Waiting to Die

by Randall Park

The setting sun briefly turned the windows of Kirkland Military School’s buildings into golden mirrors. They reflected the evening formation back at itself, doubling the precise ranks of cadets who stood arrayed like trees in an orchard. Four hundred and twenty heads of close-cropped hair supported four hundred and twenty garrison caps, angled just so. Four hundred and twenty sets of brass insignia caught the golden light. Four hundred and twenty pairs of shoes gleamed.

A bugle sounded, signaling the formation’s end. The buildings echoed a rippling clash as, almost but not quite in unison, four hundred and twenty cadets faced right and marched into the barracks. Behind them, the setting sun slipped behind Science Hall and the mirrors turned back into windows.

As the cadets dispersed to their rooms, Jason Griffith paused in the doorway of the room next to his.

“Hey Kramer, mind if I take a look at that shoe?”

Kramer looked up from his desk, which was covered with shoe-shining equipment laid out as neatly as a surgeon’s tools. He was warming a can of shoe polish over a candle, softening it so it would go onto the shoe in thinner layers.

“Okay, Griffith, but just touch the shoe-tree, not the shoe. If you get fingerprints on that polish job, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Jason eased a hand into Kramer’s shoe and lifted it off the desk.

“Mind if I take it into the hall?”

“Yeah, okay, just be careful.”

In the hall, Jason held the shoe up to the light. It was a work of art. Nobody could shine shoes better than Kramer. The shoe was shinier than patent leather, and with a deeper shine. Jason held it up to his eye and looked deep, deep into the reflection; he shook his head in amazement when he realized he could read the numbers on his own door, ten feet away.

“That’s enough, Griffith, you’re making me nervous.” Kramer gestured for Jason to return the shoe. As Jason carefully placed it back on the table, Kramer began stroking the shoe’s mate in tiny circles, a polish-daubed strip of white flannel wound around his fingertip.

“Those shoes are fucking incredible, Kramer,” Jason said. “You’re going to win Best Shine tomorrow for sure.”

“Hope so. Look over the rest of my uniform and see if you can spot anything wrong. It’s hanging over there.”

Jason examined Kramer’s uniform. Not a thing was out of place. The shirt, starched to cardboard stiffness, sported the five regulation vertical creases - one through the exact center of each front pocket and three evenly spaced across the back. The collar insignia and the belt buckle gleamed as though lit from within.

“Looks perfect to me,” Jason said.

“Finished at last,” Kramer said as he began putting away his shoe-shining equipment. He wound the flannel cloths around themselves, put out the candle, staked the cans of polish, and stowed it all in a leather case. Kramer stood and stretched, his long arms reaching almost to the ceiling. He removed his uniform shirt and hung it up immediately. His t-shirt had clearly been ironed; it stretched smoothly across his chest. He tossed the shine kit to Jason and said, “Put that in my footlocker, will you? Along the left side.”

Jason opened the footlocker and saw a gap in its regimented contents that was just the size of the shine kit. He set the kit in place next to a row of tightly rolled socks and closed the locker’s lid.

“Gotta get ready for study hall. See you later, Griffith,” Kramer said.

When Jason stepped into his room, he looked down at his own uniform. His shirt was wrinkled, especially down the front in half-moons from button to button where his belly strained against them. There was a fingerprint on his belt buckle; Jason swiped at it with his sleeve until it blurred into a shapeless smudge. He looked at his shoes. They looked okay, but Kramer’s shoes had probably looked better right out of the box. Jason always shined his shoes with a brush instead of using the better but time-consuming flannel cloth. The brush gave Jason’s shoes a soft satiny glow that satisfied his platoon leader but would never win a Best Shine contest. Jason shook his head and began getting out of his uniform.

* * * * * * *

The evening formation held only four hundred and eight cadets that evening; from each company, one cadet was excused to compete in the Best Shine contest, with another cadet to assist him.

Six paragons of military precision stood in a row along one side of the courtyard, their assistants fussing over them like stable hands grooming racehorses, making sure shirts were tucked in and creases were straight. Kramer stood at one end, towering a full head over the cadet next to him. Jason put a neat box tuck in the back of Kramer’s shirt and stepped back to look at him.

“You look flawless. These other mullets haven’t got a chance,” Jason said.

“How do Blundo’s shoes compare to mine? I can’t bend over to look without wrinkling my shirt,” Kramer said, nodding at the cadet next to him.

Jason looked. “Well, his shoes look nice, but they can’t compare to - uh-oh.”

“What?” demanded Kramer.

“Man, you’ve got a pretty bad scuff on your right shoe,” Jason said.

“WHAT?!?” Kramer raised his foot and looked at it, his face turning red.

“Hey, man, it’s not that bad. I bet you can still win. Just quit wrinkling yourself.”

Kramer looked up from his scuffed shoe and glared at Jason. “You did it,” he said.

“Huh?”

“You scuffed my shoe when you brought them to me, Griffith.”

“Me? But - but I didn’t…”

“Shut up. I’m going to kick your ass tonight after study hall for this, you little shit.”

Without another word, Kramer whirled and stalked off to his barracks room. Jason gulped and went out to join the evening formation. It seemed like his ears were stuffed with cotton, trapping his pulse inside.

In his room that night, Jason sank into his chair and stared at his bookshelf without seeing it. His roommate, Wright, laid a hand on his shoulder; Jason flinched away with an explosive “Huh!”

“Griffith, relax. It’s just me. What happened with Best Shine?”

“Kramer didn’t enter. He thinks I scuffed one of his shoes,” Jason said.

Wright whistled. “Man, I bet Kramer’d rather have you kick him in the balls than have you fuck up his shoes. Shoulda been more careful.”

“I didn’t touch his stupid shoes, Wright. I didn’t,” Jason said.

