Chapter 9

Saturday, October 14, 2006, day after homecoming

Scott was relieved to put in a full shift at the engine center. It was a busy time as many trucks needed to be prepped for the coming winter months. After work he rode to Mr. Piotrowski's. He was eager to give him a full report about his Friday evening. He met an excited Jobe at the end of the driveway.

"I just saw you two days ago you crazy mutt."

They play wrestled in the yard, before Scott brushed himself off and headed inside. Mr. Piotrowski gave him a raised eyebrow.

"You have grass in your hair," he observed.

Scott ran his hand over his hair and plucked out a few stubborn pieces.

"How has your Saturday been?"

"Slow. We've been waiting to hear about your date," Mr. Piotrowski leaned over to brush something out of Jobe's coat. "Did you have a good time?"

"I guess so. It was certainly interesting. That Lilly is something else. She planned the whole thing, or so she claims. I think I believe her. What I really wanted to tell you is what happened downtown."

"Downtown?"

"Lilly wanted to show off in front of some of the eighth graders. The whole homecoming thing was a campaign to make her friends jealous. She's a little scary that way. Anyway, we left the dance to walk to a pizza place by the gas station. There's a small bar up the block with a red door—"

"I know it, it's always been trouble. You kids didn't try and go in there did you?"

"No, nothing like that. We were walking by when a group of noisy drunks came stumbling out of the bar. They were shouting some awful things at Lilly, so I sent her on ahead to the pizza place. I wasn't sure what I was thinking. I just wanted to keep them away from her. Give her enough time to get away."

Mr. Piotrowski stood up, "You weren't hurt?"

"No, sir, they never laid a hand on me. The one really drunk guy was held back by his friends. He was a big, scary looking dude though. A city cop drove by and put his spotlight on them. They took off after that. We shouldn't even have been there. Lilly wasn't supposed to leave the dance, but of course she didn't tell me until after the run in with those idiots. I decided it was best not to tell Mr. Mendoza."

"That could have ended very badly for you. I need to think about this. Why don't you take Jobe for a walk," Mr. Piotrowski was frowning.

Scott took Jobe outside and let the dog lead him. They were out for about thirty minutes before Scott decided it was time to head back.

Mr. Piotrowski was waiting, "Scott, when I hung that heavy bag for you it was for exercise. I think the time has come to talk a little more about protecting yourself. You did a brave thing placing yourself between those men and the girl. Do you understand why it was dangerous?"

"I have a pretty good idea," he replied.

"I wonder if you do? You described three men, drunks. Booze makes some men violent. I think you know about what happens in families when there's heavy drinking involved?"

"A little," there were lots of reasons to end up in foster care.

"Some drunks really like knives, or what if they had pulled a gun on you?"

What could he have done? Trying to protect Lilly meant that his responses were limited. On a public street, in full view of witnesses, would his advantages have even have helped him? Had he done the right thing?

"I don't know."

"Your instinct with Lilly was correct. Send her to safety, and put their attention on you. What did you do next?"

I can't tell him that my mouth ran away from me, "I guess I froze."

"What advantages did you have?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"I don't think I had any. I was outnumbered. They were bigger than me, and they might have had weapons like you said."

"All true. I can think of two advantages, perhaps three. You were sober, and you are probably faster. You've also got a good head on your shoulders. With the proper training you wouldn't have made the same mistakes. It's time to teach you a thing or two about self defense. You also need to think about tactics."

"What do you mean?"

"Tactics are all about planning; being prepared to act in any given situation. You were outnumbered. The smart tactic was to retreat, but their actions might have forced you to make a different decision. We'll talk more about it."

"I don't think I'm really a fighting type of person," Scott said honestly.

"That's a good attitude to have. Unfortunately, the rest of the world might not agree with you. I'd rather you know how to protect yourself, agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

"We'll concentrate on two things; the physical, and the mental. For the mental I'll give you some old Marine Corps manuals to read. Maybe you could look up related texts in the library. I also want you to read about human anatomy. For the physical I think we're ahead of the curve, you've really gotten much stronger."

