The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

Tyler Dilts Thug: Signification and the (De) Construction of Self

From Puerto del Sol

I thug.

That’s not a grammatical error. I fully intended to use the word “thug” as a verb. I realize, of course, that for you, unless you happen to have some knowledge of hip-hop music and culture or hard-boiled noir fiction, you’re probably not familiar with this particular usage. But as I said, I actually meant to use the word “thug” as a verb, rather than in its much more common and familiar usage as a noun. The reasons for this are twofold:

1) I have, of late, been giving a great deal of thought as to how we define both ourselves and each other by what we do.[1] I am fascinated by the subtle yet significant differences between the phrases “I thug” and “I am a thug.” The play in signification here seems never to exhaust its ability to keep my intellect bouncing back and forth, questioning the point at which I cease to be the sum of my actions and become the thing itself (i.e., at what point do I cease thugging and simply become thug?).

2) I find this type of nontraditional and playful usage of language to be quite stimulating and more than a little amusing. And I have always imagined it to be exactly the type of intellectual exercise with which my friends and I would ceaselessly amuse ourselves, over postmeal cocktails and cappuccinos at, say, Mum’s or Cha Cha Cha, had I, of course, any friends.

At any rate, I thug. And indeed it follows then that I must, to myself at least, pose the following question — since I do thug, am I then a thug?

Rather than attempting to answer that question presently, though,[2] I reach in front of me to the coffee table, pick up both the television remote control and the current issue of the TV Guide on top of which it rests. The Guide has been conveniently left open to the proper day but not the proper time, so I find myself flipping past pages of upcoming television “events” to reach the four p.m. listings.[3] Not often having the inclination to watch television in the late afternoon, and curious as to with what I might be able to divert my attention, I find myself pleasantly surprised to see that, in addition to its regular eleven p.m. broadcast, the Charlie Rose show is now shown at four in the afternoon. I turn on the 36-inch Mitsubishi to channel 28, anxious to see whom Mr. Rose will be interviewing.[4]

No sooner do I realize that a group of well-known journalists are discussing the ethical ramifications of the recent media coverage of a number of national news events[5] than I hear the unmistakable dull grinding of the garage door opener as it echoes through the kitchen. I turn off the television, slink into the kitchen, and take a position with my back flat against the wall next to the door leading into the garage.[6] I hear Bobby’s keys jangling for a moment, and then a click as the door is unlocked. The door opens, concealing me from his peripheral vision as he steps into the room. I slam the door forcefully behind him.

He jumps and spins toward the sound. When he sees me, the expression of fear on his face is very nearly palpable. The reasons for his fear are quite understandable, in fact, even logical, given three significant factors inherent in the situation: 1) there is someone in his kitchen who, for all intents and purposes, has no legal right to be there; 2) the particular someone standing in his kitchen is indeed quite intimidating, due not only to the aforementioned size and bulk,[7] but also to the fact that the particular someone is, save for his eyelashes, completely bald (I suffer from a relatively rare disorder — alopecia areata — that causes, in more extreme cases such as mine, a complete ceasing of hair growth that may or may not be permanent),[8] and 3) he knows precisely who the particular someone is and precisely why he is there. “Hello, Bobby,” I say, smiling, friendly, pleasant. It’s important to me to make the effort, whenever and wherever possible, to be as polite and courteous as the situation allows. This, I think, has more than a little to do with my particularly imposing physicality. It is an attempt, on both the conscious and, I suspect, subconscious levels, to allay, insomuch as it is possible, people’s reactions to my appearance.[9]

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Bobby yells. “I almost pissed myself, you fucking bald-headed freak!” (Italics mine.)

Of the many deprecatory references he might have uttered, he lit upon the single possibility that would undoubtedly cause me, at least momentarily, to lose my composure.[10] I slap him in the face, and as he raises his hands in defense I deliver a forceful uppercut to his solar plexus. The power of the blow lifts him an inch off the floor, and as the wind explodes out of his lungs he collapses like a deboned salmon onto the floor.

I watch him writhe there awhile, gasping for breath, trying to fill his lungs with air. I know I have a few moments before he’ll be capable of processing any rational thoughts, so I let him go and take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s a nice butcher-block set, very Pottery Barn. The accoutrements of the American bottled-water demographics’ consumerism were rampant — a two-door stainless restaurant refrigerator, an oversized gourmet stove with industrial-grade grates, a triple oven with convection, microwave, and broiler in one brushed chrome unit, all surrounding a granite-topped island over a rust-colored, antiqued tile floor.

