The Blacktop

An open classroom window in late May is the worst kind of torture, a breezy reminder of the freedom that we have been denied all day. The tease of air and light from outside is even more agonizing in the Old Building where the air conditioning refuses to drop the temp below eighty on a good day. Mr. Montoya teaches with the lights off in a desperate attempt to keep the room cool. The sweat he dabs off his face is proof enough that it’s not working. His lecture about the unseen machinations of global politics swirls around our heat-addled minds, nothing of substance penetrating the late-spring-senior-year haze. Have any of us paid enough attention to learn a thing since winter break? Some of us gaze at the slow flapping of the blinds, tongues of air lifting them long enough to let through honeyed beams of light. Others stare at Mr. Montoya trying to decide if what he’s saying applies to us in the least. Every one of us resists glancing at the clock which we could swear has been stuck on 2:28 for fifteen minutes.

Nate nudges Kat’s chair with his foot, and she taps on Maria’s shoulder in front of her, who then directs Sam’s attention, and soon we have all noticed Lee Martin packing, a fierce intensity in the surreptitious stuffing of pens, notebook, and handouts into his bag. Mr. Montoya’s ramble is cut short by the zipper.

He sighs, clearly losing steam himself, “No packing ‘till the bell, please folks.”

But it’s too late; Lee is out the door, and before Mr. Montoya can call him back the bell has rung and the rest of us are out, too. Free. Until tomorrow morning.

Curiosity works its magic and word spreads fast.

“Where the hell’s he going?”

“Blacktop.”

“Joey’s gonna wreck him.”

“Wanna watch?”

Bloodlust begins to seethe, but some of us hold back.

“Nah, that’s some sophomore shit.”

“Sure, but Lee and Joey are seniors. That’s our shit.”

Since most of our afternoon plans involve avoiding homework and passing joints in the sun, anyone who doesn’t have sports practice, rehearsal, or some after school job decides that they might as well carry out those plans at the fight. Lockers slam. We grab our bags and our books and walk down the hill swept into the stream of other juvenile violence enthusiasts.

The Blacktop (capital “B”) is what we call the overflow parking lot of the middle school down the street. It’s attached to a little neighborhood park that rarely sees any traffic besides students and a couple of homeless folks during the afternoon hours, and it’s far enough away from the school building itself that we don’t have to worry about being bothered. Add to that the fact that the middle school lets out an hour before the high school, leaving the lot empty by our final bell, and it is the perfect place for all sorts of frowned-upon activities. For as long as any of us can remember (and perhaps as long as there has been a parking lot here and students needing to let off steam) the traditions of this place have been passed down from upperclassmen to lower. You can hang out, hot box your car, or pound post-finals (or pre-finals) beers, but the Blacktop’s primary purpose is as a stage to kick the absolute snot—not to mention other fluids—out of one another under the guise of “settling beef” or teaching your opponent (and other prospective opponents) a lesson. The lesson is usually: “Don’t fuck with me.”

Most combatants are sophomores—people in the terrible position of being no longer freshmen and still not upperclassmen—but there are occasional grudge matches between juniors or seniors rehashing some old dispute. We’ve all been dragged to the Blacktop once or twice—most often by enemies, sometimes by friends. If you don’t want to fight, you’ve probably at least come to watch. It is rare, however, to see a senior who’s never bruised his knuckles—or even been in the audience—suddenly appear facing off against someone who has rubbed more of our faces in the asphalt than any of us would care to acknowledge. We all must admit some curiosity about what Lee did to bring down the infamous wrath of Joey Carver.

Joey is immediately visible when we arrive and settle into our social pools. He is drinking cheap beer in the bed of his truck like it’s a throne, surrounded by a loyal group of supporters. Lee is nowhere to be found in the throng of students milling about. The pavement shimmers in the heat. Some of us begin to think, with some relief, that he’s bailed, gone home, or, better yet, fled the state to lay low for a while. But then someone spots him, alone on a bench, shaded by the trees and partially obscured by the low hedge that borders the park. He sits, hunched over, his backpack wrapped tight in his arms, his long legs stretched and splayed in front of him. He sways slightly, side to side, as if buffeted by a breeze. Nothing can be heard over the chatter around the Blacktop, but it looks like he’s muttering to himself. A pep-talk maybe, or a mantra to calm his nerves.