Scott's education in hand to hand combat and tactical thinking began. He found that his life to date had been excellent preparation. He only needed to learn how it all tied together.

Mr. Piotrowski first taught him how to fall, and to tumble and roll. The reasoning became clear when he told him they would study throws, which was explained as the art of taking your opponents' weight and momentum and using it for your own purposes. That would be followed by small joint manipulation, wrist locks, arm locks, choke holds, disabling punches, and hand strikes. He emphasized how dangerous these skills were. Mr. Piotrowski likened it to the handling of a gun. It was a responsibility Scott took seriously.

His introduction to joint manipulation on Sunday was painful. Mr. Piotrowski grabbed Scott's thumb, twisted it back over his wrist and forced him to his knees with his arm uncomfortably extended behind and above him. Mr. Piotrowski then showed him how to turn that into a common police hold, with his wrist twisted painfully behind his back.

"The police like to use words like 'pain compliance, ' but do you see how you can literally bend a man to your will?"

"Yes, sir!" he gasped.

Mr. Piotrowski released him, and Scott scrambled to his feet.

"Make an impression?" he asked.

"Definitely," Scott replied. Humbled, he shook his arm to get the feeling back into it.

"Don't ever forget it. This isn't something you horse around with. You don't show Eddie these moves, and don't practice on anybody. You need years of training before you have the control needed to be an instructor. You understand?"

"Very clearly."

"What do you say to a Meritt's chocolate shake?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"I wouldn't turn it down, sir. It might be a tactical mistake,"

"Very funny."

The school week meant a return to normalcy. The next major objective was to make it to the holidays. Teachers cracked down on the students, and the student body hunkered down for the slog to Christmas break.

Eddie's romance with Amy did not survive the week. Eddie would not talk about what broke them up, but he convinced his dad to buy him his own heavy bag. Bo and Rene were a couple, but thankfully not one of the obnoxious ones. Some of the new freshman couples continually pushed the boundaries of the school's 'no public displays of affection' rule.

Rene informed Scott during a mid week cross country run that her new goal was to set him up with one of her friends. He threatened to break Bo's knees if she did. He explained in no uncertain terms that it wasn't something he was looking for. She said she'd back off, but Scott knew better.

"So you're going to break my knees?" asked Bo during health class the next day. "You know I'm bigger than you right?"

"Yeah, but I'm sneaky," Scott replied.

"Ha!"

"Just keep Rene out of my business if you can? Please?"

"Yeah, I'll try," Bo didn't look like he thought that was possible either.

On Thursday he was walking to speech class when somebody shoved him violently into a locker. Scott picked himself up to see what he was dealing with. It was Nazario Guzman, the idiot from the homecoming dance and a couple of other want-to-be thugs.

"Watch where you're going, gringo," Guzman warned.

"What's your problem?" Scott asked.

"My problem is that no gringo like you should be touching any Latina girl."

A crowd was forming.

He was pissed about my homecoming date? "Guz', Lilly Mendoza would never go out with you. Can you even speak Spanish? That might hold back your membership back in the racial purity movement."

Guzman's position was particularly stupid in a school split fifty-fifty between Anglos and Latinos. Half the couples in the school were mixed. Nobody cared as far as he knew.

"I'll kick your ass, white boy!" Guzman growled.

The crowd sensed blood now, and the hallway was blocked by students.

"I don't think so," Scott replied calmly.

Guzman's muscle didn't know what to think about that. This wasn't going according plan. The little freshman was supposed to be afraid.

"Meet me after school. Any place your punk ass wants, and I'll wipe the floor with you," Guzman said nastily.

People were shouting in the crowd, hoping to see a fight.

"How about right here and right now? I'm not afraid. You're eighteen now aren't you? No more juvy for you. It's off to county lock-up the next time you get popped. How many times have you been arrested anyway? I'm a straight 'A' student. You've got what, forty pounds on me? I wonder how that's going to look?"

Guzman was spitting mad, but his buddies had a firm grip on him. One of them must have had a brain cell because he was trying to push Guzman back down the hallway.

