The Trigger Effect: Chapter 1

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER ONE

Armen looked up from the huddle. Coach Grabowski was working with the first-string defensive backs and linebackers, exhorting them with his usual drill instructor demeanor. While he rarely cussed, he could make the most innocent words blaze whenever his players let him down. Brewster was calling the next play they would run. It was a sweep to the right and a cocky smile slanted across Armen’s lips. This was their money play—at least it used to be before Kellen Winslow got kicked off the team last week. Winslow claimed he quit, but that was only because he was about to be removed after his third suspension in just four weeks of school.

Kellen had been their fullback. He and Armen once had a great on-field relationship. The former fullback was built like a fireplug and had a punishing speed that made for the perfect lead blocker and short gainer. In fact, he had most of the team’s touchdowns, but Armen often rushed for three hundred or more yards per game when running behind him.

The big fullback had run with rage whether or not he was carrying the ball. He was a very angry young man that enjoyed bruising the other team into submission. It was that constant fury that put the two complementary players at odds off the field as people. The boy was bad news and lived in the wrong part of the neighborhood. Even his DNA had been against him. His dad, uncle and older brother were all serving hard time in state prison, and Kellen had already served a few stints at the county reformatory school. It used to be that he cleaned up his act come football season, but now not even the fall held sway over his criminal instincts. The sad part was that Kellen was probably the smartest athlete in the school, but all that raw intelligence didn’t protect him from the thug life.

The Winslow name was already infamous at Sally Ride Middle School even before it had been renamed after the astronaut over the summer. Kellen did his family proud when he established the rare accolade of being the only kid in school history that failed to make the honor roll not because his grades were poor, but because he was suspended for more than ten days per quarter and ended up force failed by school policy. In seventh grade he had been disqualified from the debate team after he punched one of his own teammates in the face for being too stupid to sit next to him at the table.

Then there was the time Kellen had taught their fifth grade teacher algebra at the board when old Mrs. White had scolded him for not showing his work on their homework. She had accused him of just guessing at the right answer and demanded that he go to the blackboard and work the problem out just like the book showed. With smugness, he explained that the textbook was dumber than her and showed the way he could eliminate four of the steps with one simple equation, which even an idiot like her should be able to work in their head. That had been good for a two-day vacation, compliments of the office. Most of the kids in the room had laughed when Mrs. White fled the classroom sobbing, but Armen didn’t. He grabbed the tissue box from the teacher’s desk and followed after her. He saw her dash around to an alcove and he approached her holding the box out offering her a tissue for the tears she was trying to hide with a swipe of her forearm.

What drove him crazy is that after Mrs. White thanked him for bringing the Kleenex, she actually started blaming herself and making excuses for Kellen! All he saw in Kellen was wasted talent. Armen didn’t really like the kid, even before all the trouble started this year, otherwise, he might have actually shed a few tears over Kellen’s story. He had a rough life too, but that didn't give him permission to be a jerk and mess up the school and tear up the neighborhood.

Brewster looked over at him as he finished delivering the call and cadence in the huddle. He slapped down on Armen’s right shoulder pad.

“Get your head in the game, Soda.”

“My head is just fine.”

A couple of the offensive lineman seemed about to make his response into a snappy little joke that involved his nickname until Armen fixed them with a level gaze. Armen looked across the huddle at the new fullback, a pudgy little seventh grader with wide doe eyes that made him look like an escaped zoo baby lost in the city.

Brewster saw his glance and read his mind.

“You miss Kellen—told you so, bro.”

“Not enough to want him back on the team.”

Brewster frowned.

“Yeah, well you’re not the one that has to face a blitz with pudgy there as your only protection in the backfield. I know you liked running behind him, Soda even if he scored more times than you.”

The new fullback was too busy being afraid of the second string defense they were scrimmaging to be offended by the quarterback’s insult. His eyes seemed to get even bigger and Brewster and Armen followed his darting eyes to where the defense was lined up on the line in a formation that looked more like a sketch of an amoeba in their biology notebook than the fearsome 5-2 that Porter Middle School would be throwing at them next week. Brewster and Armen looked over the huddle to follow the fat little fullback’s frightened gaze. There they saw the front three interior defensive lineman of the second string they were scrimmaging. The nose guard had his kneepads over his thighs and his thigh pads over his knees. His mouthpiece actually appeared to be in upside down. The lineman to the right of him was alternately picking his nose and scratching his crotch, when he wasn’t admiring the latest nose nugget he had mined. The other lineman was no longer in position as he was chasing a field mouse or a chipmunk to the sideline trying to feed it a handful of clover and dandelion. It was going to be a long season if any other starter left the team.

They were just about to break their huddle when what looked like a gorilla on a street bike flew past them. Then ape-like figure darted across the field on a silver bike with blazing speed. Armen followed the figure as he headed toward the woods, his large body pummeling the too small bike he was squatted on. He turned back to Brewster and the huddle hoping that at least the offensive line would block correctly so he wouldn’t be embarrassed by the paper curtain defense. He didn’t want to look sillier than a monkey riding a bike.

Suddenly he heard the coach blowing his whistle sharply while also yelling through it. The pea in the whistle rattled violently making it difficult to translate the exact curse the coach was trying to express just before the red-faced man spat the whistle out and trotted off the field and faced the trail that connected the practice field to the school through the small but thick wooded area. Coach G. was soon bellowing at the top of his lungs. Armen walked away from the huddle were Brewster was calmly explaining to the new fullback how he was to execute the next play. At first he thought the coach’s ire was being launched once again at the benchwarmers that couldn’t even play on the laughable second-string squad. Those clowns tended to goof off more than practice and learn, but looking to his left he saw that for once they were all taking a knee and paying attention to one of the assistant coaches as he explained the sled drill they were about to run.

“What’s up, Soda?” Brewster called after him when he realized the tailback he would pitch the ball to on the right sweep, was no longer in the huddle.

“Coach is after somebody, but I can’t see who it is.”

“It probably that fool Jenkins again. Let it go. That lame’s got it comin’. Man, we warned him in the locker room to quit clownin’ during practice.”

“It isn’t Jeren—coach is real pissed, and he sounds a little bit scared.”

“Coach scared? Nah.” Now the whole huddle reconvened around Armen down on slope away from the field.

“Hey, I think that kid on the bike was Kellen. He’s supposed to be suspended. Dude is crazy, when old man Harris finds out he was on grounds he won’t be just suspended—he’ll be gone. My auntie says he’s headed to Serenity House the next time he messes up, too,” Bobbie Tyler offered.

Armen was about to comment on the fact that Kellen probably had a season pass for the county reformatory school when coach Smith trotted over to them.

“Brewster, Hammer! What are you guys doing over there? You are supposed to be running the eagle series not standing around like a bunch of Kansas City f. . .”

Armen and Scott didn’t turn to look at the assistant coach. Their eyes remained fixed on the heated exchange going on down on the path.

“Relax, Coach Smith! It’s G. I think he might need your help down on the hill. Kellen Win. . .”

“I’m on my way. You guys get back up here. Run some sled drills with the seventh graders. Who’s got a cell phone in their bag?”

The players stood around sheepishly looking at each other.

“It wasn’t a trick question. No one will run sprints.”

Four of the boys peeled out of the huddle and ran towards the sideline where book bags and street clothes were stacked on the benches to get the cell phones they were never supposed to have on school property.

Brewster looked over at the assistant coach with wary eyes.

“Man, you’re not going to call 5-0?”

Coach Smith smiled at his quarterback patiently.

“No, not yet. But I want Kellen to think I’m calling the cops.”

Armen took two more steps toward the coach and the kid on the bike. The coach fell to the ground in sudden lump. Armen looked at Coach Smith with a face that had turned to gray ash as he flipped his helmet off and to the ground.

