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I'll Be Good
by Michael P. Kashgarian To push the boys, the leaders bragged that Dini didn’t take any crap. “Come, Mewa, why you such a baby? You don’t see Dini crying, and he’s only eight and that’s two years younger than you,” said the soldier, who was tall and thin like the others but whose distinguishing feature was his wildly crooked teeth. “I’m trying,” the boy said. “The gun is heavy.” “You not trying hard enough,” the soldier said. “You want your feet beat again tonight?” “No, no, I’m sorry. I’ll try harder,” the boy said, unable to control his frail body from shaking. “Why you sorry? Dini not sorry.” Mewa did not reply. He looked at the soldier, making sure to maintain eye contact and not let his eyes fix on the soldier’s crooked teeth. “What you look at? What you think about my teeth?” Mewa focused on the soldier’s left eye, despite the boy’s desire to look at the crooked teeth that summoned. When Mewa didn’t reply, the soldier took the boy’s rifle from him. “Why you look scared?” the soldier asked. “You smile for me.” The boy forced a smile, and just as quickly the soldier jerked the rifle back, then smashed the butt into the boy’s mouth. The boy immediately began crying as blood gushed from his mouth and dripped onto the dusty, dry dirt. “Spit,” the soldier ordered. Mewa spit on the ground, and a little white pearl of a tooth stood out among the splatters of purple. “That’s better,” the soldier said, smiling. The soldier held out the rifle for the boy to take, and looked down the row of little bodies practicing holding the rifles, shoving them forward and yelling, “Tell me or I shoot and kill you now.” “Dini,” the soldier shouted. The smallest of the boys, holding a rifle almost as long as he was tall, turned, then ran over to the soldier. Dini stood before the soldier, looking firmly into his eyes. Dini did not have the urge to look at the crooked teeth. “Dini, show Mewa how you talk to a captured one.” Dini took a step back, and heaved the rifle up like an Olympian weight-lifter. He pointed the gun at Mewa and moved forward a step or two, thrusting the barrel to tell the enemy that he was ready to shoot. “Where are your weapons?” Dini yelled. “Where? Where? ... What you mean you have no weapons? Why you lie?” Mewa didn’t say anything as he thought he was just to observe Dini, not play the part of a captured one. Dini pulled the trigger, and the gun clicked, and Mewa shook even more. “Why do I not get any bullets?” Dini demanded to the soldier. “Because you don’t need the practice,” the soldier answered, pushing Dini to go back to where he was. The soldier turned to Mewa, and Mewa hoisted the rifle to his shoulder, pretending he was Dini. “Where are your weapons?” he yelled, his voice a little distorted as a result of the missing tooth. The soldier stepped over to observe the next boy. Meanwhile, Dini’s voice could be heard above all the others, demanding the submission of his enemy. Dini’s expertise was fueled by the fact that all the other boys had bullets, and he, regularly commended for his spirit, had none. The sun was setting, signaling an end to exercises. Dini and Mewa walked home together, as they lived next door to each other. “You will have to eat dirt tomorrow,” Dini told Mewa as they were about to separate in front of their homes. “You eat dirt,” Mewa replied in an attempt to be tough. “My gun is clean. Son’s gun was dirty, and he had to eat five hands of dirt. Your gun is dirty, Mewa.” Mewa began shaking, bowed his head slightly and rubbed his tongue in the hole made vacant by his missing tooth. Dini put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Mewa, don’t worry. Trade me guns, and I will clean yours tonight.” Before Mewa had time to consider the offer, Dini took Mewa’s gun and handed him the other. Dini nodded at Mewa and said, “There is little light left. I will go clean your gun now.” The two boys departed, and Dini went inside his home and cleaned the gun just as he said he would. Afterwards, Dini ate a bowl of thick-skinned red beans and stale bread, and fell asleep on the floor next to his dirty bowl and clean gun. The darkness always made Dini sleepy and the flickering light from the fire didn’t make a difference. In the same way, Dini’s failure to wash his bowl after dinner always made his mother angry. His respect from the tribesmen didn’t make a difference. “Dini, wake up,” his mother said, shaking his upper arm as he slept curled in a ball on his side. “You must wash your bowl.” Dini gazed absently at his mother and didn’t reply. As he became aware that his mother once again was asking him to wash his bowl, he made an effort not to look at the bowl. Instead, he closed his eyes and put his head back on the floor. “Dini, wake up and clean your bowl.” “The bugs will clean my bowl,” he said, opening and closing his eyes to wave his mother away. “Dini,” his mother yelled, “you must wash your bowl or I will get word to Santa Claus of your behavior.” Dini opened his eyes but did not get up. “You do not know Santa Claus,” he said. “The tribesmen know Santa Claus, and I will tell them and they will tell Santa Claus.” “They will not listen to you, mother. You are a woman.” “The one with the crooked teeth will listen. He wants to marry your sister.” “No, no, I’m sorry,” Dini said. “I’ll be good. I’ll clean my bowl. Please do not tell Santa Claus.” Dini sat up and grabbed the bowl. His mother walked away. But Dini lay back down and fell asleep. The next morning, Dini woke up and the first thing he thought about was the dirty bowl and Santa Claus. He got up quickly to wash the bowl, but the bowl had disappeared. He started to shake, but he calmed himself with anger and picked up Mewa’s rifle. As he walked outside, Dini greeted Mewa as he did every morning. “Can we trade guns?” Mewa asked anxiously. “We better wait until after inspection,” Dini said, “It was dark last night, and I might not have done a good job. The gun you have was cleaned during much light.” Mewa didn’t say anything. As the boys stood in a row, the soldier with the crooked teeth began inspecting their guns from one end while another soldier started from the other. The soldier with the crooked teeth smiled when he came to Dini. He had not smiled at any of the others. Instead of handing the soldier his gun, Dini stepped back, pulled the gun to his shoulder and pointed the firearm at the soldier. “What did you tell Santa? Tell me,” Dini yelled, squinting his left eye. “Now, now, now.” The soldier did not answer. Mewa, a few boys down in the row, dropped his gun and ran away. Dini pulled the trigger. |
Michael P. Kashgarian is a former newspaper journalist wearing down a path as a fiction writer. His fiction has been published in one literary journal, and in 2012 he published an e-novel titled John Doe Versus Death.
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