One of the football coaches came wading through the students. "What's going on here!" he demanded.

The crowd started to break up.

"Ask him," Scott pointed at Guzman. "I've got to get to class."

"Get out of here then," the coach instructed. He turned his focus to Guzman who hadn't been able to escape because of the crowd, "You three knuckleheads let me see your hands. What is it you three geniuses don't understand about 'zero tolerance' anyway?" The coach was taking them to the front office.

Scott headed for class.

Later, in the library, he switched from his normal studies to reading about military history and martial arts. He found the histories interesting. It looked like a lot of what they wrote about had already been covered more succinctly by the USMC Small Wars manual Mr. Piotrowski had given him. His copy had last been updated during the Second World War, but he found it fascinating reading.

The martial arts books proved more problematic. It was the same issue that he had with the 'how to tie a tie' episode at homecoming. The illustrations showed him exactly what to do. He had followed the instructions to the letter, but the results had not been optimal. He had to actually practice the skills before he could fully assimilate them. Attending a martial arts school was out of the question. It wasn't feasible in tiny Fort Stockton. He couldn't spar with Mr. Piotrowski. Maybe all he really needed to do was to observe someone who knew what they were doing.

News of his confrontation had already spread throughout the school. People were staring at him as he walked to the Meritt's Corner bus. Scott ignored it all.

He spotted Eddie waiting for him. He knew that Eddie would demand a full debriefing, but he was making some weird furtive gestures. What is he doing?

Scott stepped past a minivan waiting by the curb, and then saw what had Eddie in fits. It was Principal Reynolds.

"Mr. MacIntyre."

"Yes, sir?"

"I understand you have to catch the bus to return home. You and your guardian will be in my office first thing in the morning where we will discuss your punishment for fighting in school. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Principal Reynolds."

"Get on your way then."

Scott boarded the bus, and went to sit by Eddie.

"Man, are you crazy? Fighting with Nazario Guzman? That guy's an animal," Eddie asked.

He obviously hadn't heard about the reason for the confrontation. "We didn't actually fight."

One of the other kids put his two cents in, "Did you hear what he was saying about your sister?"

"Who was saying?" demanded Eddie.

"Guzman."

"Scott, what was Guz' saying about my sister?"

"Just ignore it, Eddie, it was something about how she shouldn't go out with a gringo."

"That piece of crap was talking about my sister?" Eddie's face was turning red. "My brothers will kick that pendejo's ass."

Scott hadn't thought about it. He was right. Eddie's brothers; Robert a senior, and Tommy a junior, were popular school jocks. Scott rarely had any interactions with them since they were older. This incident was especially ironic since all of the Mendoza kids had anglicized names. Racial differences in Pecos County happened from time to time. Illegal immigration was always a hot topic, and the racial edges of that argument got pretty sharp. The schools were usually peaceful, neutral ground unless it was stirred up.

Scott shook his head. Anything that Nazario Guzman was involved in was doomed to fail, "I don't think it's going to be necessary."

"Are they going to kick you out?" asked Eddie.

"I don't see how they can. There wasn't any actual fighting. The coach broke it up before anything happened. He took Guzman and his goons away, and let me go on to class."

"What are you going to do about tomorrow morning?"

It was a good question. "I guess I'll call the judge."

It was the last thing that Scott wanted to do. He'd never had to call the judge to get him out of any trouble before.

Scott and Eddie parted ways at Meritt's. Scott rode his bicycle to Mr. Piotrowski's, while Eddie went into the engine center.

Scott told Mr. Piotrowski all about the confrontation, and his run with Principal Reynolds. Mr. Piotrowski quizzed him about some of the facts, and had him go over the confrontation from several different angles.

"It sounds like you did what you could. You were blocked in. You turned your knowledge of your opponent into a tactical advantage. Now tell me, what if he had kicked your ass?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

Interesting question, "On paper the school has a zero tolerance policy toward fighting. We all know that some people are more equal than others. Star football players for example. Everybody knows Guzman was a juvenile delinquent, but now that he's eighteen the rules change. I'm a fourteen year old freshman with good grades. There's a considerable size and age difference between us. The facts, if I had been beaten up, would tend to favor me. I hope."

