Jonathots Daily Blog
(4085)
Sitting Twenty-Five
As it turned out, orange construction cones make great soccer goals for runaway boys in the desert, dreaming of football stardom.
Iz and Pal were desperate for a diversion—a way to physically explode with energy, allowing their muscles to stretch and ache. With the arrival of the cones, the soccer balls, the tennis shoes and the hamburgers, they had the makings of a deliriously exciting life.
Sweet play.
They vigorously kicked the ball, imagining acclaim and cheers in the great arenas of the world capitals as renowned soccer players, drawing applause and the favor of men with the pleasure of many women.
They fell, exhausted, in the sand, laughing, liberated from conventional restraints, simply content to live in the moment’s lingering bliss.
Nothing seemed wrong. Therefore, nothing was wrong.
During one of these respites, Iz posed a question. “Pal, what do you think will become of us?”
Pal, still ablaze from the fervor of the game, asked enthusiastically, “Do you mean before or after we win the World Cup?”
Iz frowned. “No, really. Where do you think this is going?”
Pal realized his friend was once again turning serious—an attribute he didn’t favor much but decided to tolerate from his more melancholy partner. Settling into some solemnity, he replied, “I don’t know.”
Iz perked up. “I think I do.”
Pal drew a deep breath and inquired, “Well, tell me what’s gonna happen.”
“They’re going to take us back,” said Iz. “They’re going to make us go home.”
Pal shook his head. “They haven’t been able to do that so far.”
Iz shifted to his knees, grabbing his friend by the shoulders. He stared into his eyes. “That’s because they still think we have a hand grenade. When the soldier tells them the truth, they will come for us.”
Pal’s eyes welled with tears. “I don’t want to go back.”
Iz settled down on his backside and looked at Pal carefully. “Don’t want to? Or won’t? Which is it, Pal? You know we have to decide. It could happen at any moment. We have to decide.”
Pal was confused as to what Iz might be referring—very concerned. “We have to decide what?” he posed cautiously.
Iz didn’t miss a beat. “We have to decide what we’re going to do if they come here and try to make us go back.”
“Well, we don’t have a hand grenade,” Pal said flatly.
Iz shook his head vigorously. “Don’t be stupid. Did you think we were going to use the hand grenade?”
Angry, Pal rose to his knees. “Don’t call me stupid. I hate that. If we weren’t going to use the hand grenade, why did we have it?”
Iz scoffed at him. “To scare them away. That’s why. But they won’t be scared anymore. I can just feel it. They’re coming for us.”
Suddenly Pal was overtaken by a streak of tenderness. “Iz,” he said, “I won’t let them take you.”
“How will you stop them?” demanded Iz. “My father is so angry—so mean. I can still feel his anger pouring all over me, making me shrink before his eyes, becoming a little ant that he could step on at any time and mash with his foot.”
Pal was shocked by the words. It was a true revelation into his friend’s soul, but a sudden one that left him bewildered. He reached out to touch his comrade’s arm. “Listen,” he said, “No one’s going to mash us anymore.”
Iz looked up with a glassy stare. “Are you with me, buddy?”
“You know I am,” said Pal.
“No,” insisted Iz, gaining an unnatural intensity. “Are you with me?”
Pal was startled. “With you for what?” His friend’s reactions sometimes seemed chilling, foreboding. There was something frozen, perhaps dead, in the heart of Iz that never quite warmed or showed life, no matter how much joy came into their situation. Pal felt equal—but still overwhelmed.
Iz continued. “Are you with me to the death?”
“Death?” Pal lurched back, unable to hide his shock.
Iz shook his head. “I won’t go back alive.”
Pal drew a deep, ragged breath. “Iz, I don’t want to die. I came out here because I wanted to live.”
Iz rose up and pointed his finger at Pal, screaming. “But what if they won’t let us live? What if they just come out here and act like we’re silly little boys and spank us, ridicule us, and take us home? I’m telling you, Pal. I can’t go back to Pada. I will not be that scared little ant anymore.”
Pal nodded his head in agreement, if not understanding. “So what do we do?”
Iz scrambled to his feet and ran over to the portable toilet. He opened the door, reached in, grabbed something and returned quickly. He held a pink stick in his hand. Breathlessly he explained, “Pal, these came with the toilets. They are poison. If they come for us, we will break this stick into two pieces and each one of us eat our half.”
“Eat it?” Pal shouted.
“I won’t go back,” repeated Iz calmly.
Pal wanted to object. Pal needed to reason with his perplexed, confused friend. But Pal was just twelve years old. So a sense of allegiance swept over his heart. He felt no need to resist. The plan was made, and it seemed to make sense.
Time would tell.
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