Mentor

By Rainier George Weiner

Mentor tells a story about a man who offered a fatherless twelve-year-old boy the gift of his time, his knowledge, and most of all, his love and friendship. In return, the boy rewarded these gifts with abuse and finally a cowardly act of treachery and betrayal, the enormity of which stretches the limits of human belief. And when his betrayal had been exposed and severe punishment loomed, the young boy received yet another giftperhaps the most precious gift any one being can bestow upon anotherthe man forgave him.

Mentor takes the reader onto the streets of New York City to race headlong over its pavement, from schoolyards, city streets, and youthful gang hideouts to lovers parks. The fast-moving novel combines adolescent love with explicit demonstrations of what happens as children grow up in the teeming cities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Sep 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504335614

Rainier George Weiner

The author graduated from Santa Clara University with a Master’s Degree in Mechanical Engineering and has worked 40 years in the Engineering Field, awarded several patents in the glass fiber-forming process. George, however, has written extensively all his life including 5 other books: Mentor (historical narrative), Long Before Glasnost (history), Living On Lifesavers (memoir), Knee High to Hell (memoir) and How Changing World Demographics Affects your Investments & Careers (financial). Instead of rapaciously focusing only on cement, cold steel and unchangeable physical laws -- the holy grail of engineering -- during off hours and vacations his mind danced with ideas for books: conflicts, crises and resolutions, his own and the experiences of others, real and unreal. The author retired in 2006 giving him more time to focus on writing exclusively. His personal writing now includes the 6 books and a collection of 9 short stories. He concurrently served on the Board of Directors as Secretary and Newsletter contributor for 2 NGO non-profit organizations -- World Runners and Global Partners for Development.

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Copyright © 2015 Rainier George Weiner.

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ISBN: 978-1-5043-3560-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-3561-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 9/8/2015

CONTENTS

Chapter 1    The Project

Chapter 2    The Pond

Chapter 3    The Plot

Chapter 4    The Promise

Chapter 5    The Pavilion

Chapter 6    The Paradox

Chapter 7    The Proposition

Chapter 8    The Politics

Chapter 9    The Palisades

Chapter 10    The Park

CHAPTER 1

THE PROJECT

Approaching the end of Conway Avenue, the streetlight had been broken. Pieces of the yellow bulb, barely visible in the moonless night, squashed under Ralph’s feet. At the corner, an old brick building came between him and the only working street light throwing him into ecliptic shadow. He stood still for a moment trying to adjust his eyes to the new level of darkness. Leaning forward, he peered down the dark side street for any sign of Pepe.

In the darkness the air moves, leather scrapes concrete, something inhales—a burst of pink light—and suddenly the pavement leaps upward into Ralph’s face. Kissing the cement, the concrete slaps back rolling him onto his side. Head throbbing, his numbed face pinned against the sidewalk, he manages to get his hands under his body. Pushing upward onto his knees, reaching out with his hands, he feels nothing. Another blur of movement.

Pointed boots dig into his chest. An object strikes him in the middle of the back. In the darkness he lashes out with his right fist. When he makes contact he feels little resistance. Whatever he fought had little mass. He thought he heard a body rolling on the ground. He makes it to his feet. More shuffling of feet, footsteps, heavy breathing, gasps. Some form of rope or cloth grips him around the neck. He twists. He bucks his head. Reaching out he feels an arm. Grasping, wrenching he feels it snap. A scream. A humming whirr. Another splash of light and he strikes the pavement again. This time he feels a warm-liquid running down his cheek. Again trying to get to his feet, he makes it only to his knees. He covers his head with folded arms. However, the sidewalk springs up again and slams him in the face for the final time.

Cold steel scrapes his buttocks and thighs. He feels ripping tugs at his trousers as air cools bare flesh where his pockets had been. Glued to the ground, his arms, legs and torso twitch in place but do not move. His legs straight, his feet extended out over the curb, his frame flush on the sidewalk, Ralph’s body leis quiet, cold and motionless. His mind, however, explodes: flashing bright, dark; popping in, out of consciousness; searching forward,… backwards:

* * *

The late afternoon sun reflecting off the shop windows roused in Ralph familiar senses he had not experienced for over ten years. Turning the corner onto Robin Avenue, he could see down the entire block to where it passed perpendicularly under the elevator tracks. The long line in front of the Eclipse Movie Theater moved slowly. Youths of all colors, mostly dressed in jeans, stood facing the street bantering, using more arm movements than words. He walked more slowly now, his leather heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete sidewalk beneath his long legs and broad, thick shoulders.