Despite both participants being present, nobody seems to be in a hurry to get things started. After being trapped in school all day, we’re content to enjoy the freedom of the afternoon for a while. That’s not to say the fight isn’t on everyone’s minds. Talk spreads as joints are passed and beers are handed out. Rumors and theories dart around the parking lot like dragonflies.

“Lee hit on Joey’s girlfriend.”

A classic way to start a fight, but many point out that this seems unlikely from the reserved Lee. And anyone aware of Joey’s reputation would know the danger of such an act.

“I heard he scraped Joey’s truck. Those spots in the student lot are tight.”

“Lee hasn’t got a car.”

“Well, then maybe he ratted Joey out for cheating on a test.”

No one can agree on whether or not the two even know each other. Joey brushes off the theories when he hears them. He’s never made his reasons for fighting anyone explicit, but usually it doesn’t take much to guess what drew his aggressive intentions. If Lee can hear the talk, it doesn’t seem to interest him either, and no one here knows him well enough to go up and ask. Easier to just assume he made some stupid mistake, like stepping on Joey’s new kicks in the crowded hallway.

Still, stories must take shape. Someone claims to have seen them together over winter break. And didn’t they have Chem last spring? Lee took the last piece of pizza in the cafeteria before Joey got there. Outlandish. Cascades of laughter follow the speculation that perhaps Lee had hit on Joey himself.

As the afternoon wears on, one fact solidifies: none of us know why they’re fighting. And once the fun has been wrung from guesswork, no one really seems to care.

Aromas of weed and gasoline mingle as rumor drops to as simmer in the background and conversation moves onto other things. Finals that seem at once right around the corner and unfathomably far off. Graduation, and accompanying celebrations (and where we’ll get enough alcohol). Who asked who to prom, and who asked in the most elaborate fashion. Lowerclassmen discuss the classes they will take next year; upperclassmen share news about college decisions. We all compare summer plans.

Once in a while someone will glance over at Lee and wonder why he doesn’t just leave. Nobody will notice. When we find out he’s gone the crowd might jeer, but secretly everyone will know he made the right choice. At the same time, we know he can’t leave. Either by word or experience, we know that if Joey’s mad enough and you don’t show on the Blacktop, he’ll hunt you down on school grounds and take the suspension. He has before.

Some of us envision ourselves going over to him. We feel the urge to warn him, though our motives are not entirely altruistic. The slow heat of curiosity still threatens to burn away all other thoughts. No one would dare ask Joey what this fight is about. But maybe we could get something from Lee. Maybe, given more time, one of us would have approached. Perhaps we would have recognized the fear and heartbreak in his eyes. Maybe that would have been enough to understand. But we do not stray from the orbits of our friends, and before long it is too late.

“Martin!” Joey bellows from the truck and Lee’s eyes snap up.

He rises like a zombie from the bench, his slack posture a premonition of defeat. Silence falls as he approaches us. He meets no one’s gaze. He lays his backpack on the ground at the edge of the lot. The crowd parts to let him in, murmuring in his wake as we close behind him and shuffle into a tightening ring.

Seeing the doomed look on his face, many of us attempt to reassure ourselves and each other.

“Don’t worry.”

“He’s just gonna get roughed up a bit and go home.”

“There’s no real grudge here.”

The crowd settles into place. Upperclassmen push toward the front, entitled to the best views. Though most fighters on the Blacktop are males acting out some twisted traditions of manhood, spectators are always a mix of grades and genders. Even those opposed to violence have a streak of morbid curiosity. This crowd is no exception and is perhaps the largest any of us have seen. There’s no doubt about the mystery that attracted us all in the first place. The two young men currently eyeing each other across the ring of bodies could not be more different. Lee is six-and-a-half-plus feet of arms, legs, and neck, where Joey is a compact tank of muscle. Even standing in the bed of his truck he is only barely taller than his opponent. If their physical appearances aren’t an obvious enough difference, the two run in such opposite social circles that nobody would be surprised if they hadn’t heard of each other before today.

