TATE

My name is Dick. Dick Manetti. More precisely, Dick Edward Manetti. In everyday life, Dick.

I don't know what motivated my parents when they chose that name for me. Maybe some peculiar sense of humor. Maybe a desire for revenge, to avenge the fact that I was conceived at all. And that I was born. If it was the former, it didn't strike me as funny at all. If it was the latter, over time I even began to understand them a little.

We lived in Heaven, in southern Tennessee. I often wondered if my parents had a hand in giving the town—the town, ha!—that name. It has that situational humor so characteristic of them, after all. And a sense of life's drama. Heaven was hell on earth, a hell of boredom, hopelessness, aimlessness, abandonment, and nothing in common with heaven. Maybe just that the sky was cloudless and blue here most of the year.

So my name is Dick. My parents often told me—or rather, they told me almost every time they were sober—that they didn't think so. That they didn't suspect. That times and people would change, become so mean, and children would become shallow and cruel in their jokes. And that it would affect me personally. But I didn't believe them; I stuck to my theory.

True, the kids in the yard weren't that cruel after all. They laughed, sure, made fun of each other, made up rhymes. But at their core, they were friends. It was hard not to be, since there were no more than two dozen of us in this town together. And yet, I felt lonely, unwanted. That's why I got a dog. I found him in the dump. He wandered around as if searching for gold. And he probably found something there, but most of all, I found him. A puppy with big paws. For a few days, we were the attraction in the yard. A novelty, someone cool. It was a bit off-putting, this sudden attention, but it also, I have to admit, it tickled a delicious part of me. Whenever we appeared, they wouldn't leave my side for a moment. Mainly the dog, but I, as his owner, was important too. The kids petted and caressed him as if each of them wanted him all to themselves. But he'd already chosen me. I could see it in his eyes. It was a bit of a struggle to come up with a name for him. Everyone wanted him to be called Chester. Like half the dogs in the States, or even the whole world. God, how can you name a dog Chester? What does it even sound like? Like the name of a cheese. Smoked Southern Chester. Intense, bitter flavor, the color of lemon. Only at Walmart.

After a few days of heated discussions, I finally decided on his name: Dogmund.* Simply put.

My parents didn't mind. They were all good guys, alright. Just perpetually drunk or stoned. Eternal hippies. They'd be like that until the day they died. They were probably happy I'd found such a dog and that I had something to do, someone close even. And that they could devote more time to themselves and their own pastimes. After I was born, my mother couldn't get pregnant again. It had something to do with her drinking. So they could devote even more time to each other, without worrying about new problems or unpleasant surprises. But Dogmund made up for it; he was my best friend. We'd spend all day wandering around the neighborhood, then we'd eat dinner together and sleep together. Until the next morning, and then the whole day belonged to us again. I cared for him like a younger brother, whom, for obvious reasons, I couldn't have. Too bad, I wonder what his parents would call him.

That's why I was so affected by Dogmund's loss. Yes, unfortunately. It was our sixth, or rather seventh, year together. Poor old Dogmund had fallen ill with some incurable, hellish disease. He had to be put down. It spared him suffering, but could it have comforted a kid like me? Well, it certainly could have, a little, but I was thinking about the event so selfishly; I wanted to keep him with me, my best friend, as long as possible, without thinking about the suffering and pain that would inevitably await him. Fortunately, if I may say so, he received the shot and fell asleep. Painlessly. Forever. Tears had been flowing from my eyes ever since we even approached the vet's office. I carried Dogmund in my arms, and my mother held my arm. I was immensely grateful for that. She so rarely touched me. That day, nor the day before, she didn't drink a drop. Nor for a good week after. Then she started again, but with a new sense of humor. I didn't even see her drunk for a long time.

But back to the point. The tears flowed constantly, harder and harder, and when Dogmund finally closed his eyes and his tan fur stilled, I sobbed like a beaver. I screamed and waved my arms. I must have looked truly terrible, because the vet refused to charge for the procedure. "Take him for ice cream," he said, "or someplace like that." But I didn't want to go for ice cream or cookies, I didn't want to go anywhere or see anyone. We went home, and my father helped me bury my friend in the garden. He didn't even drink that day. I've never forgotten that. He and my mother behaved exemplarily that day; I've already said they were even-tempered guys. Except they drank. And they even had something to pay for it, because my father, quite older than my mother, was on disability. He worked designing and building bridges and tall buildings, so he had a decent pension. He'd taken it after some accident. Something in his back had snapped, and he couldn't work anymore.

For weeks afterward, I cried. Three weeks, like nothing. And I felt lonely again, unwanted. Especially since, after those few years, we'd outgrown children, and suddenly we started paying attention to things that hadn't mattered before. There were strange, stupid conflicts, like who could stand closer to a certain girl on the sidewalk. It was rooster time.