Wide-eyed fish, poking their heads out from beneath blankets of crushed ice stare up at Ralph as he passes Larry’s Meat, Fish and Poultry Market. As a youngster, he could never decide which smelled worse—the raw meat, the fish or the neck-less chickens. Today, it’s the fish. The jewelry store, the antique shop and the old camera shop still had the same black painted bars, spaced six inches apart, in front of doors and windows. Men, dressed in leather jackets appearing as if they have nothing else to do, peek through bars at the merchandise. Inside, fat, hairy-chest men in tank-tops stand behind glass counters looking, only slightly, more bored than mean.

At the middle of the block, the sign above the door straddling two large bay-type display windows reads 925. Ralph stops and peers inside. Cardboard stands display pictures of movie stars’ faces, billboard scenes and videocassettes.

Miss, Ralph calls out poking his head between two inward folding doors. Are you the owner of this shop?

’Fraid so; may I help you? A slim young woman with brown hair falling over one side of her face tilts an angular jaw at Ralph as she steps forward.

No, not exactly. I was just curious. My mother managed this property while I grew up. Used to be a grocery store. Many an afternoon I stood on this sidewalk waiting to help customers. She died twelve years ago.

The young woman pushes through the folding doors, looks up and down the street and stands with her hands on her hips facing Ralph. Well, I bought the place four years ago. Was an adult bookstore then. Still have weird people stop by—come in and go right out. She smiles, continuing to look up and down the block. She places her hand on Ralph’s arm. Go ahead and look around if you like. I can understand how you feel.

No, but thanks. I’m about ten minutes late for an appointment now.

The familiar lights of the Modern Drug Store turning on light up Ralph’s figure as he walks by. One of three boys leaning against the storefront calls out to him, Hey man, can ya loan me a quarter; we’re lost and I gotta call my mother. Ralph turns and smiles at the kids, but keeps on walking.

From the center of the group, two oversize legs slide a wiry frame upward along the face of the building wall. Hey bro, don’t tune us out—you mama here. Leaning against the wall, cupping his hand in front of his mouth he rasps in a high pitch voice, Hey man, if I’m wrong, then you know where you belong; you can try to seeit on my chest and let the birds build a nest!

The smile leaves Ralph’s face as he slows somewhat and takes a quick look over his shoulder. Glancing at his watch, he turns and continues his long strides forward.

Passing the new Subway sandwich shop next door, he inhales deeply. At the corner, in front of Andy’s liquor store, three Hispanic boys in short pants below their knees stand in the middle of the sidewalk talking to a black girl in knee-high boots. Their dark eyes move slowly from Ralph’s feet upward to his eyes and focus in a sullen, frozen stare. They retreat slowly out of the way to let him pass, every tepid movement appearing done with great effort.

Past the liquor store on the corner, Robin Avenue makes an abrupt right turn to go between the four columns of the elevator train tracks. Only partially hidden by the rusted steel beams, a gray-haired man in coveralls urinates on the ground without looking up as Ralph passes.

Passing under the tracks, the street makes an abrupt left turn. A large lot the area of a football field infested with weeds and low growing bushes looms vacant to his right. Ralph had always wondered why this land—in this space-limited city—had never been developed. That is, before the area had degraded to a neighborhood where coverage on city maps end.

Past the vacant lot on the same street, The Project, framed starkly against the golden, midsummer-moon background now just beginning to rise over the Manhattan skyline. Located in the midst of a neighborhood of long stairways leading up to narrow side-by-side tenement houses, the Project resembled a fortress within the boundaries of the enemy’s camp. Four eight-story brick buildings shaped like Monopoly Game Hotels formed a rectangular pattern with a cement-paved courtyard in the center. As high as human hands could reach, graffiti in bright blue, red and green colors decorated the walls of the red-brick buildings.

When Ralph arrived at the Project’s entrance, he went directly to the stairway. He knew that the elevator was never operable. It was deja vu for him as he walked up the stairs. He had never lived at The Project, but he knew his way around.

On the fifth floor, he walked down the landing overlooking the center courtyard. A group of youths were playing basketball between the buildings. The basket on the far end was missing. Near the wall, a group of boys threw dice against the wall of the building. Approaching the door with a large brass number five at its center, Ralph paused before knocking. He let his mind wander backward:

Are you sure you’re up to this, Mr. Wilson?, Mrs Ratcliff, Director of Children’s Relations for the 2nd District, asked as she tilted her head and looked up at Ralph. Don’t feel badly if you don’t.

I’m OK.