"Well reasoned," Mr. Piotrowski offered, "but you didn't answer my question about getting your ass kicked."

"Pain is a good teacher, or so the books say. I guess if I had gotten beaten up then I'd have learned a valuable lesson ... and I'd be sore."

Scott sat back and ran the sequence of questions over again in his head. Mr. Piotrowski was a damn clever man.

Aleksander Piotrowski; the retired gentleman of leisure, collector of the obscure, and warrior philosopher, Scott thought to himself.

"What are you smiling about?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"I was just thinking how you could give any of my teacher's a run for their money."

"Our Yankee cousins make that mistake all of the time. They hear the accent, or see redneck mannerisms and make all sorts of assumptions. Think of it as a tactical advantage my young apprentice."

Was Mr. Piotrowski quoting the Star Wars movie that Eddie loved so much, he wondered?

"I never had more than a high school education, and what the Corps taught me, but Verna taught me to love reading. After Jack died ... I tried to learn where I had gone wrong. It took me years to come to terms with the fact that he made his own choices. Second chances are rare."

Mr. Piotrowski never talked about his son. Scott wasn't sure what to say.

"You better call the judge," Mr. Piotrowski said quietly.

"I'll call him now."

"In that case, Jobe and I are going to get some air," Mr. Piotrowski said getting up.

Scott was not looking forward to this. It was too late to catch him in the office, so he called the judge's home. His wife, Bernice Upcott, answered the phone. Scott explained who he was.

"Of course, dear, hold on for just a minute," she replied.

"Scott, what's wrong?" asked the judge when he picked up the phone seconds later.

He explained about the confrontation in the school hallway, and the principal's instruction about Friday morning. The judge asked some of the same questions that Mr. Piotrowski had.

"Okay, I think I've got a handle on it. Typical school bureaucrat; never use common sense when there's a policy that can do your thinking for you. You didn't hear me say that."

"No, sir."

"Where are you calling from anyway?" the judge asked.

"Sir, I'm at Mr. Piotrowski's."

"Let me speak to him please."

"He'll have to call you back if it's alright. He's out walking the dog."

"That would be fine. I'll see you at 8:00 a.m. sharp," the judge said in closing.

"Thank you, sir. Sorry to have troubled you."

"Scott, you've never been any trouble, and that is what's going to make tomorrow so much fun. Get a good night's sleep and don't worry about a thing."

His stomach was a little nervous, but he tried to eat a little breakfast anyway. Mrs. Delgado told him not to worry. If Mrs. Delgado knew, then everybody knew. She slicked down Scott's hair and told him he needed a haircut soon.

The bus ride into town was quiet. Eddie was at early morning football practice, so he didn't have anyone to talk to.

Scott pushed his way through the door into the school's front office. Judge Upcott, Sheriff King, and Honour Black all turned as he entered the office.

"What's going on?" he asked.

The judge replied, "I'm here as requested."

The three stood there with very smug looks on their faces.

Principal Reynolds, alerted to the visitors, came to see what the commotion was about. He looked curiously at the group of people.

"Mr. MacIntyre, you're here on time. Is your guardian here?"

Judge Upcott stepped forward, "Elijah Upcott, Principal Reynolds I presume? I am the boy's guardian in matters such as these."

That startled the principal, "You are Scott MacIntyre's guardian?"

"I am. Do you have a conference room where we can meet?"

The principal cleared his throat, "Judge Upcott, your honor, I was unaware of that fact. My office is just back here, I think you'll find it comfortable."

"No need for formal address, and I'm sure your office is perfectly serviceable, is there enough room for all of us?"

"All of you? I'm afraid I don't understand," the puzzled principal replied.

"Allow me to introduce the very capable Honour Black, of Black & Black: Attorneys at Law. She represents Mr. MacIntyre, and of course you know Sheriff King."

I have a lawyer? Scott glanced at her and she winked at him.