Joey drops his empty can and hops down from his truck. The remaining chatter dies as his feet hit asphalt. He approaches slowly, shoulders back, never taking his eyes off Lee. Usually, this is the time for banter—Joey has a particular taste for ridiculing his prey before beginning the physical assault—but he is silent, intent, as if he can’t even see his audience. He’s not putting on a show, and some—his friends, at least—are disappointed. We shuffle and fidget with no action to respond to. Joey marches toward the center, but Lee hovers a few feet from the edge of the circle. The back of his t-shirt is already drenched in sweat. We expect—we hope—that he will turn at any moment; run.

Lee swallows hard, straightens his back, and faces down his fate, still and quiet.

Joey stops a yard or so away from Lee, perhaps conscious of his adversary’s superior reach. The late afternoon heat has all of us sweating, but up-close Joey’s face is bright red. It’s easy to infer that this has little to do with the sun. His fists are clenched at his sides, poorly concealed fury etched in every feature. Though none of us know Lee well, seeing Joey like this, we are all terrified for him. The weed and alcohol and electric tension in the air only amplify our anxieties about his impending destruction. But through us also runs a powerful undercurrent of eager anticipation. If one of us were to rush in and stop the fight, now would be the time. But no one moves. Nothing does. The agony of the moment is baked in by the sun. We tell ourselves that getting involved would do no good, bound as we are by the unspoken rules of this place. Our sacred grounds for aggression. A fight is between two individuals. Spectators are not to intervene. And we are too afraid to share the consequences of the rage currently burning in Lee’s direction.

It starts fast.

Joey launches himself across the final distance, aiming low, giving Lee only seconds to adjust his position as he topples backward, sending the crowd rippling out of the way. It is a solid hit, but Lee quickly frees himself and manages to roll away and duck around the side of the ring. He doesn’t look afraid anymore. He has the dull, listless look of a sadness that would keep any of us in bed for days. A look of profound, internal ache caused by something much deeper than a scraped elbow. Joey regains his feet and yells as he charges again. The sudden noise causes several of us to jump. We had mirrored the quiet intensity of the combatants until now and are shocked into active involvement. By telegraphing his assault Joey gives Lee time to prepare and he manages, for a few moments, to keep his attacker at arm’s length. Some of us cheer, but those of us who have fought Joey before, hesitate. He may not measure up to many of us in height, but he can bully his way through any defense. Lee is no exception. He tries to shift his grip on Joey’s chest and shoulder, allowing him to break inside, landing several unforgiving punches to the ribs and stomach before Lee can break away and retreat again. Cheers and taunts rise from a different section of the crowd now.

The fight follows this pattern. Lee defends himself in short stints, but his attacks flail and—other than a few weak connections—miss, swing after swing. Joey on the other hand is single minded in his onslaught, doggedly hunting Lee around the ring, landing blows with increasing ferocity.

Teenagers howl and whoop. This is what we came for. If adrenaline has a smell, it is hot asphalt and sweat. And we reek. Even the reluctant among us get into it. Lee lands a ringing blow with his open hand to Joey’s face and neck and we cheer. He may not be winning, but he’s not going down whimpering, as some expected.

Fights on the Blacktop run until someone yields and rarely with the goal of doing any real damage—most don’t last longer than a few minutes, ending with the victor accepting their praises and the loser being helped up and offered consolation beers. This is entertainment, after all. But as the battle before us drags on, and it becomes clear that neither intends to give in, a stunned and exhausted silence falls over the gathered students. Heat and drugs blur action into surreal spectacle. Around the circle many bear the stupefied expression of someone not quite capable of processing what is happening in front of them, brows folding in, jaws slack.