Bobby’s desperate writhing begins to slow, and I look down at him. His belted black leather coat is bunched up under his armpits, tufts of his carefully gelled and expensively trimmed yellow hair now jut from his head at odd angles, and he writhes in a semifetal position on the tile. The short gasps of air he is able to take into his lungs grow longer and he looks up at me. I smile affably.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” I say. “That was rather unprofessional of me.”

Bobby has a puzzled look in his soft-contacted, artificially blue eyes.

“But, of course, I am more than a little sensitive in regard to my baldness.”[11] I pause for emphasis. “So I’ll say this only once — do not ever mention it again.”

Bobby’s breathing approaches normalcy and he sits up.

“Are we clear on that point?”

He tries to answer, but isn’t quite able yet. He nods instead.

“Good.” I give him a moment to reflect on his situation, watching as he brushes a stiffened lock of hair off his forehead. I wonder if he will stay seated on the floor, or get up and perhaps attempt to join me at the table.

“You, of course, know why I’m here,” I say. He stays on the floor and nods again. Good.[12] I pause here, to allow him the option of the next move. He stares dumbly at me for a solid ten seconds. “Where’s the money, Bobby?”

He reaches into his inside breast pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. Without even counting, I know it will be short. I take it from his outstretched hand and thumb through the bundle of twenties and fifties.

“You’re light, Bobby.”

He lowers his eyes to the tile.

“This won’t even cover the vig.”[13]

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“Then why even offer it up?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby looks up at me. Plastic blue eyes pleading. “You seem like a reasonable guy.”

“I am a reasonable guy, Bobby.”

He looks relieved for a moment. Doesn’t realize there’s a “but” coming.

“But I’m also an honest guy, Bobby.”

Now he looks puzzled.

“What did I tell you last week?”

He hunches his shoulders and spreads his hands.

“You know,” I say.

He looks at the tile again. I begin to think he finds it more interesting than our conversation.

“Tell me, Bobby.”

Silence.

I reach down and lift his chin, turning his face toward mine. I wonder if this is what mothers of uncooperative children feel. “Tell me what I said would happen if you came up light again this week.” More silence.

I grab him by the lapels and stand, raising him to his feet. Letting go of his collar, I palm his face like a basketball and give him a shove. His body slams against the wall, his head bouncing slightly off the ecru-painted drywall.[14] I close the distance between us and look down into his face. I rest my hand gently on his shoulder and whisper. “What did I say, Bobby?”

He mumbles toward my chest. “You told me you’d break my thumbs.”

“That’s right.” I step back a bit, but not enough to let him move away from the wall. “Now what am I supposed to do, Bobby? What should I do?”

“Cut me some slack, man. Please.”

I consider the possibility for a moment. “You know I can’t do that. You’re not the only one accountable here.” Making a special effort to soften my voice, as if talking to a child, I say, “But I’ll tell you what...” I am sorry as soon as I speak. Looking into his eyes, I see I’ve given him too much hope. “Sit down at the table, hold still, and don’t scream. I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

I can’t read his expression. His brows are arched high above his rounded eyes and his teeth are still clenched together, making the cords on his neck stand out.

“Sit at the table,” I say.

He looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language, so I put my hand on his shoulder and tug him toward the table. I sit him down. He lowers his head again.

“Are you crying?” I ask.

He shakes his head, lying.

“Give me a hand.”

He holds both hands a few inches above the table and considers them.

“Come on, Bobby. I’m going to break them both anyway. It’s not Sophie’s Choice.”[15] He looks even more confused. So I reach down, grab his left hand, and quickly snap the thumb.[16]

He yelps like a kicked Chihuahua.

Before he can pull the right hand away, I grab it and repeat the process.

Another yelp, more crying. He holds both hands in front of and away from himself as if they are on fire. He looks confused, tears on his cheeks.[17]

I walk around the island to the freezer. Going well above and beyond the call of duty, I pull out a tray of ice and dump it into a Williams-Sonoma kitchen towel. I fold the ice into the green-checkered fabric and carry it back to Bobby.

“Hold this between your palms.” I hand it to him. “Not too tight. I’ll see you next time, Bobby.”

He mutters something incomprehensible.

“You know what happens next time, right, Bobby?”

Bobby nods.

“Look at me, Bobby.”

He looks at me.

“You know?”[18]

He nods.

“You should go to the emergency room to have those set.”

Another nod.

“Have a nice day, Bobby.”

I lock the door behind myself as I walk out into the street. The cool blue of the sky is just beginning to warm where the sun is nearing the horizon. I feel an itch on the back of my head. Reaching up, I gently rub my finger across the spot, hoping to feel a point or two of new hair growth. I don’t.

Sitting behind the wheel of my car, again I wonder — verb or noun?