“Yeah, well, now he’s gotta strip all the polish off that shoe and start over. That’ll take him hours. Of course he’s lookin’ to kick somebody’s ass. It doesn’t matter if you did it or not,” Wright said with a shrug.

“You know what a fanatic he is about those shoes. He’ll probably strip both of them to make sure they come out even. Shit! That’ll make him twice as pissed. I’m dead,” Jason said with a groan.

“Ain’t no getting’ out of it, man,” Wright agreed. “Did anybody hear him tell you he’s going to kick your ass?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you’re fucked. Now he’s gotta do it, or he looks bad. It doesn’t matter how much smaller’n him you are; it’s a matter of honor now.” Wright leaned back in his chair and nodded at Jason, a solemn look on his face.

Jason felt his guts churn. He said, “What am I going to do, Wright? He’s going to jack me up really bad.”

Wright replied, “All you can do is watch for a break, Griffith. Maybe you’ll get lucky.” Wright turned to his desk and opened his schoolbooks.

* * * * * * *

Jason looked up from his books as the bell marking study-hall break rang. The corridor was filled with the squeak of sneakers as cadets ran to the latrines and the water fountains. To Jason, the cadets sounded like mice, squeaking and scurrying along.

“Hey Griffith, aint’cha gonna get up from that desk?”

Jason looked at Wright and said, “Nah, I might run into Kramer out there. I’m not in a hurry to get my ass kicked.”

“See your point.”

“I can’t believe this. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t even do what you’re getting’ your ass kicked for. What a bitch.”

Jason stood up and turned to Wright. “Hey - what if I go down and tell the Commandant? He’ll stop it from happening,” Jason said, tugging the waist of his sweatpants over the swell of his belly.

Wright stared with a look of horror on his face. “You nuts? You do that, it ain’t just gonna be one ass-kickin’. You’d get stomped over and over again. Never tell the Commandant anything.”

“What? Why not?”

Wright made a sweeping gesture. “‘Cause it ain’t done, that’s why. If you take the beating like a man, he won’t bother you anymore. But if you snitch, everybody’ll be comin’ after ya.”

“I don’t believe this,” Jason said, slumping back into his chair. His soft hands rubbed at his temples.

“Believe it, man. Ever see a prison movie? This place hates informers even worse than a prison does. And here there ain’t no solitary confinement to hide in.”

Jason stood again. “Well, fine. Then I just won’t be here at nine when he comes for me. He can’t kick my ass if he can’t find it.”

Wright shook his head again. “That won’t work either. You can’t hide from him forever. Besides, if you aren’t at your desk when the bell rings, you’ll be in official trouble too.”

Their door opened. Kramer stuck his head in and said, “I heard that, asshole! You better not hide from me. You got one more hour, then I’m kicking your ass.” Kramer shut the door and Jason and Wright were alone once more.

“Oh God, I’m gonna die.”

The end-of-break bell rang and the boys returned to their desks. Wright looked over at Jason and smiled.

“Yeah, well, I hope you manage to mess up his face a little before he stomps you.”

“Oh, thanks a lot, Wright,” Jason groaned.

Wright laughed and propped his feet up on his desk. He balanced a chemistry book on his lap and started highlighting it. Jason tried a few jabs and looked at his arms. They were soft and pale, with no real muscle. It was hopeless; Kramer’s arms were at least six inches longer than his, and Kramer was bigger and taller, too. Jason couldn’t count on any help, and he couldn’t hide. All he could do was wait.

* * * * * * *

All too soon for Jason, the nine o’clock bell rang and the wait was over. Before Jason could even stand up, Kramer appeared at the door, surrounded by spectators. He said, “Let’s go, asshole.”

Jason stood and dragged to the door, his chin sunk onto his chest and his feet scraping the floor with every step. He couldn’t look Kramer in the eye; he just stared at the floor. As Kramer’s feet came into view, Jason saw that his opponent had spent study hall stripping and re-polishing his shoes.

Wright caught Jason’s arm. Jason looked up, and Wright said, “Remember. Look for a break.” Jason nodded, and he and Kramer walked side by side down the hall to the empty room where fights were normally held. The other cadets thronged behind them, talking and laughing. As they walked down the hall, Jason noticed that Kramer was walking very carefully, so as not to crack the new layers of polish on his shoes.

The cadets filed into the empty room. Jason and Kramer faced each other in the middle of the room. The spectators lined the walls, and Jason’s platoon sergeant stood outside the door to watch for the Commandant. Kramer smoothed an eyebrow with his fingertips and said, “Okay, asshole. Let’s get this over with.”

Kramer took a step towards Jason, who moved back a bit. Before Jason could even think about dodging, Kramer’s first punch came looping in. Jason was almost out of range and the punch barely touched him, but it still felt like his whole head had rung like a bell. He stumbled back a step and tried to clear his head.

Then it happened.

Someone called out, “Hey, Kramer! You still got your good shoes on!”

Kramer looked down and cursed. Hopping on one foot, he tried to pull his shoe off the other. He tugged at the laces and grasped the shoe by the heel, slipping it off his foot. Dropping it on the floor behind him, he bent to take off the other shoe.

Even through the fog in his head, Jason knew he was looking at his one chance to get out of the room in one piece. He set himself and took a running step forward.

Jason hoisted a foot into Kramer’s groin like he was kicking a field goal.

Kramer collapsed, folding up like a lawn chair. He curled up in a ball and lay there, heaving a rusty wheeze. Jason looked down at Kramer’s shoes and said, “Better be careful. You’ll scuff them again.”

Jason turned to leave the room. The spectators silently made way for him. At the door, Jason turned and looked back. The light of the room turned the windows into mirrors. He looked at his reflection and said, “I need to get my uniform squared away.”