"Of course, Sheriff it's good to see you. Why are you here exactly?" Principal Reynolds was even more confused.

"While I haven't officially been sworn in I do like to stay current on issues that concern the good citizens of Pecos County. I have a few facts relevant to the case at hand," replied the sheriff.

The principal guided the group toward the conference room. Scott trailed behind. In their wake they left an office full of school secretaries who knew good gossip when they heard it.

In the conference room Scott was seated between the judge and Honour. She leaned over and told him she would do all the speaking for him. Unless she said otherwise, he was to keep his mouth shut. She said it with a smile so all he could do was nod.

The meeting went poorly for the principal. Scott couldn't tell if Principal Reynolds actually intended to punish him, or if the appearance of so much firepower on his behalf had simply made the man dig his heels in. The judge barely spoke. He let Honour do all they heavy lifting. She was relentless about the principal's inconsistencies in her examination of the facts. She insisted that Scott could not be suspended because he had not been fighting, and had committed no violation of school policy. It took a while before the principal finally conceded the point.

The final blow came when the sheriff announced that Nazario Guzman had been arrested by the sheriff's department for procession of psilocybin mushrooms with intent to distribute, and a small quantity of cocaine. He was in county lockup awaiting his first of many court appearances.

"I've asked the Fort Stockton police department if they would like to coordinate a search with both city and county drug dogs of school property on behalf of the school district. The Superintendent of Schools seemed eager to ensure the safety and well being of all district school children. I'm sure you'll agree that this scourge is something we all must stand vigilant against."

The principal, to his credit, rapidly agreed.

"Scott, what class are you missing right now?" the judge asked him.

"Geometry," Scott answered as he looked carefully at the principal.

"Why don't we step outside, while your principal and Honour iron out a few details?"

Scott followed the judge and the sheriff outside. It was nice to get out of the conference room. He released a deep breath. He hadn't realized how tense he had been.

"Walt, was it a good bust on this Guzman character?" the judge asked.

"Elijah, I'm surprised at you. After you called last night I got in touch with a county detective to find out more about Mr. Guzman. He told me they'd arrested him earlier in the day. There's been a small group dealing coke to the gas field workers. They think they might be able to roll up the whole thing now."

"I wasn't implying anything, Walt. Did you have a chance to think about what Alex Piotrowski mentioned to me?"

What's this?

"The department hasn't had a Youth Explorer program in a number of years. I thought we might give this young man a chance to be part of a pilot program." the sheriff replied.

"I like it," replied the judge.

The sheriff explained, "Scott, it's a program that exposes young people to law enforcement as a potential career. Explorers do things like help with paperwork, and work around the station. We haven't had an active program in years. Frankly we don't have the budget, or the people for it."

"So I'm going to be an explorer?"

"Not exactly, Mr. Piotrowski told the judge that he's been teaching you some basic self defense skills, but you needed somebody to spar with."

"Alex has my full support," interjected the judge.

The sheriff continued, "The department has a hand-to-hand training course scheduled three weeks from now. What would you think about attending? We could justify it with the department by calling it a pilot program."

"Walt, I think it's a fine idea if Scott's interested," the judge said.

"I might have to ask for some time off work, but I'd really like to go. What are the course dates, will it interfere with school?" Scott asked.

The sheriff took out his phone and checked his schedule, "November 16th through the 18th. That's Thursday and Friday evening with a full day of training on Saturday, so no conflict with school."

"I'm pretty sure I can get time off on the Saturday, but how will I get there and does it cost anything?"

"We'll cover the cost, and your transportation issues."

The judge was pleased and assured him that he had nothing to worry about. It would all be kosher.

Honour came out the front door and pumped her fist in a sign of victory. "Can I have a moment with my client?" she asked.

The judge and sheriff moved off to one side and let them have a bit of privacy.

"How much do I owe you?" Scott asked, afraid that the answer would seriously dent his savings.

She smiled, "A client who thinks about payment before I tell them how the verdict went. I could get to like that." Honour explained that it had all been taken care of. There would be no entries on his school record. She insisted that if he had any future troubles he was to call her immediately.