Her smooth dark skin dimpled on both sides of her round cheeks as she smiled ever so slightly and placed her hand on Ralph’s arm. Look, I appreciate your answering our ad, but I don’t want to paint an unrealistic picture. If you’re looking for a daunting challenge, you’ve landed on the right rooftop. The boy we’ve assigned to you extends the boundaries of the word belligerent. Just five days ago, Mr. Qwan, an unimaginably kind Asian man, stood before me in this office with tears in his eyes. She turned her face away from Ralph’s for an instant. I would be too embarrassed to try to relate to you what he said Pepe had done to him. He quit last week.

In your ad you noted there could be behavioral problems. I’m prepared, Ralph responded.

Mrs Ratliff peered again at Ralph, this time more slowly. She spoke in a matter of fact tone.

He’s a white boy, you know.

Right.

She walked to a small cabinet on the wall, and returned with a single sheet of paper in her hand. This is all I have: Lisa Orranttia and her twelve-year-old son, Pepe, share a two-bedroom apartment at the Project. The father, an Italian immigrant carpenter, left when the boy was eight. Lisa took a job as a waitress in one of the city’s Automat Restaurants. She went on to note that although Mrs. Orrantia seemed an able and concerned parent that Pepe behaved very badly, being involved with the police on several occasions.

When Ralph’s knuckles hit the door just below the number 5 sign, his thoughts returned to the present. The shrill sound of a vacuum cleaner partially drowned out the bell, but immediately the rasping sound of the cleaner stopped and footsteps approached. When the door swung open, a lithe figure with long, curly, black hair spanned the opening. She had a pale complexion and an aquiline nose some might consider too long. A long jaw line thrust the bottom portion of her narrow face forward. Her French ancestry was carved in high cheek bones and close, deep-set eyes, which froze Ralph for an instant. What did she think? Surprised to see a black man? Or could she tell by the phone conversation? Whatever the case, she gave no indication of either.

Ralph?

Yes, Lisa?

Oh, I’m so glad to see you; please come in. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I have some brewing all day.

Walking past her, his six-foot-two forehead passed a full six inches above hers, but her lean frame made her appear taller. The small room had only one lounge-type chair and a television set on the opposite wall. Two side-by-side doors at the far end led to a kitchen area and two small bedrooms.

Sit down on the lounge. I’ll be right back.

Returning from the kitchen with two cups in her hand, lines formed above her forehead as she spoke more tentatively: Pepe should be home by now. However, he often comes late, so I don’t really know how long it will be. Looking around the room she picked up a piece of paper off the floor.

I had just gotten home before you arrived and have not had time to do my housework.

Don’t worry about it, I’m not in any hurry, Ralph said, standing up to take the cup of coffee. And listen, don’t let me interrupt you; just go ahead with what you were doing, I’ll just read the sports page of your Daily News.

Lisa hesitated for a moment, but looking around the room said, Thanks, perhaps I had better do that.

Ralph leaned back on the sofa and glanced alternately at the newspaper and at Lisa as she flitted about the small apartment cleaning. He found it difficult to keep his eyes off her: definitely not Cinderella-like pretty, she had a certain stature that pervaded her stark features and lean frame. Her movements personified style and grace: When she carried a waste can, it was as if she had just caught a pass in the end zone at the Super Bowl; when she pushed the vacuum cleaner with one hand, it became Artanque’s slashing thrust and parry; when she arched her back and extended her dust mop to the upper corners of the room, the flag was being raised on Iwo Jima. Somehow, everything she did seemed part of a masque or dramatic scene.

After only 10 minutes, she threw a broom and dustpan into the hallway closet and slammed the door shut. Hurrying so much that she stumbled on her way, she took a seat on the far end of the lounge opposite Ralph, crossed her legs and placed her hands on top of her thighs.

So, she said, catching her breath. you don’t know how much I appreciate your being here, Ralph.

I hope I can help.

I’m sure you can. He needs someone so badly. He needs someone to go places with – any place. He needs someone just to be there to tell how he feels; especially, someone other than his degenerate peers. He just needs direction. He’s really not the monster that people see him to be. If you are never able to do anything else, please, believe that.

Yes, I will, and I think I understand, Ralph said, trying not to look at Lisa who now had her hand over her eyes.

You know, Lisa went on, for days he acts great—even helps me with the housework. Then, some nights I hear him crying, calling out his father’s name. I wake him, but when he falls asleep again, I often hear the sobbing all night. I would try not to listen, turn over on my pillow and stuff the other end in my ear. She walked slowly over to the kitchen and came back with a paper napkin. "Sometimes I would wake in the morning with my pillow sticking to the side of my face. Then, for the next few days he is that monster."

