha fucka?" said Jesus, ready to throw down. Jesse reacted in kind, punching Jesus hard in the eye, the impact of the blow knocking Jesus to the ground. Jesus pulled out the 9mm.
"I oughta smoke your ass!" said Jesus, nursing his puffy red eye. "But if I do, I’m gonna owe CHUKO your debt."
Jesus eased up on the trigger, standing up. He threw the gun down at Jesse’s feet.
"Take it. You gonna need it."
"Fuck you, yo! You ain’t my G no more," said Jesse. Jesus smiled.
"I never was."
*
Jesse climbed a short flight of stairs to the apartment Damon and his mom lived in. A large crack taped shut with duct tape ran the length of the front window and the wood door had splintered from years of abuse and neglect. Jesse stepped up to the door, listening to the party going on inside the apartment as he chambered the 9mm. He slipped the gun into his baggy pocket and banged loudly against the door, the noise dying down as a face peeked through the window’s curtains.
"Yo, what up, Jesse?" said Damon, poking his face back through the curtains. The door unlocked and opened. "Come in, essey."
"Where’s CHUKO and Jesus?" Jesse said, scanning the faces of the partygoers as he entered the smoky living room. His finger fidgeted with the 9mm’s hammer as he recognized a few of the faces. The partygoers resumed their conversations in hushed voices, one of them hitting a glass pipe, adding to the stench of meth and weed that filled the apartment.
"They around?" said Jesse, the portent look on his face unsettling Damon.
"Nah," said Damon, noticing the gun-shaped bulge in Jesse’s pocket. "Jesus never showed and CHUKO said he was going to Taco Bell with his boys after he made a few collections."
"CHUKO say anything to you?"
"Nah, just that he wanted to talk to you about some shit. Probably about last night."
Damon turned to the kid hitting the pipe.
"Let me get a hit off that dick, puto."
Damon took the pipe from the kid, leveling a lighter beneath the bowl when Jesse snatched it from him. Damon stood in stunned surprise as Jesse lit the pipe, inhaling a long, deep hit. Jesse’s eyes went blank, his pupils widening as he struggled to hold in the hit. He walked stiffly into the bathroom hitting the pipe again and again, ignoring Damon and the partygoers. It was just him, the pipe, and the raw, jittery sensations that followed.
"You okay, essey?" said Damon. Jesse dropped the pipe outside the bathroom, shutting the door. He stared into the mirror and saw the change in his eyes and face as the meth altered his thinking. His heart raced, pounding against his chest like an angry fist trying to pummel him to death. He clutched his sternum as the intensity grew unbearable; he regulated his heavy breathing, the room spinning.
"Jesse?" came Damon’s voice softly through the door.
"Leave me alone, mutha fucka! I’ll be alright."
Jesse rummaged through the drawers along the side of the bathroom sink. He grabbed a pair of electric clippers, plugging them into an outlet in the wall beside the sink. The clippers revved up as he flipped the on-switch and ran them over his head. His hair fell into the sink in long, dirty blonde locks, filling the basin until he had removed every last strand. He threw the hair into a small trashcan, rinsing his shaved head and neck in the sink.
"What’d you do to your hair, homes?" Damon said uneasily. Jesse walked out into the living room to the apartment door, earning stares of disbelief from Damon and the partygoers. Everything seemed frozen in the moment -- even the smoke stood still.
Jesse opened the door, leering at Damon. He pulled the gun out his pocket and pointed it to his head.
"I’m a crack head like you now. Spun out my mind."
*
"Why I always gotta do this shit."
Freeman threw open the backdoor of the Taco Bell, toting a rubber garbage can across the vacant parking lot to the dumpster. The lanky black man kicked and cussed at the can, stopping near the flickering streetlight as he spotted Jesse hiding in the darkness behind the dumpster.
"Hey, what’re you doing there, kid? You can’t loiter here."
Jesse sprang up like a predator pouncing on its prey, aiming the 9mm. Freeman clumsily tripped over the garbage can.
"Man, you gotta be the dumbest mutha fucka," said Jesse, motioning with the gun for Freeman to get up. "Get your stupid ass up. I said now, bitch!"
"It’s cool. It’s cool," Freeman said, shielding his face. "You got it, kid. Whatever you say."
"Man, just shut up and open the door," said Jesse, nudging Freeman toward the backdoor with the gun barrel. Freeman stumbled back over the garbage can. "Punk, take the trashcan with you."
"Ahright, ahright."
Jesse followed on Freeman’s heels, passing beneath the streetlight, the back of Jesse’s pasty neck and shaved head revealed in the somber light. Freeman started to open the backdoor, turning to face Jesse.
"Hey, I know you. Yeah, I remember you from the other night."