“Forget the trick, call 911 now! Grabowski is on the ground and it looks like he’s been shot.” Armen took off for the coach faster than he had ever run the ball. The figure on the bike was speeding around the building and out toward the street. The coach was on the ground and he wasn’t moving.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 2



The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER TWO
 

Kit-Kat rode his silver Mongoose across the grass, tearing up the sod in huge chunks. He hit the pavement and did a few helio-axles with the front wheel and jumped the curve. The upper school parking lot was virtually empty with the exception of the custodian’s old Dodge Dart. Coach Grabowski’s SUV was probably around back on the field. If it had been here, he would have carved some vocabulary words into the fender with the box knife in the pocket of his FUBU jacket.

Kit-Kat paused and heard his grandma admonishing him in his thoughts. “Kellen, you’re the only child in this family with half a lick of sense, so don’t be wasting it with mischief. You just listen to me young man and keep studying your arithmetic like I taught you and one day you will grow into a fine young king this family can be proud of.”

“Yadda-yadda-rickety-rack, go peddle your “I have a dream” speech at church, grams. I’m out!” The fantasy voice in his head answered for him just before successfully ducking the spatula or ladle that would have been chucked at him from the kitchen stove that served as both lectern and appliance for his grandmother. Then he would have dashed out the side door of her Section Eight townhouse, jumped on his bike, and escaped before the real wrath came.

In reality, Kellen Kinslow, would have been afraid to even think those words for fear his grandmother’s radar would have sniffed his thoughts out and made target lock on his head for at least three kitchen missiles before he could even plan to duck. There was nothing like a spatula to the forehead to increase wisdom. Truth be told, he also thought his grandma was pretty cool and even though he didn’t always follow her advice, he had to respect her, because she really didn’t nag him like his silly mother, and besides she could whip his butt at Playstation, hence her deadly aim. Grandma would let him make his own mistakes, but try to help him learn from them. He was probably about to make another one, but the voice in his head, Kit-Kat, was gaining more control every day, and today, Kit-Kat wanted to do some damage.

He looked around the corner and saw Mrs. Long’s raggedy minivan and smiled. He was just about to scratch a few prime numbers into the hatch when he realized she wouldn’t even get the joke—probably wouldn’t even realize the figures were prime, much less be able to decipher the code of his name; his new name.

Kit-Kat stopped and put the box knife back in his coat pocket. He looked in the windows of the school. He loved and hated this place. He wasn’t supposed to be here right now and that gave his body a little thrill. Ms. Kurtz, his biology teacher had once said it was something called adrenal release and that it was caused by something called fight/flight response. Ms. Kurtz was the only teacher in the place he really liked, even if she did give him a C last quarter. Not that the grade mattered because the principal, old man Harris, has changed all his grades to an F after he got suspended the fourth time in the quarter. Grades didn’t matter to him, but he liked learning things, especially if it made him smarter than the rest of the people he knew on the streets. Kit-Kat smiled at the thought of that science lecture. He liked to fly on his Mongoose and he loved to fight, so what part of the animal kingdom did that make him? Kit-Kat scratched the sign for Pi in her tailgate. He liked the frosty feel in his nerves. He felt crisp and alive. He was a beast.

He spun the tires one more time and did a few more tricks on the bike in the parking lot then made a straight bead up the hill in the front of the red-bricked building that was covered with browning ivy. As he rode past the shiny new Sally Ride Middle School sign he did a donut in the mud that splashed dirt and gravel all over the sign. Those stupid white people on the school board thought it would make the kids that went to this school enjoy classes better if they renamed the building after some astronaut. What a joke. The roof still leaked, the books were either dusty or musty, and the teachers were all either whacked or washed up has-beens. Changing the name didn’t fix anything. Besides, Kit-Kat hated this school, and nobody was going to change that. This school was good for one thing—making money.

That fat slob Mr. Grabowski had gotten him suspended and that hurt his business. Now he had to ride his bike around the neighborhood to hook up with his regular customers. Thinking of Grabowski made him sick. He cleared phlegm from his throat, sloshed it around in is mouth forming a snot bullet, and then launched it at the silver letters that spelled school. The honker dripped all over the two letter O’s. Kit-Kat whistled at his artistry and rode further on just in case the janitor looked out the window.

Kit-Kat heard the sounds of football practice going on behind the building on the open field. The open field was actually part of the Greenspring Township Park, and not technically school grounds, so his suspension didn’t really apply. He was a practiced street lawyer knowing exactly what school officials and cops could and could not do to him—it came with the turf of being a corporal in the local chapter of the G’D’s.

While each member of the gang liked to let people think they were a recognized set of the Gangsta Disciples, G.D. really stood for Greenspring Dale, the name of their subdivision. Just because they lived in the suburbs, didn’t make them wannabes—several of the founding members were serving real hard time up state. Kit-Kat’s brother Mikail was in for aggravated assault. For that matter so was his so-called father and his uncle, of course who his real dad was is still a matter of debate in his family. The truth was, either man could have been his father, or for that matter maybe neither one of them was. Kellen didn’t care. He didn’t need no daddy.

If those two lames were his dad, at least the DNA was selective. At least he didn’t inherit their brains. He didn’t mind their brawn, even if back in elementary a few kids called him gorilla, because people learned to respect muscles and the pain they could inflict. Matched with his brains, he was a force to be reckoned with even when a small child. When he decided he didn’t like the gorilla metaphor anymore he mashed one little kid so hard into the playground fence that it left a waffle bruise on the kid’s face for two weeks. He knew even as the kid begged to be let go that he wanted to make a dramatic example—and it was a sound street strategy. No one ever messed with him again.

His relatives had been caught because they were stupid. Kit-Kat could have even offered them a better plan that would have allowed them to not only score a bigger grab of cash, but would have prevented their mistakes. Instead he remained coolly silent, letting them set their own trap. That was how Kit-Kat moved up. Soon he would be one of the youngest leaders in the set, and he was ready. One day, he would even get the teardrop tattoo that meant he had made a kill for his set. As soon as the leaders agreed, Kit-Kat would be allowed to carry heat. Every night since being promoted, he dreamt of killing Grawbowski with his new burner right during silent reading time—which was when Kit-Kat was always getting in trouble. In fact, it was telling Grabowski off that had gotten him the six-day vacation.

At first it had been fun, until Kit-Kat realized how much harder it would be to sell drugs around the neighborhood rather than at school. The new Mongoose made it easier to swing through the streets and avoid the blue boyz, but now it was getting to be a real drag. It now took three times as long to make the same amount of money he could make right around his locker between bells. That was the whole reason for his being here now—half of his best customers were on Grabowski’s team and he just wanted to let them know the store would be open after practice.

Kit-Kat’s face filled with a sly grin and pedaled hard toward the field. Grabowski would have a stroke when Kit-Kat let the Mongoose tear up his precious football field. It would sting even harder when he realized it was his former star football slicing up the turf. He ignored the whistling and shouting and rode right through the makeshift end zone tearing up the newly painted NASA logo with the Sally Ride Middle School Rockets design replacing the old, huge and menacing green serpent mascot. He hated the new team name, and missed the old days when they had been the Greenspring Serpents. He had even burned a version of the old logo on his left pectoral with a heated coat hanger, then the stupid school board switched things. That was before he began running with the GD’s. He had already decided that the scar tattoo he had would be a part of the beat-in once he ran things, in what he believed would be a few months—not years.

He looked over his shoulder before dashing down the dirt path in the wood toward the stream. Grabowski was waddling his fat butt after him screaming his name. His shiny bald head went from it’s usual rosy pink to flaring red. Grabowski stopped at the twenty-yard line heaving and clutching his chest. He hoped that dude dropped dead right on the field, but didn’t stick around to watch; just in case somebody whipped out a cell phone and dialed 911.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 3

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER THREE

Frank Grabowski felt every beer, pile of hot chicken wings, and slice of pizza he had consumed over the past four years call his name as he stepped on the twenty-yard line. He clutched his chest and felt a shudder shoot down his left arm. He was in so much pain he could no longer shout the boy’s name. He tried blowing his whistle, but could only wheeze through it. With relief he saw the kid was headed downhill, so maybe he could catch his breath on the way down.