Strange walls had grown between us. We looked at each other differently now, with a strange attention, or at least they did. I didn't like it, I didn't want to get involved. Probably another reason I was a misfit. I hadn't turned into a rooster. Only Jam, a short blonde, could you talk to without stress, appraising glances, or critical remarks. She was somehow above that. She was a Friend, and the rest were merely Acquaintances, with whom you could occasionally meet, even laugh, but never trust. But Jam wasn't mine. She wasn't mine to own, like a thing. I respected that; I didn't want to impose.

Days passed. They turned into weeks. Life dragged on as usual, and I felt increasingly lonely and unwanted.

Until Tate showed up.

I

don't know where he came from. He never spoke of it, and I got the impression it would have hurt him. Maybe he had some unpleasant secret, a bad past, a home worse than mine. In any case, it quickly became clear we had a lot in common. He was very similar to me. We quickly hit it off. Tate wasn't his real name. He named himself after some superhero, a tough guy, or the actor who played him. Because Tate was a tough guy. He didn't hesitate and always knew what to do or say. He had no qualms about giving in, he never backed down. But he never told me his real name.

We quickly became friends. But it was just the two of us: Tate never showed his face to anyone else. Funny, I can't remember what he looked like. He always came when I was alone: ​​outside, when no one saw us. Then he started coming to my room, too, but he never entered through the front door, only through the window. If I wanted to, all I had to do was hide behind a fence or among the trees, and I knew he'd be there. A friend.

Thanks to him, I changed. I realized I didn't have to be a weirdo others would laugh at, no whipping boy. That I didn't have to be always on the sidelines, pushed aside. He made me realize I had strengths and potential I hadn't known before, and that I could, and even should, use them. I could defend myself. I had to, or else I'd lose my whole life, and others would push me around. My father often said I had a weak character. But now it was over. I thought a lot, and I came to the conclusion that Tate was right. It was time to be born again. It was time to put an end to the quiet, meek Dick and replace him with someone else who could stand up for himself.

Soon , the first real opportunity presented itself.

It was a sunny day, just before noon. Tate and I were sitting in the nearby woods, in the shade of the trees; the land sloped down to a stream in front of us, watching the water flow. I don't remember what we were talking about. The wind rustled through the trees, and it was hot. And then they appeared. The peace vanished, and it became loud and stuffy. A gang of familiar kids, idiots I didn't like, led by Mike, aptly nicknamed "Fat." He was shaped like a ball with limbs attached, greasy hair, greasy skin, sweating like a pig, and his clothes clung to the folds of his body. And that ridiculous red-and-white baseball cap. The epitome of an idiot. But he was the oldest, and if not the strongest, he was the hardest to upset, so he bossed the other pimply kids around.

They approached us. I stood up. They had sticks in their hands, probably for one of their silly games. Someone had a bottle of water. There were also a few girls; there were about twelve of them altogether.

"Hey, Dick," sneered Heavy, drawing out my name ironically. "What are you sitting here, all alone like..." he cackled, and the others caught his meaning and started laughing too. I glanced over to where Tate was sitting.

"What are you staring at?" shouted the gap-toothed Sam Elsen, a blond with a funny accent.

"Maybe at his friend we've heard so much about?" Heavy asked. "Where is he now, huh?

" "We never saw him!"

Tate must have hid behind the trees as soon as we heard their voices.

"He's gone," I replied. "He doesn't want to talk to you.

" "Is he that important?" laughed Annie, chewing gum as usual. I didn't answer.

"What, aren't you saying anything?" Heavy snorted. "Are you too good to talk to us?" He stepped closer.

"No," I said, smelling his sweat. "I don't think we have anything to talk about.

" "We have nothing to talk about?" he shouted. "Did you hear that?" He turned to the others. "He has nothing to talk about!" He looked at me, grinning maliciously. "So maybe you'd like to talk about it?" He took a step forward and shoved me with all his might. I fell and tumbled backward, falling over leaves and branches. I stopped right by the water. The laughter of the whole group came from above.

"So?" Fat Mike shouted. "Still feeling superior? Are you going to turn up your nose?"

I wiped my face and stood up. I brushed the dry leaves from my clothes and returned to where I was standing.

"What's your point?" I asked. My voice seemed to shake a little. "I just want to be alone."

Mike gave me a contemptuous look. The others, behind him, were smiling stupidly.

"Alone," he said slowly. "Yeah, right. Just sit there, you weirdo. Sorry we... we interrupted you."

He started to turn away; I was convinced he would, turn around and leave us alone. But at the last moment, he swung at me again and punched me in the stomach so hard I fell. Everyone started laughing again.

"You're a freak," Fat Mike said. "And a loser. You always were, just like your parents!"

He turned, and now everyone slowly began to walk away. They were commenting loudly on what Mike had done and said. Holding my stomach, which still ached sharply, I moved under the tree and leaned against the trunk. I opened my eyes. Tate was standing in front of me. He was furious.

"Why did you let this happen?!" he shouted.