"Yeah, you know shit," said Jesse, shoving Freeman inside.
*
Mike walked to the backdoor of the Taco Bell, glancing over his shoulder at his faded-yellow Toyota parked in the empty parking lot. He slowly reached for the doorknob when the door cracked open and a large foot poked out, wedging open the door. Mike opened the door the rest of the way, looking down at Freeman sitting on the floor in his underwear gagged and bound by duct tape.
"Man, your pants fit too tight," Jesse said from up front near the counter. Mike stepped inside as Freeman pleaded for help with muffled grunts. Mike put a finger to his lips, positioning himself to one side of the open doorway leading to the front. He peered around the corner and saw Jesse struggling to fit into a Taco Bell uniform, the 9mm atop the counter. "I oughta kick your ass for lying to me, bitch!"
"Jesse."
Mike stepped out as Jesse grabbed up the gun.
"Mike?" said Jesse surprised. "What the hell you doing here, man?"
"Why’re you doing this, Jesse?" said Mike, taking a step forward. "You’re better than this. I know you are."
"Nah," Jesse’s face hardening. "It’s too late for that shit. Mr. Daniel’s was right about me. You should’ve listened to him."
"C’mon, man," said Mike, taking another step closer. "You don’t really believe that, do you? You’re a writer, man… a good writer. Don’t throw it all away. Let’s make things right."
A cherry-red ’62 Park lowrider pulled up next to the drive-thru window as CHUKO’s stoned voice sleepily shouted into the Taco Bell.
"Hey, mutha fucka’s! I been out here trying to order for forever and shit!"
Jesse looked to the window, cocking back the 9mm’s hammer.
"There’s only one way I can make things right."
"Jesse!"
Mike wrestled with Jesse for the 9mm and the gun went off. Mike dropped to the floor, blood seeping out from underneath his limp body.
"What the fuck was that?" said CHUKO’s driver.
"I don’t know, essey. B-out! B-out!"
Jesse leaned out the drive-thru and fired into the lowrider's back windshield. The car rolled into the side of the Taco Bell, shattering glass and stucco. CHUKO scrambled out the passenger side door and unloaded with a Mac 10 Uzi, spraying the driver-thru with a staccato of bullets as Jesse fired back. A cloud of blood sprayed the air from behind CHUKO’s head and he fell to the ground, firing the Uzi into the sky. Jesse lay gasping for breath inside the drive-thru, clutching his blood-soaked body. His breaths grew shorter and shorter, stopping altogether, his eyes staring blankly ahead at Mike’s body.
*
The school bell rang, signaling the day’s end as the students filed out of Mr. Daniels classroom. He watched as the last of the students eagerly disappeared out the door and rubbed his face in his hands.
"Mr. Daniels? I have a letter here for you."
Mr. Daniels looked up at one of the young secretaries from the front office. She walked uneasily over to his desk and set the letter down.
"Actually," she said softly. "It was addressed to Mike, but… well, it's been seven weeks since…"
She looked down at the floor.
"Well, I thought I’d just give it to you since he was your student teacher and all."
Mr. Daniels rested his face back in his hands. The girl waited for a response, leaving when none came. He quickly regained his composure, drying his eyes as he opened the letter.
Dear Mr. Hess:
Mr. Daniels crumpled the letter in his hands, throwing it into the trashcan next to his desk as he got up to leave. Something compelled him to stop in the doorway. He looked back at the trashcan and walked over to it, digging out the letter.
Thank you for entering your story into our writing competition. Although your story didn’t win, you show great promise as a writer and we would like to use your story in one of our monthly publications for aspiring young inner-city writers called "Ghetto Life". While it’s not a paying publication, it is a chance for you to earn recognition…
Mr. Daniels set the letter gently on his desk. He opened a filing cabinet and pulled out Jesse's gang-banger story. Mr. Daniels scribbled out the F, replacing the grade with an A. He read through the story, making revisions where needed, then wrote a cover letter and sealed both into a manila envelope, addressing it to Ghetto Life. He stared long and hard at the envelope, laying it with the rest of his outgoing mail.

Jason Duke tells us: "My writing is based partly on past gang involvement and deals with controversial subject matter regarding inner-city life. While I always try to present the reader with an overall entertaining story that has memorable characters and a good amount of action, I also try to leave the reader with a subtle message about the struggle inner-city people are faced with in the hope of deepening awareness of said struggle, but without coming across as preachy. Presently, most of my time is spent writing a movie script that I've been working on for several months now, and with my remaining time I write an occasional short story and put together a quarterly e-zine called Gang-Related <http://www2.11net.com/j85051d/>. I've been published in a few print and online magazines, but PWG is the first I consider noteworthy."