That punk, Kellen Kinslow, had just desecrated his field. If he lived after his chest quit beating like a rap song, he would make sure the kid paid for the act. He was supposed to be suspended, which meant off school property. He grinned realizing this might just be enough to be done with good old “Kit-Kat.” He was the only faculty member at Sally Ride who refused to use the idiotic moniker. Every time Kellen turned in a paper with it written as his name at the top, Frank circled it in red and took off ten points. Frank felt his head swim as he tried to catch his breath. Running to confirm the identity of the vandal was worth the pain of thick blood pounding in his veins. This little act of civil disobedience should be enough to keep Kellen out of his classroom for the rest of the year.

He actually liked the kid, but the disruptions he routinely caused in his classroom stopped him from teaching, and he was one of the few on the faculty that actually still cared if the kids walked out of the building each day knowing a little bit more than they did when they came in each morning. The problem with Kellen was his random mood swings. Ever since his brother, who had been one of Frank’s best linebackers a few years back, fell in with the wrong crowd and ended up in jail, Kellen had been spiraling out of control in a life of violence and crime. Frank believed Kellen was a smart kid, and he didn’t understand why Kellen didn’t learn from Mikail’s mistake. You would think that after you saw your brother end up in prison, that you would not want to follow him there. Kellen’s older brother Mikail could have had a full ride to a division one school until last year when he got busted for theft and assault ruining his senior varsity season up at the high school. Now Kellen seemed bound and determined to follow in his footsteps. It started with quitting the team just two weeks into the season last month. Along with that surprise came this new version of Kellen who would go from being his old cheerful self with a wondrous curiosity, to a scornful thug at the drop of a hat. The big homemade tattoo carved into Kit-Kat’s forearm had not eluded him either:

<>G<>D<>

Frank wasn’t stupid. He knew what that tattoo meant—Kellen was now a serious gang-banger. Even though the local police department had recently presented at their last staff development meeting that their school was safe from criminal activity from what the detective called “suburban club associations” Frank knew the streets were getting rougher, not kinder. While most people just assumed that there was no ghetto in their district, Frank saw what the pockets of poverty had done to some of his most talented kids. It wasn’t just football. One of the best writers he had ever taught died of a heroine overdose two years ago. Things were getting worse.

Frank saw small speckles in his vision and he felt some bile rise in his throat. Maybe this was worse than being winded, he thought with some panic. Could he be having a real live heart attack? He tried to remember what all the telltale symptoms were and was doing a mental checklist when his concentration fluttered and his vision dimmed.

Just as he was falling, in his mind he suddenly heard the voice of his training buddy at the YMCA he swam at, who was a well-respected physician in town, warning him all over again. It didn’t matter how much he swam or lifted, he had to change his diet and lifestyle or he would be dead before he saw fifty. This was especially true now that most people realized that the teaching field was perhaps one of the most stressful career areas—even with two months off in the summer, which was more like three weeks when you counted continuing education and summer practices.

Just as he was realizing he had just experienced at least five of those symptoms of a cardiac arrest his vision went completely gray and he slipped to the dirt path feeling as if someone had just taken a sledgehammer to his chest. The last thing he remembered is one of his players asking if anyone knew CPR, and then his he heard nothing else but his heartbeat racing and then stopping abruptly.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 4

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER FOUR

Natalie Winslow heard the sirens. She had a batter to stir, so she couldn’t pull away from the stove to peek out the window. It sounded like a number of squad cars were racing form all over the city into Greenspring Dale. To her wise ears it sounded like trouble, and not the kind with a capital “T” in River City. The wail of the emergency vehicles sounded angry. Suddenly she heard her grandson, Kellen, skid his bike to a stop on the sidewalk and throw his brand new bike up on the porch with a crash. There were a few scuttling noises, followed by the rusty yawn of her screen door being yanked open and then followed quickly behind by the sound of her youngest, and favorite, grandchild slamming that inner door. Her brow furrowed when she heard his loud footsteps as he bolted up the stairs to the guest bedroom that was really his room. He slept here more often than he did at his mother’s place across the courtyard in the same housing project. When it came right down to it, Kellen was like a son to her, and she felt the tears of fear leak out of her old eyes hoping that those weren’t police sirens and that they weren’t connected to her grandchild’s sudden haste.

Natalie started to put down the mixing bowl to follow him upstairs to interrogate him, but she knew that would only increase the fear and loathing that currently seemed to dominate Kellen’s mood. Instead, she reached for the Nestle Tollhouse chips and folded them into the batter. Even if Kellen wanted to hide from his troubles in his room—the warm, sweet scent of her secret recipe would draw him down the stairs. Natalie understood kitchen therapy and comfort food more than any practicing psychologist could hope to grasp.

She smiled as she spooned dollops of dough on the cookie sheet considering her words and where she would pause when Kellen was ready to talk. It was a sad smile. She began to hum “Blessed Savior” very slowly as she pre-heated the oven. Her prayerful reflection was broken by the sound of yet another screaming siren. This time she did look out the window and saw that an ambulance had just turned the corner where her townhouse was and it sliced down the street and made a hard left bank through the intersection running a car onto the sidewalk just before the swaying van jumped to the next intersection, slowing only after swerving into the middle school parking lot. Natalie stopped humming and began singing loudly in the tabernacle of her kitchen.

Upstairs, Kellen was moving about the room in a frenzy. The voice of Kit-Kat was nowhere to be found. Where was his calm and cool advice? Kellen was just a little scared kid that had been misled by a fantasy voice in his head that when the chips were down was more cowardice than bravado. That was when he heard the laugh echo in his head. It was diabolical in its cruelty.

“Chill lil’ bro. I gotcha covered. You need to snap out of this scared little momma’s boy thing. Now, just make sure your room here is good and legal then head over to your mom’s place, cool as the cat you are, ditch the box knife and the bike in the sewer, then clean your room at your mom’s place to—no sweat.”

Kellen nodded to himself and went about double-checking the room. He rarely left anything at his grandmother’s house. Mostly out of fear of her wrath, but also because this was his safe place. He was about to speed downstairs and grab his bike when he smelled the sweet fragrance of Grandma’s Tollhouse cookies baking and decided he could stick around here for a while. Besides, he wasn’t in any hurry to be back on the streets. He definitely didn’t want to go back to his mom’s run down slum.

Kellen moved to bathroom quietly and splashed some water on his face. He looked in the mirror and decided that would not get it. He stripped down, brushed his teeth and took a hot shower. When he stepped back out of the bathroom, the first few batches of cookies were already done. The small townhouse was filled with the delightful aroma. He glided down the steps and into the kitchen, kissing his grandmother on the corner of the mouth as he reached for a hot cookie cooling on the racks on the counter. She playfully swatted his hand, but let him take two gooey ones just the same. Kellen felt her curious stare and had learned long ago it was better not to let grandma’s intuition to get into interrogation mode.

He took a big bite of cookie and beamed his appreciation at her. Chewing and swallowing carefully he then spoke before eating the second cookie, “What’s up with all the cops and stuff outside?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Beats me, but dude driving the EMT car about killed me when he flew around the corner. I put a dent in my new bike, and scratched my elbows and knees up pretty bad—had to get a shower just to get all the gravel out.”

“Oh, let me see that child, are you still bleeding?”

“It’s better now. . .”

Natalie grabbed her grandson’s arm gently and put her spectacles on to look at the fresh strawberry on his elbow. She pulled into the downstairs bathroom despite his complaints and opened the medicine cabinet. She searched for her tweezers and the Bactine. Kellen winced at her.

“Now child, it might hurt now, but if you let it get infected it will hurt much more later. There is still a bit a grit in this, I thought I taught you to take a better shower than that. . .”

“Ah granny, let me be.”

“Now you mind me.” She smiled at her charge, “Let an old woman dote on her favorite grandchild. There’s a sack of cookies in it for you.”

“Okay, just don’t kiss it after you use the Bactine. I’m not three any more.”

“Well, aren’t we the grown up young man. Maybe it’s time we move up to straight alcohol and iodine.”

The sound of “grown-up” first aid stung. “Oh alright, you can kiss it. Just don’t tell anybody.”

“Your secret is safe with me, child. Now tell me more about how you fell off your bike. My friend’s son works in the dispatcher’s office, did you get the car number off the back?”