For several nights I would lie awake in bed waiting to hear the front door open. About time for me to get up for work I hear him slam in and throw himself on his bed. I never wanted to keep him awake. He would go to school late, if at all.

How old was he when your husband left? Ralph asked, remembering what the youth counselor had told him about Lisa’s husband’s departure.

Eight, Lisa answered, looking at the front door as if she thought she heard someone coming, exactly four years ago.

When the sound at the door turned out to be nothing but the wind rattling the door-sign, Lisa looked at Ralph now leaning back on the sofa and said, Enough about us, tell me something about yourself.

Not much to tell Lisa. I walked these same streets as a youngster—stumbled more than strode in the beginning—especially after our family broke up. Must still have some ink residue on my fingertips. My angel-mother—and a third-grade teacher who took me aside and planted the right thoughts in my mind—turned me around. I went to Mckee High School. Now work as a construction foreman for Watkins Builders. We build mostly apartments and commercial buildings. My wife, Amy, and I have been married for nine years. No children yet. We’re working on it—probably my fault. That’s about it. Nothing very exciting.

It’s exciting that you’re here.

Lisa looked at her watch. It’s seven o’ clock. I should start cooking something. Can you stay for dinner? He should be home soon.

Only if you let me help.

When the two went through the kitchen doorway, Ralph could see through the only kitchen window onto Robin Avenue. The room was not much larger than a long walk-in closet. A gas stove took up the far end. The sink sat in front of the centered window, the refrigerator to its left. Lisa set some onions, tomatoes and celery on a small table in the center of the room. When she started to chop the vegetables, Ralph took the knife from her hand.

As Ralph cut the onions and other fresh vegetables on the small table his eyes watered so badly that he became quiet. As he wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, Lisa, now watching the burgers fry on the stove, took a moment to observe him from the side. "Who was this man willing to give up his Friday evening to take on being a mentor for her son?"

To best picture what Ralph looked like might best be to describe what he did not look like: He did not look like Sydney Portier or Harry Bellafonte. He did not look like a white man with black skin. He had the strong-boned, more rounded jaw and heavy features of a black man with black skin—a linebacker on the Chicago Bears. His eyes were soft, warm, gentle. But the cant of his head and shoulders tilted upward as if forever facing a bracing headwind. When he smiled, full lips spread wide over straight white teeth.

How are you doing? Lisa asked,

I’m OK—and just about finished the onions.

This kitchen is not big enough for two people. Please, go sit on the couch ’til I finish.

Before Ralph had gotten to the kitchen doorway, the front door swung open. Seeing Ralph in the kitchen, the figure in the doorway stopped as if framed in a picture. Pepe was the antithesis of his mother: if she was the epitome of lean, lithe grace, he was uncouth incarnate: Square featured with straight black hair parted in the middle and pigtailed at the back, his lips strained to stay shut over straight but clenched teeth. His jaw had a tilt that seemed to be constantly saying, So what? Dilated eyes leered past all conscious reality as if focused on an existential vacuum.

When he finally moved from the doorway, he didn’t walk, he shuffled. Eyeing Ralph from toe to head, saying nothing, he slumped to the edge of the sofa, sat on the end hand rest, and placed his hands on his lap.

Wiping her hands with a towel, Lisa came into the living room and stood about five feet from Pepe. Baby, this is Ralph. He is going to be your friend. He has offered to do things with you and take you places. As she spoke she made uncontrollable, random movements with her arms and hands.

Pepe neither looked at or away from Ralph.

Baby, Ralph is a construction worker. He can show you how they build houses. She looked directly at Pepe as she spoke.

Yeah, right, the boy said without looking up.

What would you like to do? Ralph offered, standing up and starting to walk toward the boy. Everyone’s different. Let me know what you would like to do.

Look man, I don’t need nothin. I’m doin fine, Pepe finally blurted, still not looking up at Ralph or at Lisa.

Lisa took a step toward Pepe and said, Don’t talk like that. I’m still your mother and this man has given up his time to be your friend, and you’re not going to talk like that.

Pepe, now sitting up straight on the corner of the couch, looked at his mother for the first time and barked in a loud voice:

Hey! What am I? Some kind of an experiment? Some kind of a guinea pig? Look, last month I get Charley Chan to save me from the dragon-world and make me a happy clam-digger. Now this month, even better, I get Super-Nigger to take me cat fishing! What’s next—next month do I get ….

