The Rough Boys and Treasure Island
By
Steven Hunley
Although it was steamin’ hot and quite late in October, Spiderman would not make for the shade. A guard never leaves his post. So he stood by the entrance and waited, his eyes looking up the block, his feet placed solidly on the pavement, his intentions steadfast. He was like a large grey rock. To him, guarding was more than a job. It was his duty. And, as someone once said, “Dooty is dooty, to be sure.”
Finally at 3:30 they showed up at the end of the block on Alondra. Small they were and hard to make out. But he knew it must be them. Besides, who else walked together in threes all wearing white uniform shirts? It was them all right.
They were, from left to right or from short to tall, whichever you choose: Juan Plata, short and precious, his head buried in a book, Billy Huesos, taller and almost skeletal, and Israel Manos, the leader, probably because he was tallest of all. They were rough boys. They were the nicest in the hood. It depended on who you talked to.
Israel pushed open the gate saying, “Hi Spiderman.” Billy patted him on the head as he walked by. Johnny said nothing. Like I said, his head was buried in a book. Spiderman wagged his tale. Now they would let him off his chain and he could play or chew on a bone. His charges were home from school.
The lot was there in East Rancho Dominguez. Don’t get me wrong. It sounds rural, all old California. It’s not. It’s right next to the armpit of L.A., Compton. No one would stay there if they had the money to move out. Not if they were in their right mind. So the boys lived in Rancho Dominguez but they went to Roosevelt Middle School just five blocks away in Compton. Still, the lot where they played wasn’t bad. It had a much to commend it. That’s why they were there.
Number one, it was safe. The surrounding cement block walls plus guarding by Spiderman made it so. Nowadays they’d call it a “safe haven.” And there was supervision. Juan’s grandpa lived there in a trailer on one end, one of those silver Airstream jobs.
It was much safer than the park on Atlantic Avenue. There was no dope dealing or scoring going on there and no gangsters. The only crack pipes they found were only there because people out on the street had thrown them over the wall trying to hide the evidence just before getting hassled by the Compton Sheriffs. Even then they’d be broken. Gramps would have to clean them up with a broom. Naturally he complained to Israel when it was his turn to hold the dustpan. Being old he complained a lot.
“ I got better things to do than sweep up broken glass,” he’d say, “at least the junkies eat their bags of tar.”
“Whadda you expect the crack heads to do Gramps,” Israel replied, “Eat glass?” He was such a thoughtful boy.
The only other problem was when they’d have to repaint the outer walls when tagging crews from the 7Os would cross out the graffiti of the CGs, or that of Lime Hood. But that was cool. Gramps had plenty of paint. Juan would often do the job, trying to get kids in the hood to help him, trying to convince them it was fun. He probably thought he was Tom Sawyer or something, since he always had his head in a book. But lots of paint wasn’t the only thing they had. They had junk, plenty of junk. Other parks had leaky water fountains, rusty swing sets, yellowing grass and cigarette- butt sand boxes but they had more than that. They had junk.
They sat down as they always did at the round wooden spool table. Here they ate lunch on Saturdays, had councils of war on Sunday night, and plotted play the rest of the week. This was a Monday. So what would it be?
“Cops and drug fiends?” said Billy.
“King Arthur and his Knights?” said Israel, “We already got the round table.”
They both looked at Juan for his suggestion. None came. He was silent in his book.
“Oh ****,” said Israel, “he’s deep in it again.”
Billy knew what this meant. Juan was deep in his book and wouldn’t come out. He wouldn’t talk. No response. Not unless you broke the code. It couldn’t be done unless you knew the key.
Billy leaned over and peered at the cover.
“What is it this time?” asked Israel.
“Something called Treasure Island,” he replied.
“Then we’re in for a quiet spell. I know nothing about it.”
“Me neither,” remarked Billy.
Israel sat back, crossed his arms, put his fist under his chin and pondered. Juan was so hard to reach when he was like this. He wouldn’t come out ‘till he finished, or until you spoke to him like a character in the book. Sometimes it lasted a chapter. Sometimes it was the whole book. He looked over. It wasn’t too thick, this book.
“Wadda you think?” posed Billy.
“I think we’re gonna hafta wait,”
“But I gotta go home in an hour. Just break the code,” he pleaded.
“Like I said, I know nothing about it. I’ll never find the key in time.”
Any code breaker knows that to break a code you have to know the key. For Juan the key was in the book. If, somehow you could talk to him through the book, you’d break the code and he’d snap right out of it. But Israel knew nothing of the book. Not too many seventh graders had read a novel. In class, when the teacher asked, “Now who here has read a novel? Raise your hands.” Only one hand went up out of thirty-six kids. Thirty-six. And it wasn’t like he had a copy of Cliff’s notes in his back pocket. He checked.
“I suggest,” he said to Billy, “we make it just us two, Sir Lancelot and Sir Gawain. King Arthur here is busy.”
So they found two sticks of appropriate length, followed by two garbage-can lids with appropriate shine, and repaired to Camelot, which was on the other side of the lot under a tree, leaving King Arthur at his round table, neatly wrapped up between the pages of Stevenson.
Two days later he was still the same. They sat at the table again. But this time Billy said,
“Watch this.”
Israel watched. Billy turned to Juan and said, “Is that you Black Dog?”
At this Spiderman’s ears went up.
“Not you Spiderman, you’re grey. Sit down boy.
Spiderman sat down.
“And quit ear-hustling.”
He turned back to Johnny.
“It is you Jim Hawkins?”
Johnny’s eyes brightened but he didn’t respond. He did however lower the book a bit.
Israel watched intently. He sensed Billy had something up his sleeve.
“Watch this,” he said. “Is that you Long John Silver?”
Juan put down the book immediately, faced him and said, “Yes my lad, said he; such is my name to be sure. And who may you be?”
He’d broken the code. Israel was flabbergasted. How had he done it? He asked him straight away, “How?”
“I lucked out. I was watching Disney’s re-runs last night. They had on his first color movie, Treasure Island. It was good too. It was about a pirate, Long John Silver, and about a treasure island. What else?”
So that was it. Now Juan was talking. The problem was he was only talking like Long John Silver. But at least that was something. From now on they would have to call him John or Johnny. He would pay attention to them, sometimes nodding in agreement or sometimes shaking his head. If the situation fit, he’d talk, but only like Silver. It wasn’t much but it was something.
Part one-to be followed by, (you guessed it) part two on Saturday.
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