“Don’t worry about it grams. I’m cool. Besides, it was my fault. I should have got up on the walk as soon as I heard them.”

“Well I guess you at least learned from you fall. Keep doing that and you’ll grow up to be a fine young man.”

Guilt burned in Kellen heart far more than the Bactine stung.

Suddenly there was a loud knock at the front door.

“Now who could that be?”

Another knock followed and it made the frame shake slightly.

Kellen followed behind his grandmother as she went to the door. There were two uniformed police officers on the front porch. The bigger one was about to pound on the door again when Natalie opened the door and chastised him for his rudeness. Kellen smiled and looked down. His grandmother was very talented in lectures about manners and he could see that it worked even on big old, mean looking cops. He backed off the stoop and let his partner take over, but grandma let him have another earful and didn’t lift her fierce eyes off the man, until the partner took over.

“Mam, my partner don’t know his own strength. We apologize for bothering you, but we just wanted to check and see if you saw any kids in the neighborhood up to mischief this afternoon?”

“The only mischief, young man, is the way those emergency vehicles tore through this neighborhood. They nearly killed my grandson. I can appreciate that there are emergencies, but it wouldn’t be very productive for you people to kill and maim on your way to those emergencies, now would it?”

Both cops peered into the townhouse and saw Kellen’s scrapes, the Bactine, tweezers, and used cotton balls. The big one was about to peer closer at Kellen’s face, but decided he had seen enough. Kellen saw his cop eyes record something in the exchange, but then he turned and stepped down to the walk. Kellen wondered if his little wipe-out in the school parking lot when he sped from the scene had left any traces. The cops eyes showed that he was suspicious about something, but he was not about to invite badgering from the woman again. Both police officers thanked Natalie and politely excused themselves. His grandmother turned from the porch and shut the door, bolting it. Kellen decided he would just stay here for the evening since the cops appeared to be canvassing the entire neighborhood.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 5

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER FIVE

The next day Brewster, Arman, and a few other members of the football team gathered around Coach Smith in the hospital hallway just outside Coach G’s room.

“Look, guys. Coach G. didn’t have a full on heart attack, but his blackout was enough to make the doctors very cautious. They didn’t want him to have any visitors for a while, but when he became upset when they said you guys couldn’t stop by, they decided it would be even worse for him to get angry. That means I am trusting you to be on your best behavior,” with that the assistant coach dropped his gaze directly at Jenkins.

“What?”

“Don’t be a knucklehead,” Arman translated for Jeren.

“Geez, give a brother some credit, I’m not a fool all the time. I love G as much as the rest of your guys. Besides, Soda, the only person that gets G as riled up as Kellen is you.”

Arman started to reach for Jenkin’s throat with one clawed hand, before Brewster caught his wrist and smiled at his friend.

“I’m the only one that gets to call ‘em Soda.”

“Why, cause your name is even dumber than his? You both had crack head momma’s and it ain’t my fault that you got funny na. . .”

“Can it! That is the exact type of garbage I am talking about.”

Jenkins flinched at Coach Smith’s bark. Even though Smith was usually calm and gentle at practices and games, the Marine he used to be was still lurked just beneath that surface. “Shoot if we don’t act like ourselves then coach is really going to get stressed. He’ll think his team got snatched by aliens or something if we all go in their acting like we is white or something. Besides, it isn’t my fault that Sir William Brewster has to get on his white horse to protect Lady Baking Soda.”

This time it was Brewster that went for Jenkins before a big offensive tackle stepped between them.

“Man, why does it always got to be about color with you dudes?” Brian Murphy, the only white starter on the team asked. The smile and joke was enough to cut the tension. That and the fact that this gentle giant on their team was bigger than most seniors even though he was only in eighth grade.

“You lucky, Shrek is here to protect, you Sir.”

“That’s my job,” Murphy smiled in a way that reminded Jenkins that the jester’s place was usually on the bench.

“Black, white or purple, just don’t upset the coach,” Smith declared as he opened the door after swatting Jenkins upside the head with only a half-speed swipe that was more playful than corrective. Smith paused for a second fixing Jenkins with smiling, fatherly eyes. Jenkins looked at the ground and then looked back up and nodded without speaking the promise aloud.

The boys didn’t know what to expect, but they all had their own mental versions of the coach being hooked up to a bunch of beeping machines and hoses. What they didn’t expect is to see him on the floor of the hospital room doing sit-ups.

“Hey fellas,” he grunted as he finished his last set. He stood quickly and wiped the sweat from his shoulders and arms with a towel that had the hospital crest on it before shaking each of their hands. “Thanks for dropping by.”

Arman held his hand firmly even though the coach was clearly done with the greeting.

“Uhhm, coach, shouldn’t you be like resting or something?” Arman asked, still holding his coach’s hand.

“Gee Hammer, does this mean were going steady?” The coach smiled down at his favorite player’s clutching handshake.

“What? Nah, man, I. . .” Arman had expected to see his coach barely alive, not healthier than he had ever looked in his life.

“What Soda is trying to say coach is how come you aren’t in intensive care or something? You did just have a heart attack, right?” Brewster asked.

“Palpitations. My heartbeat is a bit irregular and they want to observe me a few days. Nothing to worry about fellas—really.”

“So you didn’t like almost die when Kellen. . .”

“Let’s not say his name around me again, please.” The coach said this evenly, but his face had become flush and it wasn’t from the exercise he was just doing. Coach Smith cleared his throat to remind the boys not to upset their head coach. Ted Grabowski smiled over at his best friend and co-coach. “I’m glad you guys are all here together. We need to discuss some changes to the team.”

A few of the players groaned wondering if the fact that their head coach doing calisthenics just 48 hours after what looked like a massive coronary meant that they were all in for extra conditioning. While it would be taboo to admit it, they all had looked forward to the kinder gentler Smith taking over the reigns for the rest of the season.

As if reading their minds Grabowski intoned very seriously, “Coach Smith is now the head coach. I’ll still be around, but the only way the docs would let me back onto a football field is if I promised to step down as the head coach—that goes for basketball this winter too.”

“But, who will. . .”

“I will still be there for practices and I should even make the Porter game, as long as you guys help me keep my day-to-day stress down and Coach Smith does all the talking to the
zebras. I also have to get off the Fatkins diet.”

“My mom’s said it works and that doctors don’t know sh. . .”

“Not Atkins, Kline, Fatkins. The days of living off pizza, beer and wings, are over for me—and don’t let it start for you guys. Trust me, there is nothing that gets your attention quicker than a heart that debates about whether or not it is going to pump enough blood to let you take your next breath. I might have even found religion two days ago. That reminds me of another thing. As you guys know, I have a slight anger problem and. . .”

“Not you coach, why you are the kindest, gentlest man I have ever met,” Jenkins intoned doing his best impression of Al Jolsen even though he didn’t know who the man was.

Grabowski growled at his resident clown.

“I thought you said you were supposed to control your anger?” Brewster said as he reached out and put a calming hand on his coach’s chest.

The coach stared down at the quarterback’s hand, “You want me to meet you down on the third floor and sign your cast, Brewster.”

Brewster looked at his hand as if it had sprouted eyeballs. There were terrible legends about what happened to the last kid that had touched Coach G. back in the old days when teachers could hit kids. It was a good thing it was his throwing hand. The look on the coach’s face clearly seemed to calculate that he could still make hand-offs and passes with a snapped left wrist. The coach grinned down, but it was a shark grin. “Brewster, you might want to move your hand now. I am sure maiming you would undo all of the wooing of your mom I have done these last two days while in her hospital.”

