Concrete Zoo, Chapter 2: Stolen Goods

The narrow path to the shop and drafting building was wedged between the cafeteria and a food stand, encased in concrete walls with a rolling metal door. The doors served as a witness to the fact that food gathering time was allowed for only forty-five minutes after the fourth period.

Ben hurried down the path into a covered hallway and then through two grey metal doors with cracked, six-inch thick windows, smudged ash-grey and yellowed with age. The final bell sounded. His shoes squeaked on the dirty, marked-up linoleum floor. A door was open ahead, and Bad Company’s “Holy Water” blared at concert sound levels.

He stopped for a second and looked in. The smell of burning plastics, fresh-cut wood, and grease stung his nose. Ten teenagers in ripped jeans and greasy grey-colored shirts milled around, head banging, working table saws, welding a pipe, bent over the engine of a dingy red 1966 Chevelle with the hood popped open. The room was filled with metal tables, tool carts, metal pipes of all sizes, chunks of wood, and two welding stands.

One of the guys working on the Chevelle pulled a small, rolled white tube from his pocket. His friend pulled out a lighter. The flame tickled the end of the white tube, and the guy pulled hard from it. Instantly, a pungent odor wafted out and drove Ben from the door. It smelled like a skunk, and Ben wanted no part of it.

At the end of the hall was another open door, and from this room came the distant snarl of Billy Idol as he wailed “Cradle of Love.” Entering the room, he found chaos here. A couple of guys wrestled in the farthest corner of the room. Another guy was burning paper with a book of matches near the teacher’s desk. A cluster of guys peered at a magazine on a drafting table, wide-eyed, slapping each other on the back, pointing, howling almost.

Along the side wall nearest Ben was a single empty drafting desk. Snapping it up, Ben slung his backpack over the chair stool and sat down. The guy next to him wore a torn-sleeved tank top with a huge Van Halen symbol on the front of it. He was nearly bald and jammed pieces of beef jerky into his mouth, one after the other.

The draft desk was set at an angle. The drawers were on the right side. He ran his hand over the green foam surface and noticed someone had left him a message marked out by push pins. It read “Metallic Rules” and “Screw off.”

Classy, he thought.

The room was lit up by fading fluorescent lights. The ceiling was a poorly made concrete slab that would have simply run down the walls to the floor except for a small four-inch gap between the roof and the top of the wall. This gap was filled with lime green and piss yellow panels of glass that alternated: green, yellow, green, yellow. The glass pretended to let light in, but who was it kidding.

Ben could feel someone staring at him, and he peered over his shoulder and a tall guy with sunglasses faced him. He nodded at Ben, and his wave-like hair jiggled from the motion. He lifted the biggest burrito Ben had ever seen and jammed half of it in his mouth in one bite. The guy’s shirt was black-black, with the Depeche Mode logo and a red dying flower on the front of it.

Nodding back, Ben turned around and stared at his desk. Then, the clock. It was now 8:15, and the teacher was not there yet.

“He’s always late,” said a voice from behind Ben.

The tall guy with the Depeche Mode shirt stood next to Ben. He smelled like beans and cheese. Ben’s stomach turned from the smell.

“Clem,” the guy said. He held out his free hand.

Ben shook it. “Ben.”

“Frosh?” Clem asked.

“Yeah,” Ben said.

Senior, here, old,” Clem said, nodding again, then jamming more of the burrito in his mouth. He stood and stared at Ben, chewing and nodding.

“You’ve taken this class before?” Ben asked.

Clem held up three fingers and took another bite.

Clem nodded towards the front of the room and retreated back to his desk.

The teacher had entered the room, and Ben watched a man with a broad chest and wireframed shoulders, a bulging gut, sitting on top of thin, bird-like legs, saunter up to his desk and drop a thick book down.

“Shut your holes!” the teacher bellowed, shutting the door to the room behind him.

The music died down, and the magazine vanished. The cluster dispersed, and the wrestling stopped.

The teacher wiped the grease off his right cheek and tossed the rag on the desk.

“All right, here’s the deal,” the teacher said. “I’m in charge of the shop and drafting. And for this week, the rocket scientist running this institution decided to put two of my classes during the second period. So, you will share my attention for this week; at least, that’s my hope. They’ll move shop to later in the day. I think. But who the hell knows.”

He stood up and held up the book. “Your textbook. You all have them in the top drawer of your desks.”

Ben slid open the top drawer, pulling out a used, warped, greasy textbook with blueprints on the front cover.