"You don't owe me anything. I was retained on your behalf by Mr. Piotrowski, but don't you worry. I'm not going to charge him a dime either. I haven't had so much fun in ages. When you can defeat the forces of bureaucracy it is a victory for all that is good and decent."

Weird. He believed her. She really did enjoy this.

"Now somebody has to get back to class. Why don't the rest us of go decide who's paying for lunch later?" she announced to the men.

Scott bumped into Eddie before English class started.

"You're still here!"

"It's all taken care of. No expulsion, no mark in my records. All is forgiven," Scott explained.

"What did Principal Reynolds say?" asked Eddie.

"I have no idea. I wasn't even in the room. It's probably not important," he looked around to see who was nearby. He leaned over and whispered, "Listen, Guz' got arrested yesterday afternoon for drugs. He's going to be in county for a while."

"No kidding?"

"Yeah, so now would be a really bad time for anybody to have any weed in their lockers."

"Oh!" Eddie realized what he meant. The school had a few potheads, but they didn't run in the same circles.

The big excitement at school later that week was an inspection by the drug dogs. Even though word of Guz's arrest had eventually made its way through the school, a couple of lockers were still found with contraband in them. Apparently some of the more frequent consumers couldn't be motivated enough to move their stashes.

Scott was not surprised when Molly O'Brien joined her girlfriend, Rene Keebler, at the group's lunch table. She was a pretty girl with straight red hair and green eyes. She had been perpetually sunburned since her family had moved here from the east coast the previous year. The eastern girl had gone completely country chic. She often wore boots, tight blue jeans, and loose oxford shirts over a tank top. Sometimes she wore a bandana around her neck. After school she could be frequently seen wearing a cowboy hat.

Once they got past the awkwardness of Rene's attempted fix up, they actually had some interesting conversations. Scott liked to listen to her talk about big cities like Boston or New York. For her part Molly was horse crazy and wanted to know all about the ranch's stock, and how often he rode.

She was shocked to hear him say that he rarely got on horseback anymore.

"I'm too busy with school, and working two jobs. I see the horses every morning when I do chores, and I still muck out the stalls every now and then. I'd say that's enough horse time," he explained.

She didn't agree. Molly's folks had purchased her a horse, but since they lived in town it was stabled at a nearby farm. She didn't get to see him nearly enough she complained.

"What's your horse's name?" he asked politely.

"Dancer!" she said with a breathy gush.

Scott's lessons with Mr. Piotrowski continued at a steady pace. He couldn't show Scott a full speed throw, but he walked him through the steps. They didn't do any ground work or wrestling, but Scott learned firsthand about all the different kinds of arm locks, wrist locks, and small joint manipulation.

Mr. Piotrowski wasn't averse to making a lesson painful as a reminder. Scott couldn't help but wonder what kind of man Mr. Piotrowski was in his youth. He didn't think the few pictures he had seen gave the full story. He was not a man to be underestimated.

Most of their practice was on defensive skills. Offensive skills would be something they would talk about over the next few weeks. Mr. Piotrowski wanted him to study up on human anatomy before they started trying to break a body down.

"You need to know how the human body works. Don't just read about weak points; understand how it all works as a system."

Medical literature was nothing new to Scott. He'd worked hard to read and understand a lot of it over the years seeking answers to his own body's mysteries. Now he approached it with an eye toward attacking the body; he studied the bones and joints, as well as the nervous and pulmonary systems.

Scott found a book he really liked through inter library loan. It was by Bruce Lee, the late martial artist and movie star. In the book, Mr. Lee discussed his philosophy and approach to the martial arts. While Scott wasn't sure if he agreed with Lee's conclusions, one concept stood out to him. It was the idea of pattern free, or formless, fighting that appealed to Scott's sense of logic. Basically, it was the idea that you used whatever techniques it took to achieve your goal. You bound yourself to nothing. A fighter needed to free himself from patterns that held him back, or made his intentions too predictable. The idea made sense to him.