The other players all made loud hooting noises and Brewster’s dark skin went purple with embarrassment. His mother was a nurse at the hospital and it was she that had provided the major pull for this reunion. He hoped that the coach was just joking. He knew his mom was cute, and that coach would be far better than some of the dudes she went out with, but the idea of having his mom actually getting romantically involved with him was unthinkable. It would be weird. The fact that there would be whispers of jungle fever would not help that either. Coach G was one of the whitest men Brewster had ever met, and his mother was a Nubian beauty. His troubled glare at his friends did little to help the problem. Soon they were leering and jeering and making catcall whistles as his mother came striding into the room in her crisp white uniform. Her hips swayed and Brewster looked down at his shoes. Coach winked at him, and then smiled up at Brianna Brewster. She started to lecture the football players and coaches, tapping her clipboard for effect, but Coach G shot her a thousand watt grin and the woman smiled demurely back at him. Brewster wanted to find a bedpan to hide under.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 6

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER SIX

Brianna brushed back her giddiness at Frank's smile. She had known him as the teacher and coach of her son as a booster and PTA president, but over the last few days she had come to admire him greatly and was even feeling a bit of a school girl crush for the man. He was not the rough and gruff man that most people first thougt he was when they met him. Underneath that jock exterior was a heart of a poet. In fact, he had reminded her of one of her old boyfriends in college. Those were happy days; days that happened before she had met Sir's father.

The hurt of those memories swelled up in her and her eyes crinkled in attempt to block tears before they leaked from the corner of her eyes. All she wanted was rest and maybe some brief happiness. It seemed so unfair that any warm thought was instantly swallowed by the bile of the past. She had met Sir's father when she was senior in college. They had been married in a fever that was quick and fast, but also toxic, like any fever that accompanies a sickness. She had kept most of the truth from Brewster, but knew one day she would have to answer his questions. He had so many. Of course, not even knowing your father could do that to a young man. Sir's father had walked out of their life before Sir had even been born, and he had died in the streets before Sir had even been able to be baptized.

Brianna sighed and thought with sadness, "live by the sword, die by the sword," only the swords of today were lead and gunpowder that allowed the slightest rage to explode into action. Any fool could pull a trigger. Brianna thought about all of this as she looked about the hospital room at these young men that had been lucky enough to find two real men to bond with. It was no secret in the community that these coaches were the only fathers some of these kids would ever know. It was with that thought that she allowed their rowdy behavior to continue a bit longer, despite the frown from her supervisor who had leaned into the room to remind everyone that this was a hospital, not a stadium.

She smiled at these boys and men as they seemed to revel in their maleness. She had thought she had soured on the male gender as a result of that crazy time in her life when she ran around with Barry Brewster and his band of wannabe revolutionaries that spent more time sitting around watching Sanford and Son reruns and getting high than attending college classes or even organizing effective campus demonstrations. None of them had been real men. Not one of them backed up her husband, in his one moment of valor when had actually tried to do some good, but was gunned down by punks in the street. They had actually ran past her, a pregnant woman, and never looked back. Her experiences during those years had wounded her to the point that it took her almost ten years to even date again. That was just fine by her, for the longest time her lovely son was the only man she thought she would ever need in her life.

Brianna watched as the men and boys interacted and smiled. She especially noticed her son and Frank. Her insides tingled. The woman inside her ached for Frank while the mother inside her saw a real father for her son.

"Err. . .sorry there coach," Brewster moved his hand away from the coach's violent gaze and hid it behind his back, "but really, aren't you supposed to try and stop being so mean and grumpy all the time?"

Grabowski nodded at his quarterback. "That is what you might think—I did too at first—but what they really mean is that I should just let it flow a little bit at a time. I guess what was happening before is that I was bottling too much stress up, and then blowing my stack. It is real unhealthy, and it was those issues, not Kellen, that landed me here. Make sure you guys get that straight."

"You mean you weren't mad at Kellen, you were mad at you?" Jenkins started to grin at the thought he spoke out loud, unaware that he had actually hit the nail on the head. The rest of the team was about to clobber him.

"Exactly."

"Huh?" Brewster's shock showed on his face.

The rest of the team shared Brewster's dismay. That is except Armen. He understood perfectly, but didn't like what he was hearing.

"Coach, the punk ruined our field! He's screwed up our team, messed with you, messed with guys on the team, and makes teachers afraid to go into their own classroom. He's a bully, not a hardcore thug—and I am tired of him getting by. Don't tell me he isn't going to pay for what he did, just because you are going Oprah on us—dat ain't right. If you and the school don't do something, I will. I'm tired of his "feel sorry for the crazy dude."

Kellen had expected to see the other guys nodding with him, but they were all looking at their shoes. He didn't know if it was because they were scared, or if they actually disagreed with the truth he thought he was speaking. He couldn't stand in that hospital room a moment longer. The air in the room was stale and funky and he couldn't breath. He threw the get well card he had made for the coach on the empty hospital bed and then waved his arm down in disgust before striding out of the room. Coach Smith had drove, but he didn't feel like being near any of those guys right now. He needed to think, and the walk would clear his mind.

Coach Smith and the other players went after Armen. Brewster lingered a moment torn between his angry friend and the look he saw exchanged between his mother and coach. He heard Armen yell at the group to leave him alone in the hallway and that moved his feet into action. The last thing he saw as he exited the hospital room was his mom leaning down to kiss his coach.

Brianna and Frank melted into a kiss. The tempest of a thousand reasons why this was a bad idea dissolved away in the face of the single truth of why it was right. The kiss seemed to last an eternity. They parted only to catch their breath.

"You kiss by the book." They quoted in stereo, their eyes expressing the thoughts they had no words for.

"We are fortune's fool," Frank quoted their favorite poet and speaking what was swirling in both their minds and hearts. Brianna smiled sadly at her star-crossed lover.

"Do you want me to speak with Sir?" Frank asked, wincing at the awkward state they were in.

"I think we both will need to talk to him. Perhaps you should come over for dinner when you get checked out of here. "

Frank took Brianna's ebony hand in his ivory one. There fingers linked together in a knot and he kissed their knuckles promising that everything would work out, even if it was a mystery as to how.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 7

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER SEVEN

Coach Smith and the team never did catch up with Arman as he ran out of the hospital and cut a sharp angle through the park towards home. The coach tried to hurry the other guys down to the parking lot so they could go after him in the van, but Sir and the others convinced him that it was best just to let Arman work things out as he ran back towards home. Sir promised to call him later that evening and check on him. Smith decided to call off practice that night and took the players to their various homes in time for family dinner.

Jeren stared down at his plate and grinned. Not even fried liver and onions were going to ruin his mood. Evening practice had been cancelled, his homework was done and he was fifteen, and he had his new temporary driver's license, and it was burning a hole in his pocket. Finally there was an upside to having failed both fourth and eighth grade—he was the only one that could drive, albeit part-time, at Sally Ride Middle School. He doused the nasty concoction on his plate with rivers of ketchup, determined to choke the foul dinner down and get on with his plans that night. He was finally off punishment and even though it was Sunday night, he could go out because school was closed for teacher in-service day on Monday.

"How can you taste Gramma's wonderful fried liver under all that ketchup, son?"

"I like ketchup," Jeren grunted without looking at his father. He barely stopped to breathe between shovelfuls of food. Holding his breath helped it not taste so bad. He wanted to leave by 5:15 PM to pick up Jayce and Deshon, since his permit only let him drive until 10:00 PM. He cleaned his plate as quickly as possible. As he wiped his mouth he grinned over at his grandmother and mother. "Great dinner, ladies," Jeren lied spinning up the vibe of his game. It was very excited since he just qualified for his learner's permit and would be allowed to drive that evening as long as he was with a licensed driver. Deshon, a junior at Bluford High School, had his license. Jayce was a sophomore. Jeren wanted to drive his mom's car that night. He could already feel the thrum of the sporty little Escape. He didn't want to get stuck driving his dad's big old Grand "Marqui-hoopty," as his friends had come to call it.

"So mom, you know I am off punishment tonight and I was sort of thinking of going to Deshon's church tonight for the youth rally and, well, I was wonderin' if. . ."

"You could use, your father's car? Oh most certainly." His mom shut down his game before he could even get off the bench. The easy smile slid right off Jeren's face.

"What?" Father and son shouted in stereo.

Mother and grandmother smiled at each other.

"But, mom. . ."

"But, darling. . ."

