Now Jomon is running. In his stocking feet.
It is three o’clock in the morning.
He doesn’t remember waking up. He doesn’t remember leaving his house or why he is running. He doesn’t remember the loud SLAM of the door hitting the wall as he bombed through and he doesn’t remember the second SLAM as the door banged shut into place behind him, or the light of the neighbor lady, awakened by the noise.
He doesn’t remember his feet slipping on the steps from his porch and sending him tumbling to the cement landing. Later he’ll notice the bruises but he won’t wonder about them. He’s used to bruises. For his father, drinking and hitting go together.
Jomon keeps running down the middle of the street until a cabbie honks him out of the way. Then he runs along the side of the street, in the gravel and up on the sidewalks, jumping on and off curbs.
Running, running, running.
Jomon puts his foot down where there should be cement but instead there is a hole in the sidewalk. His whole leg plunges into the water flowing in a gutter below. His face hits the pavement nose first and his other leg bends beneath him.
Blood gushes.
Jomon pulls his foot out of the water, wipes the blood from his face with his shirt sleeve and starts running again. He runs with a bit of a limp, but he does not let that slow him down.
He keeps running lopsidedly until he reaches the liquor store.
Jomon pants heavily as he glares at that store. He grabs the closest thing he can reach, a handful of pebbles, and pelts them at the window.
The gravel just tinkles like fairy dust against the bars and the glass.
He runs up to the store and kicks it, hurting his foot and making him madder. He grabs the window bars and tries to shake them apart. He looks around for a proper tool to use against the hateful building, but the street is too clean. There is nothing he can use.
Then he remembers.
He does have something.
In his pocket is the geography medal. He takes it out. Its gleam mocks him.
All that work, and your life is the same! All that work, and YOU are the same! You are nothing! You will always be nothing!
Jomon begins the wind-up, like David preparing to slay Goliath with his slingshot.
David knew his slingshot would send the stone right into the giant’s head. Jomon knows his medal will fly strong right through the pane of glass.
Jomon lets the medal soar and watches it go. The medal crashes right through the window. Shards of glass sparkle like stars in the streetlight.
The flying medal makes a big hole in the window. Jomon needs to make it bigger. He runs to the store, and with his fist he punches in as much of the window as he can reach, smash after smash, not stopping until the window pane is as clear as he can make it, the broken glass tinkling against the bottles of rum and gin inside.
Jomon stops then and catches his breath. He holds up his hands and sees the blood running from them.
But he’s still angry.
He starts running again.
He doesn’t get far.
A police car drives right up in front of Jomon, and when he turns to go in another direction, another police car blocks his way.
Foolishly, he tries to fight his way through the police officers, but there are too many and they are older, bigger and stronger. He is slammed belly down against a car. His arms are yanked back, and cuffs are twisted around his wrists.
Still he tries to get away.
“Stop fighting us,” a woman’s voice says loudly next to his ear. “We’ve got you now. There is nowhere for you to go except with us. So take a deep breath and quit fighting.”
Jomon does not want to take a deep breath, but the police keep him pinned down on the hood of the car, waiting for him to give in. He keeps them waiting.
His face is pressed against the car, right cheek down. Through the arms of the officers, he can see the empty street.
Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees something move. It looks bigger than a house, but whatever it is moves in shadows, and Jomon can’t see it clearly.
Jomon is distracted and stops fighting long enough for the police officers to stop leaning on him. He feels the officers ease off and he starts fighting them again.
He fights with his feet as they shove him in the back of the car. He fights the car seat with his head as they drive him to the police station. He fights and fights, and by the time they arrive at the police station, he has no fight left.
All he has is pain.