"Mike... he's stronger..." I replied, struggling, because the blow still made it hard for me to breathe. "There were—

" "Bullshit!" he interrupted. "He's not stronger at all, you're the one who let him hit you and insult you! What have I told you so many times?" "He shouted, waving his arms. "As long as you allow this, you won't change a thing!"

He looked at me with furious eyes.

"Don't just sit there! Do you want me to think of you as a loser too?"

I struggled to my feet. The pain slowly subsided.

"What... am I supposed to do?

" "What do you mean?" he said angrily. "You're not going home to cry, are you? Do what a real man would do! Do what you feel you have to do! You know what!"

For a moment we stared at each other. The voices of Fatty and his gang were getting further and further away.

"What would I do?" Tate asked quietly. My gaze fell on a large, gray stone lying next to a tree. I didn't even think to look at it. It was as if it had appeared.

"Exactly," Tate smiled wickedly.

I grabbed the stone and turned in the direction they had gone. I could still see them, dimly, through the trees. I started following them, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and I didn't even notice when I started running.

"Exactly!" came my friend's words. "Do it!"

I ran faster and faster, getting closer to them. I could already hear their voices, their conversations. Just a few more seconds. The Heavy was in the middle, but no one was following him. He was exposed, right in front of me. I caught up with him just as someone was about to shout a warning, but it was too late. I jumped him and, with all the force of my momentum, knocked the Heavy to the ground. There was a commotion, but no one tried to separate us. It seemed they were having another great time.

Mike managed to roll onto his back, but I was already on top of him. I raised my hand high, clutching the rock. My rage made it seem as if it weighed as much as air.

"Watch out, Mike!" someone shouted.

"What a lunatic!"

I swung. I aimed first at the arms and shoulders, but Fatty was so fat that all the energy from the blows seemed to be lost in the layers of fat. He covered himself with his arms, but not very skillfully. I landed the final blow on his head. Fatty screamed and grabbed his skull. Interestingly, it wasn't as covered in fat as the rest of Mike.

Silence fell. All I could hear was my breathing and Fatty's quiet curses. I stood up, throwing aside the rock, and started kicking him and jumping on his stomach. He was undulating like a waterbed. Fucking fatty. I kicked him in the head once or twice, and he screamed again. He squealed like a wounded pig. He was a pig.

I stopped for a moment, catching my breath. Fatty Mike curled up in a ball and moaned, clutching his stomach with one hand and his head with the other. The latter was red with blood. The color irritated me even more.

"You'll pay for everything, fat prick," I rasped. I walked to the nearest tree. Everyone moved aside for me. They were afraid. I took a step behind the tree, and Tate was waiting for me there. In his hand was what I was looking for: a long, thick, and gnarled bat that, if shaped, would be perfect for baseball. He handed it to me.

"Here," he said. "Hit him. Teach him who's boss!"

I took the bat and stepped out from behind the tree. The bat felt as light as a feather, like a stone had back then; I didn't feel its weight at all. When they saw me, they scattered again in fear, revealing Fat Mike, still whimpering on the ground. I stood over him, and what I felt then was power. Power over his life. An incredible feeling. Now I was bigger, better, stronger. I was the one smiling. I was the one despising. I decided to use that power. I swung and didn't even feel the drops of blood staining my neck, face, and hands. When you have power, certain things become irrelevant, and you can afford to ignore them. That's what power is for, after all.

* * *

Tate hasn't shown up since then. No wonder, they would have accused him of complicity, they would have caught him too. He was on the list, for sure, because they kept asking me about him. But I couldn't give up Friend. No one wanted to understand that.

So Tate didn't come to see me in jail or in court; that's understandable. I think he's a little afraid, and no wonder, because he hasn't come to the place where they're holding me now all these years either. He could change his appearance—it's funny, but I don't remember what he looked like very well—or put on some kind of disguise... but even after all these years, I think he'd still be taking a risk. The people guarding me here probably don't even believe he exists anymore. A clever guy, that's probably his point. He waits. And these people are making me take drugs, swallowing pills, pumping me full of shots. Surely this is supposed to turn me into a zombie who will tell them everything. But I will never betray my Friend. He allowed me to become a real person, not a pushover.

The years have blurred my memory. I don't remember everything from those days. I remember Mike's death being all over America, some professors talking about it. Mrs. Murrowes was screaming for her daughter, Annie, the one chewing gum and smiling stupidly. But she deserved to be taught a lesson. Funny, but apparently it almost completely shattered her jaw. And her face. And good thing she won't be chewing that stupid gum anymore. Toothless Sam hasn't needed teeth for a long time either, because he has to be fed through a tube. Nothing would have come of those teeth anyway.

I don't know how much longer they'll keep me here. Probably until I tell them everything. But I won't give up Friend. I've kept them at bay for so long now that they've probably lost all interest in me. But I know Tate is just waiting for this.

And that one day he'll come back.