Page 5 of Centering Kaos

He frowned, swinging his feet. Since they weren’t long enough to hit the floor, they bounced off the chair’s upholstery and kicked up until they were level with his knees. “I had lots of friends at my old school, but I don’t get to see them anymore.”

Well, shit. He and his mom must have moved recently. The kid was lonely and lashing out rather than dealing with his feelings. I couldn’t blame him. If the fading bruises around his mom’s pale neck were any indication, he was dealing with some heavy shit and probably didn’t have anyone to talk to.

“Why don’t you think I’m tough?” I asked, trying to keep him talking to see if he would open up.

“Those women are your bosses. Tough guys are in control. They don’t put up with anyone’s shit, and they don’t let anyone tell them what to do. They’re the bosses.” He watched me, waiting for my reaction. Probably thought I’d jump on him for swearing, but I was far more bothered by his definition.

“Yeah?” I asked. “What gives a tough guy the right to tell other people what to do?”

“He’s bigger and smarter. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Sounds more like a bully to me.”

Dylan let out a dramatic sigh likeIwas the one makinghimwant to pop antacids like candy. “You don’t understand.”

Oh, but I was afraid I did. “He's bigger, so he thinks he has the right to tell people who are smaller what to do. And when they don’t comply, he beats them up. I don’t care how you try to sugar coat it, that’s a bully, Dylan.”

He frowned. “Okay. If you’re so smart, what doyouthink a tough guy is?”

I considered it for a moment, wanting to make this kid realize the ridiculousness of his point of view. A face popped into my mind, and I instantly had my answer. “When I was in the Army, I served with this guy by the name of Hirome Tagashi. He was so tough he earned the nickname Hero.”

“Heroes aren’t tough guys,” Dylan announced.

“You don’t like superheroes either?” I asked, unable to believe my ears. What the hell was wrong with the kid? How could anyone not like superheroes?

“No. Look at Spiderman. He risks his life for people all the time and what does he have to show for it? His uncle died. He’s broke. His girl left him. He’s a schmuck.”

I stared at him. Kids didn’t use words like “schmuck,” which meant that some grown ass adult—probably some wannabe mobster—had planted that word in his head. Undoubtedly accompanied by a lot of nice guys finished last bullshit. “Who told you that?”

“My dad.”

I wanted to point out that the biggest schmucks were those who were so weak they had to beat on women, but I bit off the words before they could pass my lips. I knew better than to talk shit about a kid’s parents. That would only harm Dylan’s self-image and turn him against me. Instead, I had to make him see the truth for himself.

“Look, Spiderman isn’t real, but Hero is, and he’s the toughest man I’ve ever met. He’s not a big guy. Kinda short with a lean athletic build, but I’m tellin’ ya, he’s built out of vibranium wire, concentrated piss, and old-fashioned determination.”

Dylan leveled a look at me. “Vibranium isn’t real either.”

“Nobody’s proven that, but it doesn’t matter. Hero was in Afghanistan when his vehicle hit an IED. That’s like a hidden bomb on the side of the road. He was wounded on impact—got a leg full of shrapnel and dislocated his shoulder—and the vehicle fell under fire. That’s what the enemy does, you know? They set up these traps and then they hide. When the vehicle hits the bomb, they start shooting. But Hero didn’t cower in a corner like some pus…” I thought better of my word choice and censored myself. “Like some pansy. He slammed his shoulder back into its socket and managed to drag three of his unconscious teammates out of the vehicle to safety. All while the enemy was trying to shoot him.”

Dylan stared at me with wide eyes, making me wonder if my story was a little too real and gory for a kid his age. I didn’t want to traumatize him or give the kid nightmares. Before I could decide if I’d overshared, he snapped his mouth shut and skepticism clouded his eyes. “Yeah right. That kind of thing only happens in the movies.”

I reached down and rolled up the left leg of my jeans, showing him the twelve-inch scar running down my shin before releasing my jeans and tugging up my T-shirt. Four jagged scars ran across my left side. I let him get a good look at them before dropping my shirt back into place and pointing out another thin, pale line that spanned from the bottom of my left ear to my shoulder.

“I was in that vehicle.” One of five. Paulombo had been impaled during the crash and died instantly. Hero pulled me, Mayers, and Jacoby out of the wreckage and covered us until the rest of our convoy could surround us and return fire. Mayers didn’t make it. He bled out during the flight to the hospital. But Jacoby and I owed our lives to Hero.

“Before that day, I would have considered myself tough. I can skate circles around most of the players I’ve met on the ice, and I’ve never lost a fight in my life. On or off the ice. But you know what? All my strength and training didn’t mean a thing when my head bounced off the side of that rig and knocked me out.” Still, I was one of the lucky ones, with only a concussion, a handful of scars, and no memory whatsoever of the attack. Jacoby had to have his left arm amputated and reconstructive surgery on his cheek, jaw, and nose. No amount of therapy seemed to help Hero stop reliving the attack in his nightmares. “Tough as I was, if it hadn’t been for Hero, I would have died in that desert.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and thumbed through pictures until I found the one I was looking for. In the photo, I stood beside an athletic Asian man who barely came to my shoulder and had a medal hanging around his neck and a haunted look in his eyes. A stocky white man stood on the other side, his arm a stump and his face still bandaged up from surgery. The three of us were dressed in service greens. Showing the screen to Dylan, I said, “See, that’s me, Hero, and Jacoby. Hero saved us both.”

Dylan’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. “Hesavedyou?”

I chuckled. “Sure did. That’s one tough son-of-a-bitch right there.” I watched the kid as my words sunk into his thick skull. I should have probably been watching my language, too, but sometimes it took a well-placed curse to really drive home a point, and I wanted to make sure this shit stuck with him.

“Any man can pick on those smaller than him, but real toughness… that comes from defending those who can’t defend themselves. Being tough is about character and integrity. It’s about who you are and how you react when the shit hits the fan.”

Dylan’s brow furrowed in thought. “With great power comes great responsibility,” he quoted, and I got the feeling he was more of a Spiderman fan than he wanted to admit. There was hope for the kid yet.

“Fuckin’ A, man.” I’d said enough on the matter and didn’t care to keep preaching. Besides, my street cred couldn’t hold up against being called uncool again. Switching gears, I sought out our common ground. “But enough about all that. Which console do you play NHL on?”

---