The Creek

Nelson Shake

Here’s what you have to understand: You don’t read. Not for fun, not so anyone can see you, like, actually enjoying that kind of thing. You would be dead. Instant target on your back. You’d get jumped on the way home, shit beat outta you. Can’t let anybody see it. Not even at school. Now, if that sounds weird, keep in mind school’s not for learning. Everybody knew that. You’re there because the state says you gotta be there—or your mom, if you’ve got one that cares enough—but that’s it. You’re not about to show anybody in the halls that you actually like that sort of thing—learning and shit. That’s not what’s allowed. Because, what? You think you’re too good or something? Sure, people read. Theoretically. But it’s not like anyone talks about it.

What you gotta do is find a way to snag a book. But even that’s tricky, because it’s not like you have money to buy books, so the library’s your only option. And of course everybody else you’re trying to avoid is at the library too because that’s where the free internet is. If you’re there for the computers—or hell, even some medical books that might show some titties— nobody bats an eye. People’ll respect that. But man I tell you what. People have eyes out for a nerd. Fresh meat.

It’s not even the books themselves. It’s what you’re telling people without even saying it. You may not mean it, but everybody else instantly thinks you’re getting uppity. And people with that chip on their shoulder can’t wait to put you back in your place—or what they think your place is—the second you start to front as smart or something. That’s why they beat you up. All they got is their physicality.

The rules are plain, which is why hitting the stacks is such an afront: You mean to tell me you’re book smart but so dumb that you forgot how you’re supposed to play the game? The proper way to get out, to escape, to win the game is through your body. Sports, man. Become an athlete. Snag that scholarship, that D1 train. Ride it on to the pros and a contract. Never mind that nobody makes it. Nobody in your school, nobody in your family, nobody in your neighborhood, not even a friend of a friend of a friend. The possibility is still always there. And you keep telling yourself that if you can beat another guy on the court, on the field, or in the ring, that counts for something. Muscle on muscle, you know what I mean? Doesn’t get much more fair and square than that. All egalitarian and shit.

But you pick up those books? That’s just plain insulting. You think you’re gonna read your way out? Think your way out? And here’s the thing: If all you got is your athletics, it’s a scary thought that someone is trying to use their mind to get out of there, because you know you can’t match that. And deep down you know that someone probably has a better shot of getting somewhere with their mind than with their footwork. And you can’t have that. Because that’s humiliating. You can’t have someone be better than you. Because everything’s a competition, right? But you only know one way to play the game, and so you beat that little shit up to remind him of what he forgot.

What’s more is you can’t sneak your library books home, either. Home ain’t safe. Or at least mine wasn’t. Sharing a room with two brothers, both older than me, friends coming in and out of there all the time. Couldn’t let any of them see what I was up to, reading everything I could get in my hands. Word gets around.

But there was a little creek about a half mile from our apartments. Wasn’t big or deep enough to swim in, so no one was ever around there. And it was nice. Because of where it was and how the trees formed overhead and how the rocks shaped up into this little tunnel of a gorge, you had this nice breeze moving through there. So even in the summer it was always cool and there weren’t any mosquitos and the water made this nice peaceful trickle and it was so a guy could actually breathe and think in there. That became my sanctuary. And I had found a little hollow back in some rocks. I’d taken gallon Ziplocs one by one, spread out over time so Mom wouldn’t notice. And I’d stash my library books there. Zip em up so nothing would damage them.

And that was my after-school spot. Novels, poems, short stories, histories, essays, memoirs, comics, you name it. For a solid year, that was my place.

Then during the summer, school’s out, and I’m reading there as usual, and two of em show up. They had a girl with them, looked like they’d gotten her high. I was in the middle of a detective novel, and I froze thinking maybe they wouldn’t see me. My luck though that I was wearing a white shirt so of course they see me, and they start coming. So I dropped my book and split. Left it right there by the creek. Never mind late fees. That book was gone. I got a head start cause they were tripping trying to start running while their pants were still around their ankles.

I’m not sure whether they came at me because I saw them with that girl with their dicks out or because they saw me reading. Not that it matters. Either way, they now knew my spot and saw me and saw me reading. But it’s okay. You gotta improvise. Figure out something else that works.

That’s the game, right? See, that’s what they didn’t get. Even in those precious sports, all that muscle ain’t shit if you can’t also think through the game. And just where the hell exactly you think you’re gonna learn that?