“Drafting 101 for the freshmen, and so on,” he sat down and removed reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He perched them on the end of his nose. “Here’s the rules: show up as best you can, on time. They jimmied this room into the farthest corner of the school, and I know most of you will be running from the other side of the campus to get here. Do your best. Two, do the work. Three, pass. Simple. Easy. Don’t piss me off, and we’ll have a kick-ass year.”

Taking up a sheet of paper, he called roll. Then, he strolled the room, checking that everyone had the right textbook, drafting supplies, and greeting newbies to his class.

“Hi,” he said upon reaching Ben’s desk. “I’m Mr. Daniels.”

“Ben,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” Mr. Daniels said. “Hey, you got a good set of legs on you.”

“Umm,” Ben said, blushing.

“No, not like that. Geez. I meant you’re fast. I saw you running across campus. You play soccer?”

“Yes.”

“Nice. Tryouts are in six weeks. I coach the team, too. Try out.” He moved to the desk behind Ben.

Boom! The room door flew open, and a mouse-like boy ran in. He shut the door behind him and dashed toward Ben. Wearing a navy-colored Polo shirt and a San Francisco Giant’s hat, he ducked down behind Ben. He was barely tall enough to see over the desk.

“Hey, Ray,” Mr. Daniels said.

“Hi,” Ray said, catching his breath.

“Who’s chasing you?” Mr. Daniels asked.

“What?” Ray asked, eyes glued to the door.

“Ray?” Mr. Daniels said.

“I swear, it’s mine,” Ray said.

Ben glanced down and saw that Ray held something under his shirt, but it was bulging and hard for him to handle.

“It better be,” Mr. Daniels said.

Facing Ray, Ben nodded. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ray said, sitting on the floor.

“What’s going on?”

“I was running.”

“I see that.”

“Ok,” Ray said.

“What’s in your shirt?” Ben asked.

“A radio.”

“What?”

“A car stereo, a Blaupunkt,” Ray said.

“Huh?”

“High-end stereo.”

“You have a car radio in your shirt?” Ben asked.

“What is this—fifty questions?” Ray retorted, and then he swore and scooted under Ben’s desk. “Sh!” he said to Ben.

“Where the hell is he?” demanded a towering, thick-necked, crew-cut, sun-tanned teenager filling the room doorway. He wore a football jersey and cut-off shorts. His face was beat red, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down the side of his face.

“Mr. Sanchez, this isn’t the shop room,” Mr. Daniels said.

“I know,” Sanchez said, stalking the front of the room. Everyone was quiet now. “But I saw that pencil dick come in here. Where is he?”

“Who?” Mr. Daniels said.

“Ray, the f-in thief,” Sanchez said, descending the middle row.

“Haven’t seen him,” Mr. Daniels said, walking to Sanchez.

“You stole from the all-state nose tackle,” Ben whispered to Ray, eyes on Sanchez.

“Shut up,” Ray hissed.

Mr. Daniels put a hand on Sanchez’s shoulder. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you are looking for him. Now, head to class.”

Sanchez scanned the room again. Clem saluted him, getting a scowl in return.

As Sanchez stormed out, Mr. Daniels followed him, ensuring the door shut again.

“Ray, my office,” Mr. Daniels commanded. “Everybody else, get to work.”

Mr. Daniels opened a door in the side of the room, near Ben’s desk, and went into a small office with a couch, a TV, a Nintendo game console, and another, smaller desk.

Mr. Daniels waited as Ray edged his way from under Ben’s desk.

Ray paused and pleaded with Ben. “Help me,” he begged.

“How?” Ben asked.

Ray unzipped Ben’s backpack, put the radio in it, and zipped it back up. Then, he put his finger to his lip–don’t tell–and entered Mr. Daniels’s office. The door shut, and Ben turned to his desk and his book.

Slowly flipping his book open, Ben watched the door out of the corner of his eye. A minute later, Ray emerged and left the room. Mr. Daniels returned to the front of the room, and everyone settled into their work.

Except Ben. He was an accessory to a theft now. The theft of a high-end car stereo. A high-end stereo belonging to the meanest, most insane guy on campus: Will Sanchez. 312 pounds. 6 foot 3 inches tall. All-state three years in a row. Ate whole chickens for lunch.

Ben thought: He’ll eat me if he found out I helped Ray.

The class bell couldn’t have come at a better time. Ben stood, and his backpack felt one hundred pounds heavier than before. He was the last one out of the room.

“Ben,” Mr. Daniels said. “Ditch the radio before Sanchez finds it.”

Ben nodded nervously and left.