Why doesn’t anyone do anything? We’re all seeing this, right? Surely someone will step in. Nobody moves, apart from the two in the middle, inequitably trading blows. None of us know or understand what is feeding this violence.

No one but them.

Joey rushes in again and Lee grapples him, wrapping his long arms around his attacker in a desperate attempt to restrain him, even for a few seconds. The crowd is silent. The moment is intimate. Are their faces drenched in sweat or are tears mingling, too? Both boys are bruised and bloody, though Lee much more so. Joey struggles against the embrace, but he is clearly losing his venom.

Lee whispers something—or is it just a shaking breath?

Joey’s face crumples in on itself. They sway for a moment longer, and then he drives his heel into Lee’s ankle. The taller boy cries out, and his grip slackens, allowing Joey to break free, launching his knee into Lee’s stomach as he does so.

Lee stumbles back, doubled over. His breath wheezes in heavy gasps, and he raises one arm. A yield?

Joey persists. With no defense mounted against him, he lands blow after blow, raining them down now on Lee’s exposed back and shoulders and neck. Lee tries to get away, backpedaling toward the crowd. Feet away from the ring of stunned observers, Lee wails and collapses. His arm is scraped elbow to wrist. Sweat curls around a blackening eye, mingling with blood that trails from his nose and past his lips to drip from his chin onto his shirt.

Joey stops above him, breathing through his nose, jaw set, fists bleeding and still held ready. Lee again lifts a trembling arm in his direction.

“Please. Joey, please. Stop… stop.”

His voice is soft and cracked, but those close enough can hear it. So can Joey. A clear yield.

It’s over.

The tension across the Blacktop snaps and a sigh floats up as half of us realize we’ve been holding our breaths. We exchange glances and crack sheepish smiles in a cool wave of relief.

Thud.

Lee groans.

Our attention returns to the pair in time to see Joey’s foot pulling back for another kick that finds its mark in the center of Lee’s chest. He yells out, louder this time, the cry propelled by the force of the kick.

Outraged voices fill the air as others notice this breach of protocol.

“What the fuck, man?”

“He tapped out, get off him!”

“He’s had enough!”

Joey turns his burning stare on all of us and lands another savage kick, daring anyone to step in.

Lee curls in on himself, whimpering and gasping as a fourth kick forces the breath from him.

One of Joey’s friends steps up and lays a hand on his shoulder. Without looking Joey shrugs it off and drives an elbow up into his friend’s chin. The friend gags, and falls, and scrambles backward.

Our anger boils off fast, leaving only fear and confusion. Horror and curiosity paralyze some of us as Joey continues to punish Lee for some unknown slight. Chaos erupts as friends abandon friends. Cowardice floods the Blacktop as we retreat into the park and down side streets. Car doors slam and engines grind to life. And still Joey continues.

“Hey!” A shout rings out from the direction of the middle school. Adult. Authoritative.

Lee stops moving, his muscles relax and without a sound he unfurls on the hot asphalt. There is no telling if he has lost consciousness or has given over to the salvation he thinks is coming with that voice. There is more blood on the ground. Impossible to tell where from.

“What the hell is going on?”

Joey looks past us, through us, those of us stupid enough or scared enough to stick around. We turn to look, too.

Down the hill a heavy-set man is huffing toward us from the middle school, a teacher or a parent—it doesn’t matter. He points and yells something else. We run, who-the-fuck-knows where. The breeze whips the heat off us, sunlight flashes through leaves.

Later, those last to flee the Blacktop will recall hearing Joey’s voice. A tapestry of rumors is already being woven about the fight and this thread will be caught up with the rest. Some details will fray and blur, but those of us who heard will agree, at least, on what he said and how he said it:

“Die, faggot.” Softly, as if speaking to himself.

Spencer Storey Johnson is a writer and artist and, by the definition of one HR department, an educator. Born in the Pacific Northwest, raised elsewhere, he now lives in Boston, MA.