"I am taking my mother to the Bingo social," Yvonne Jenkins pointed at her husband across the table. "Jonathan, you are doing the dishes and helping Kelsey with her science project this evening. Jeren you are to drive your father's car to Deshon's house, then to church then back again, and only there. I needn't remind you that you are on probation, young man. You have to earn our trust back. Besides, you have a learner's permit—not a full driver's license. That mean's no side trips. I already measured the driving distance. It is exactly seven-point-three-miles with an allowance of an extra two-point-two miles if you guys stop at the ice cream shop along the way for desert afterwards," she clicked off the details in her professional-office-manager voice as she consulted the notepad she had recorded the odometer reading on. Her lips were locked in a firm smile as she tossed her son the keys to the Grand Marquis and pushed the syllabus for her daughter's science project across the table at her husband.

"Yvonne, I was going to play cards over at. . ."

"Mom, I wanted to go. . ."

"The matter is closed," Yvonne declared. She made it a point to let her son see that she had noted the odometer reading. She rose, helped her mother clear the table, and then the two women went upstairs to get ready for the Bingo social.

Kelsey giggled because she would be out of all the chores and get help with her project for school. Jonathan grunted as he shuffled his feet slowly into the kitchen to do the dishes. Jeren stared down at his empty plate trying to figure out how he was going to still be able to sneak all the way across town to see his girl, Sasha, since it was her dad's weekend for custody. The line about going to church was just to get his mom to trust him with the sport truck. He frowned at the ground remembering what his English teacher and coach had quoted from Shakespeare or some some other dead white fool about how "a lie, once told, required constant embellishment." Now he would somehow have to find a car to borrow and still get the correct mileage on the Grand Marquis. He gave the dinning room table a cursory wipe and started to head upstairs to change clothes.

His father came in and snorted at him, "You drivin' my car, you do the dishes."
Jeren rolled his eyes at him, "But mom said. . ."

"Who do you think runs this here family?" Jeren's dad's baritone voice filled the room with false bravado.

"Mom."

The father smiled down at his wayward son.

"Yeah, and don't you forget it, or we'll both be miserable. Go on, get out of here, and remember not a scratch on Betty Lou."

Jonathan reached into his wallet and fished out two twenty-dollar bills.

Jeren smiled at his dad and held out his hand. His father held the money above his palm for a moment. "Don't get too excited, young man. This is for the gas tank. It only has about a third of a tank in it. Fill it up, and you can have the change for ice cream."

"No, problem, pop, thanks."

"Fill the tank--FIRST. Also, remember what your mom, said about the mileage. You know she checked it. You're on probation right now. Don't mess it up and go right back on lockdown."

"Yes, sir,"

Dad stopped and looked down at his dejected son. He reached for his wallet again. "Here'e a extra five spot. Now get out of here and have a good, but SAFE time."

"You're the best, dad."

Jeren ran upstairs to change and call his friend, Deshon. Maybe he would have some ideas on a way around the mileage problem. Twenty minutes later he was sitting in Deshon's room listening to the new 50 Cent cut. Jeren was spinning Deshon's football in his hands. The lines, laces and wide-open spaces of the ball twirled in his fingers and danced to the beat of "Candy Shop."

"We could take a taxi over to Sasha's. Man, this friend she has that will be over here, is she cute?"

"I don't know, why does that matter?"

"I just wanna' be sure she walks on two legs instead of four like your girl, Sasha and. . ."

The football struck the back of Deshon's head.

"You got jokes?" Jeren asked as he reached for the basketball perched on a pile of dirty clothes on the floor.

"Nah, man. Hey now, put the ball down I'm sorry. I was just thinking if she was fine, we could hire one of those limousines and cruise Compton country in style."

"Bro, I only got forty-five bucks, and most of that has to end up in the gas tank of the hoopty."

"Never fear, Deshon is here."

"This should be good."

"Look I've got you covered. First, we can fill your Dad's gas up at the church parking lot."

"Huh? Man, I knew Mierer's put in gas pumps. When did Fairfield Baptist put in. . ."

"No fool. Were not going to buy gas, were going to, uhm, borrow it."

"How do you borrow gas?"

"With one of these." Deshon went over to his closet and rummaged around inside. He then came back out with a section of plastic hose and a foot pump.

"No way. You mean steal gas. Man, we go over there and siphon gas from those church ladies and were, goin' to hell fo' sure. You probably goin' there anyway, but I gotta momma and grandmamma that be prayin for me. I still gotta chance."

"Whatever, choirboy. What are you planning on telling Sasha since you promised we would be over there tonight?" Deshon asked as he whipped out his new Razor phone and handed it to Jeren.

Jeren stared down at the phone and then glanced around the room. He took in all the new toys and fly gear. It suddenly occurred to him that his best friend had either won the lottery, or was dabbling in his cousin's street business again.

"Dee, please tell me you aren't hangin' with the G.D. boyz again?"

"Its no big thang."

"Man don't you know they are just using you? They don't care who you cousin is. Besides, Kellen don't run that gang like he thinks he does. You're just another shorty' slingin for them. Didn't you hear what happened to that kid. They sent him to the wrong block and some OG's not only took his new Mongoose bike, they wrapped him upside the head with a fence pole. Lil' dude eats all his meals through a straw now."

"Look, I'm just doin' some small stuff. I gotta get paid, and I have been. No sweat. No blue boys. I'm workin' an inside game. Tell you what, I've got enough in my roll to front us tonight, that way you don't have to worry about the church ladies. We'll drive your pop's car over to the parking lot and then. . ."

The cell phone chirped in Deshon's hand, startling both boys.

It was Jayce wondering when they were going to pick them up. Deshon told them him they would be there in ten minutes. Deshon's thumbs flew over the cell phone buttons and he dialed up a favor. He whispered a few words to some unknown person smiling at Jeren the whole time like a shark getting ready to eat. He snapped the phone shut with a flick of his wrist.

"One of my boys will be by in a minute, and he has a sweet ride for us. I need to get fresh and clean. Keep your eyes out the window for a silver and blue Eagle Vision. That'll be my boy. He doesn't like to wait and I don't want him honkin' his horn out in the street so that moms gets all goofy." Deshon selected a royal-blue Sean-John outfit from the closet and spread it out on his bed before heading down to the hallway to the bathroom. Once again, Jeren had some serious doubts about what his friend was into with the older kids in the neighborhood. Moments later a sporty Eagle Vision pulled into Deshon's driveway. Jeren ran downstairs and out the door before the driver could honk his horn.

Deshon was right behind him, trying to spray himself with a fancy bottle of CK1 as he ran across the lawn.

"Whad' up, Snake. This is my boy, Jeren. Jeren, this is Snake," Deshon did the introductions as they started to climb into the back seat. There was a real serious looking dude in the driver's seat that didn't say a word. He had dark sunglasses on even though it was already getting dark outside. Snake smiled at the two younger boys from the passeneger's seat. His mouth flashed with gold. Both decks were done in an elaborate filigree of dollars signs and guns. Jeren reached in his mouth and slipped his retainer out of his mouth not wanting to look like some dumb, young kid. He didn't like the way the car smelled. There was a sweet tang in the air and the smoke looked bluish. Jeren looked at Snake dubiously. As they drove to Jayce's house, Snake opened a towel in his lap and he began shredding the outer shell of a cigar and removing the tobacco. He replaced the tobacco with something he was pulling out of a baggy he had unrolled in his lap. Suddenly, Jeren wished he was still at home eating liver and onions.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 8

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was getting dark as Armen emerged from Greendale Park and headed down his street. He was finally calmed down. He had taken a jog through the par course at the park and tried to deal with his anger while doing the various exercises. He wasn't sure why he had gone off like that. Maybe is was the whole alien idea of his favorite coach and teacher being so ready to just forgive an idiot and bully like Kellen Winslow. Somehow, his sense of justice just could not let it be. As he rounded the corner hear his home, he saw Kellen out on his Mongoose talking to some of the other kids in the neighborhood. They were under the street lamp as it flickered on for the evening, and like little cockroaches scuttled out of the light moving further down the street to a corner that wasn't lit. Armen's thumb and for finger had gone to his ear lobe and he was rolling the nerve bundle gently and whispering "Wooosab. . .wooosaaaabii," just like his counselor had taught him. It was of no use to confront Kellen now, especially while he was around his cronies. Armen tugged at his ear a bit, more surprised at how well this anger management technique worked.