Before Pepe could get the next word out of his mouth, Lisa, with one long stride was at his side. Unwinding with the snap of a broken garage-door spring, throwing her arm in a long radius arc, her open hand landed on the side of Pepe’s cheek like the crack of a bullwhip. The force of the blow spun his head a quarter turn and knocked his body off the sofa armrest. He landed on the floor with such an impact that the pot of vegetables on the kitchen stove splashed over onto the gas heater spewing steam to the ceiling.

Looking surprised and dazed, Pepe lay on the floor holding his chin. The mean expression on his face had given way to shock and glare. Lisa, standing over him, searching for words, stood pointing her finger, while Ralph ran to the kitchen pulling the pot off the stove.

When Ralph re-entered, Pepe sat on the sofa leaning backwards. Lisa said, Ralph, I’m sorry. Kids always have to say stupid things.

Hey, don’t worry about it—you think that’s the first time I ever heard that one?

You don’t deserve that. I’ll guarantee that will never happen again.

I believe it, Ralph said, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head.

Lisa then went into the bathroom. Returning, trailing a damp towel, she approached Pepe still reclining his head on the sofa. She wiped the blood from under his nose. He neither acknowledged her nor avoided her actions. Pushing her hand away from his face, he got up from the couch and went into his room. A half hour later, however, when she called to him to come out for dinner with a voice that was more of an order than a request, he complied quickly. At the small table, the three ate a quiet dinner. Lisa said, Pepe, hand me the butter, please.

Without looking up, the young boy slid the butter plate with one sweep of his arm in the direction of his mother.

Just give me an idea, kid, what kind of things would you like to do? Ralph asked,

I don’t care, the boy answered without looking at Ralph, rather glancing over at his mother. Anything.

Just give me a hint, Ralph continued,

Before Pepe could respond, the phone rang.

I’ll get it Mom. Jumping up from the table and dashing into the living room, the young boy picked up the phone, ran into his room and closed the door.

Ralph, what am I going to do? Lisa, her elbows on the table and her two hands over her face, said softly, I know who that is! She hesitated for a moment as if considering whether or not to go on. They’re part of the Luccero Gang. I can tell the way he acts after talking to them. I can tell when they do something and it’s in the paper. I should turn him in for questioning. But he’s my son, Ralph. Placing her hand on Ralph’s arm, she asked, What would you do? If I turn him in, I will lose him completely. You know what I mean?

Before Ralph could answer, Pepe came back through the kitchen door. The three didn’t say more than ten words to each other for the following ten minutes. Pepe, saying nothing, ate the cake on his plate never looking at either of the two adults.

After a long silence, looking at his watch, Ralph remarked, Well, it’s getting late. I had better be leaving. He turned toward Pepe leaning against the door jamb of his room. What do you think, kid, go to a ball game next Saturday? I can get free tickets for the Mets from the company.

Saying nothing, the young boy shifted his weight in the doorway and raised his hands as if to say, I guess.

Meet you in the parking lot of PS 145 at 6 PM?

Yeah, sure, Pepe muttered in a low voice before sliding off the door jamb into the room and closing the door.

Lisa followed Ralph to the front door. She didn’t speak until they stood on the porch. Placing her hand on his trailing arm she said, Thanks, as he turned and disappeared down the dimly lit hallway.

Ralph walked quickly down the creaking wood steps onto the sidewalk of Robin Avenue. He had parked a full six blocks away. A full moon was beginning to ascend over the roof of building number Two. As he walked, it cast a long shadow ahead of him. He walked past well-lighted street corners where teen-agers in short pants and baseball caps turned around, laughed and slapped playfully at each other, past long stairways leading to high porches where gray-haired men looked down and waved, past crowded streets where young men in groups snapped and snarled at each other, past empty blocks where men sat in a circle playing cards under the haze of the yellow porch light. He walked more slowly now, stopping at times. As he approached his parked car, the moon had risen in its equinox to where the length of his shadow had shortened.

Once inside his car, he drove towards the business district. Along Robin Drive he lurched to the right as he made the left turn under the elevator tracks, right onto Custer Avenue to the intersection with Mayberry Drive, then east through darkened streets: Streets where bearded men pushed shopping carts filled with rags, streets where alley-ways were bare and choked with the smell of urine, and streets where PR’s stood in a circle under street lights speaking Spanish. Brothers blew on their hands throwing dice against a wall. Then past fronts of pawnshop and bail bond makers and bars filled with video games and coin change machines.

Everywhere and anywhere, life teemed. He found an unexpected parking spot three doors down from his apartment. Walking slowly from his car, his head projected downward. As he approached his apartment building, the length of his stride lengthened and his