HEAD ON A STICK, FIST IN MOUTH

When one of us felt like it, we’d yell, “Head on a stick.” That meant you’d been paralyzed in an accident from the neck down, and the other person had to do everything for you that you couldn’t do as a result of your condition.

—Michelle Brooks, “The Difference Between Pluto And Goofy,” from the Alaska Quarterly Review

I’ve encountered my share of messed up kids masking their deficiencies with bravado. When that didn’t meet their emotional needs, I’d see them cowering, sulking, and even sucking their thumbs in the back of my classroom. Believe it or not, these were some bad ass teenagers. Thumb-sucking was not unusual for this breed of kid. I guess we all need some type of security.

I’ve only encountered one kid who sucked his entire fist. I don’t know how he did it without gagging or choking himself to death. He’d insert his massive right hand into his mouth damned near all the way to his wrist bone. Or so I’d thought.

As a reward for good behavior, I’d take my class to the boarded-up St. Rose hall across the street from our school. We’d play basketball on the broken-tiled gymnasium floor, and on a few occasions I’d invite the men standing on the streetcorner for a pick-up game. Our director frowned upon this; I often told her, don’t worry, they check their weapons at the door. We never had a problem except for the fist-sucking kid, who, for whatever reason, would insert his massive mitt into his mouth after the slightest confrontation. When he felt comfortable again, he’d rejoin the game, and as soon as he touched the ball everyone would hit the sidelines.

“DeWayne’s low man. Low man’s got to disinfect the ball,” one kid pointed out.

“I ain’t touchin’ it,” DeWayne said before turning to the culprit, “Nasty, germ infested muthafucka!” The perfectly functional ball remained in the middle of the court and might as well have been deflated. Game over. The low man never did what he was told; No sense in damaging his pride too.

Another time, while doing classwork, the director called me into the hallway to inform me that this kid’s mother was murdered with a shotgun. She looked as if she wanted me to deliver the bad news. “Hang on,” I said, “I’ll get him for you.” In no time at all, she sent him right back into my room. And in no time at all, he sat down and inserted his fist into his mouth. And in no time at all, the rest of the class started complaining about his filthy habit. “Leave him be,” I demanded, not knowing what else to say.

So there he sat, catatonic, staring into the void, and all I could do was distract the others from the only security he had—his fist.