A silver and blue Eagle Talon cornered hard as Kellen walked up his front walk, the squealing tires breaking his train of thought. The slick car slid to a quick stop and there was a rowdy, but freindly exchange between the Kellen and the boys on the corner and whoever was inside the vehicle. Between the red brake lights and the blue and green ground effects of the sporty, low slung car, the whole corner had an eerie tone. It made the faces of the Kellen, and the kids around him seem sharp and violent. Their eyes were beedy in the wash of colored light and it cast long shadows over there impassive faces that didn't seem to change even though their voices were loud and friendly, but you could almost smell the tension that lingered underneath the noise of a few guys out clowning around. It hung there in the air as if they wanted the a reason to fill the corner with the fog of blue gun smoke--any reason would do.

The scene a few blocks away seemed sureeal and it made Armen think that trouble was brewing in the neighborhood tonight. He could almost taste that copper bitterness of blood in his mouth from the last time he tangled with bad dudes like the ones on the corner. He had caught two of them ganging up on a sixth grader in the gym locker room shaking the poor little kid down for some lunch money. Armen usually avoided fighting at school, but one of the punks landed a lucky sucker punch to the side of his face when he tried to confront them. It was just the glancing blow of a coward, but it still bloddied his lip. A quick jab with plenty of torque to the solar plexis of the nearest one sent both them packing for easier prey somewhere else in the school. One thing Armen's father did teach him was that if you are backed into a corner and have to fight, hit just like a mule kicks by snapping your hips. Most people that get hit by someone that knows what they are doing, as well as any punks in the vicinity, are usually disheartened by the thick sound of a hard well-placed punch. The whoosh of all of the air suddenly leaving the lungs is a pretty dramatic sound. Even so, it was that afternoon that Armen came to realize what it meant to say "there are no winners" in a school fight. That thirty second taste of his own blood in his mouth would be with him for the rest of his life.

"It is what it is," Armen whispered to no one in particular as he climbed the steps of his porch and started to enter his house for dinner. When he opened the door the smell of his aunt's cooking caused a huge grin to break out on his face. It had been a while since he had made it home in time for dinner. With football and tutoring at the public library afterwards, he usually ate the leftover plate alone at the kitchen table around 8:00 PM on most weeknights. He had enjoyed family dinner time ever since moving in with aunt and uncle last year, but football season made his schedule more hectic, and sitting alone at the table the last few weeknights, eating micrcowaved leftovers reminded him too much of his old life living with his dad.

It wasn't always that way at the old Hammer household. There was a time when Armen enjoyed his homelife. When he was younger, his mom and dad had seemed happy and they always took time to sit down together as a family to eat dinner. Then his dad started working later and later when he took on a second job after his mom became ill. She had miscarried a baby. He didn't learn until he was older that those words had meant that he would have had a little brother or sister, but his mother had, for a reason that had never been made clear to him, fought what seemed to be a sudden bout of depression.

Eventually she had such a problem with drinking and taking prescription pills that it first resulted in the miscarried baby and then, one afternoon, took her from this world too. She drove her car off the road and hit a telephone pole on the way to pick him up from elementary school. to this day, Armen takes a long detour around the street that his mother died on. He could barely bring himself to look at the old pictures of her they had hanging on the walls in the various rooms of his old house, much less actually visit the place she died and actually touch the pole that had cut her car virtually in two. He never understood those people that left flowers and stuffed animals around small crosses on the sides of roads where their loved ones had perished in a wreck. Armen didn't even want to walk on the opposite side of the street from that place, much less leave momentos. That didn't mean that he didn't want to talk about what had happened. He did. He just didn't have anyone that would talk to him. His dad seemed to just stare at the floor whenever he brought it up. His friends and other relatives would express sadness, but then quickly try to change the subject whenever he tried to talk about it. This left Armen hurt, lonely, and confused.

His father, John Quincy Hammer, never talked about Armen's mother after she died. In some ways it was as if she had never lived in that house. He had scattered memories of those years, but he had always remembered his mother as a beautiful, pleasant woman with plenty of friends that always seemed to come around the house. Then as he grew older fewer and fewer of them came and soon his mother became a gray shell of the vibrant woman she had once been. His father seem to act the same way for the two years after his mother's death. Often they would sit in the house silent for hours, never talking. Never doing anything. If Armen hadn't taken up football in fifth grade, he might have gone on sitting in those shadows. quietly with his dad until they both became ghosts. They didn't even turn on the television most nights. His father would come home late from work, usually with takeout from some fastfood place, and they would sit in stoney silence across the table chewing their food slowly without ever talking or even glancing up.

It was his friend Brewster that saved him from that life of despair when he invited him to join the community football team one year. They played two years of Pop Warner together and then made the jump to the scholastic team at Sally Ride Middle School. Not once in all of those years had his father ever come to even one game or practice. He would just sit in the dark house with a sullen look on his face, smiling faintly when Armen described the plays and exploits, but never really listening to the report that his son might actually be pretty good at the sport. He just numbly signed the paperwork or handed over the money for fees. Beyond work and that chair in the shadows of the living room, the man did not seem to have a life. Armen was old enough to know something was seriously wrong with his father, but too young to have a clue what to do about it. Instead he gave himself completely to football, and found comfort in his teamates and coaches.

Then one day his father came home and without ever really looking into his eyes very long, informed Armen that he would be moving in with his aunt and uncle. He said that he had to take a job, "down south." That had been nine months ago. John Hammer did send his son a birthday card and a parcel showed up the day after his birthday with an official leather NFL football autographed by Michael Vick, Armen's favorite player. The card had no special message and the football had come in a plain brown parcel box. Not once had his father called or written him. It was as if he had fallen off the face of the earth. Had Armen been a bit more observant, he would have noticed that both the card and the box the football had come in were postmarked from a zip code across town, near the post office that was across the street from the small insurance agency that his uncle owned.

As Armen entered the door and and kicked off his shoes on the landing before heading down the hall to the kitchen he paused for a moment and took a deep, slow breath to drink in the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. While he was still adjusting to the gloomy departure of his father and sudenly being grafted into the household of his dad's brother and sister-in-law, he loved the meals at his new home. Both his aunt and uncle were fantastic cooks. By the blended smells wafting from the kitchen, painted in the bold colors Florida blue and orange, they were both cooking up a storm in there.

"Armen, baby, you are home--wonderful!" His aunt smiled a grin almost as large as her big, warm hug."

"Young man, we have got a treat for you!"

"It smells wonderful--what is it?"

"Fried gator tail, and your aunt's amazing gumbo!"

Let me guess? Forida must be playing FSU tonight," Armen said with a grin.

"Go Gators!" His aunt and uncle cheered and sealed with a kiss. They had met at the University of Florida. It was going to be a fun night. Soon all of Armen's troubles melted away in the glow of this home.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 9

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER NINE

Kit-Kat flipped on his phone on the second beep as he moved quickly into his grandmother's bathroom, locking the door, turning on the tap in the sink, and then jumping into the shower and pulling the curtain around him to muffle the call. His grandmother barely tolerated calls from his "no-good friends" on the land-line down in the kitchen, and would show great disdain if she knew he was carrying around one of those little "thug" phones.

He recognized the DMX ringtone as a call coming from Snake. It meant that the meet would be on and that he had already recruited a few shorties from the neighborhood to help out. They were about to do what his crew called a "swag grab." They got the idea when they had watched a documentary on Jay-Z. Even if you didn't think he could blow anymore, you had to admit that the rapper still moved with a bunch of power and had some major league money. In the documentary it showed how Jay-Z doesn't even have to pay for his clothes, jewelery, cars, or other bling. Most designers were begging him to be seen in public sporting their goods or using their products to the point that he was often invited to these swag buffets where he was not only well fed, but all of these retailers just threw bags of loot and bling at him hoping he would be seen with that gear. Apparently it was the same way for athletes and other celebrities.

None of the guys in the neighborhood had that kind or art or talent, but just about everyone knew how to get into a BMW or Lexus while bypassing an alarm. It was time to go to the rich side of town and get some swag later tonight.

Kit-Kat text'd him back that he would get the rest of the crew together and move them over to the nicer part of the neighborhood. After that he started pushing the keys he needed to send a group message out to arrange the meeting. He smiled at the thought of scoring a bunch of loot while smashing up the cars of snobs. He tucked his phone down deep in the baggy pocket of his cargo shorts and made his way down the stairs. As he passed the third step he felt a chill as Kit-Kat left his brain and was startled when he looked in the mirror on the landing. For a brief moment, he saw what looked like that character out of Batman, Two-Face. The left side was the icy Kit-Kat, street general, and the right side looked like Kellen, the apple of his grandmother's eye. He shook the weird feeling that shuddered in his body and quickly turned away from the nightmare in that mirror and went towards the kitchen to eat dinner with his grandmother.

The kitchen smelled of homemade cornbread, ham and greenbean stew, and of course sweet potato pie for desert. Kellen was excited about sitting down to dinner until his grandmother began lecturing him.

Natalie Winslow held out the letter she had received in the mail with a trembling hand. It was all she could do not to cry. She had been in the middle of cooking her grandson a wonderful meal when the mail shot through the slot in the door. When she read the letter, she almost dumped everything she had been cooking out the kitchen window. She was sad, but also furious at Kellen. The letter from school outlined the upcoming expulsion hearing for Kellen. Apparently he had gotten in even more trouble at Sally Ride Middle School.

Kellen grimaced and swallowed roughly as he read the letter. Someone had seen Kellen trespassing on school grounds during his suspension a few days ago, and that automatically converted his suspension to the next step, nine days suspension with intent to expel. They could appeal the decision of local administrator at the hearing. Kellen tried to summon Kit-Kat from his subconscious, but all he heard in his mind was the indifferent laughter of his alter ego. He tried to think of a quick lie, but knew his grandmother would sniff it out quickly. He looked down at the food growing cold on his plate and wondered what he should do next. He didn't have to think for very long.

"Kellen, I am going to give you one more chance to get your life right. We are going to get an advocate from child services, go to that hearing, and you are going to do whatever it takes to get your discipline reduced and get back into school. I don't care if you have to get down on your knees and beg forgiveness, invoke the mercy of sweet baby Jesus, and offer to wash the Principal's car every Friday."

Kellen stared at his food and tried to hold back the angry tears welling in his eyes. "It's all because of that teacher, Mr Grabows. . ."

"Kellen, child, please don't make excuses. I have told you many times that you simply should not go through life being a victim and always looking for someone to blame."

"So you're taking his side?" Kellen pushed the plate of food away. He was no longer hungry.

"I will always be on your side, baby. I just want you to learn how to. . ."

"Whatever! I thought you were different. I thought you loved me. You are just like all the other grown-ups. Always pushing, and never helping. That's fine. You want me to make my own way. I can do that--just watch!" Kit-Kat stood up, fixed his grandmother with a cruel stare, threw back the kitchen chair, and turned on his heel to stride out of the kitchen; out of the house; and out of Natalie Winslow's life.

He let the door slam as he left, scooping up his bike and turned the corner of the house. Looking back and forth across the yard carefully, he rode quickly over to the metal post that served as one end of his grandmother's clothesline in the back terrace and yanked on the rusty pole, lifting it out of the ground and throwing it down. Once again he glanced around the courtyard and then he bent over and pulled the plastic tube out of the base. Inside was about six thousand dollars and a recently acquired .380 semi-automatic handgun and a spare clip of ammo. He kicked the rest of the clothesline across the small back lawn, and pedaled furiously out of the project's courtyard and made a beeline towards Snake and the rest of his boys. He was going to get his beast on tonight.

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 10

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER TEN

Jeren shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he listed to the conversation between Deshon and Snake. He had no idea just how deep his friend had gotten into the G.D.'s He suddenly realized that he was probably never going to make it over to Sasha's house. He tried to sink lower into the seat as the Talon sped down the street and passed the church his mother and grandmother were playing bingo in. He wished he had just stuck to his original plan. Suddenly he longed to be in his father's big comfortably "hoopty" sedan. He caught the glance of Snake in the rearview mirror and tried to act cool. Deshon punched his thigh and gave him a look that probably meant he should stop acting like a little kid. The problem was, Jeren wanted to be a little kid. Now he was beginning to wish he was back at the church they just passed. Even the childcare program would be better than being in this car.

The mean-looking dude next to Snake flashed him an aligator smile as he held up the blunt he had been rolling. He flipped open a butane lighter and blazed the thick joint up, not even bothering to be discreet as the drove around town.

"Here you go little man. This will calm you down." He held the smoldering stub toward the backseat. Jeren tried to crawl out of the car through the closed window to get away from the marijuana. The two guys in the in the front of the car thought that was the most hilarious thing they had ever seen. They smiled knowingly at each other and began to laugh loudly as Deshon grabbed the thick joint between his calloused forefinger and thumb and took a deep long drag. He held his breath for a moment, and then smiled as he exhaled, aiming the stream of blue smoke right into Jeren's face. Jeren tried to hold his breath, but the cloud of tangy smoke semmed to invade him. It made him dizzy.

Snake turned in the seat and faced Jeren as he tried to feel for the window controls to get some fresh air. Snake smacked Jeren upside the head and fixed him with an evil grin, "What are you, a coney?" He looked over at Deshon and winked. "Hey D, why'd you bring this bannana-head with us?"

"Jeren's ah'right once you get to know him. He's a choirboy. . . give 'im time to get used to the game. Besides, he is wicked smart, and while his game is weak, he does have jokes."

Snake's face went blank into a poker stare. "Forget jokes, we need 'dat money. D says you be book smart. What do you know about car alarms?"

Jeren couldn't explain what suddenly changed in his mind or where the words that came from his mouth were formed, but suddenly he wanted to earn the respect of the two men in the front of the car. "Well, my dad owns an electrical contracting business. . ."

The Trigger Effect: Chapter 11

The Trigger Effect

© 2005 By Ken Glassmeyer

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"What is that lame doing in that fine BMW, Snake? Yo' you gone crazy?"

Jeren bumped his head on the steering column when he heard Kellen come up and speak to Snake so sharply. At the sound of of Kellen's voice he had a sudden sense of alarm and grief. He saw the whole evening as he looked at the wires that were pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The leads went into the car alarm he was currently disabling. How did he get here. This was crazy. He was supposed to go to church that night for youth group. Okay, scratch that. If he was going to repent, he shouldn't lie. He used the whole church thing as an alibi to go see a cute girl. Stupidity being an epedemic tonight, he now found himself under a car he was helping thugs to break into, he didn't even go over and get a taste of the honey he had planned on visiting. His sweaty fingers were the only thing that stopped these two wires from activating the alarm that would bring cops, that is if he lived long enough to be arrested. One of these dudes would probably shoot him just before they ran off to hide. Jeren did the only thing he knew to do and started praying under his breath as he finished disarming the cat alarm.

"So you dudes thought you would go and get some swag without checking in with me?"

Snake peered at Kellen dangerously. "Check with you?"

Kellen leaned right into Snake unafraid. "Did I stutter?"

"You got some stones on you lil' dude," Snake grunted, but he was already backing down.

Jeren watched the exchange has he finished up and slid out from under the car. He started looking for a place to be other than the middle of these two thugs if they threw down. Suddeenly the group of thugs turned away from the confrontation and focussed on getting the loot from the car. Jeren was amazed how fast they worked. Anything of value was taken from the vehicle in less than a minute, including several hidden compartments that including a baby nine gat that was strapped underneath the driver's seat. Jeren's eyes grew wide when he watched Kellen pull it out and admire it breifly in the light of the street lamp before slipping it into his briefs and pulling his baggy shirt over the gun handle. It was nickle plated and very cold looking. Jeren was glad to see it disappear out of sight.

The crew started down the street to the next vehicle that looked promising. Jeren no longer wanted to be cool. H e wanted to be back home eating nasty liver and onions. Anything would be better that hanging out with these guys. They were more like hungry pit bulls than kids.