Edward Goldenberg 'Little Caesar' Robinson is serving a life sentence in a maximum security prison in upstate New York, convicted on charges of drug trafficking and murder in 1990. He will be eligible for parole in twenty-one years. He was never questioned in the murder of Henry Addison.
Edward Goldenberg 'Little Caesar' Robinson is fifty-one years old.
Gregory 'Marlboro' Wilson retired on a full pension and lives on a Pennsylvania farm. He spends his days reading books, writing letters to his children and playing cards with friends. Every Christmas he gets two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes from a Sleeper who remembers. Gregory 'Marlboro' Wilson is sixty-three years old.
I am now forty years old, with a wife and two children. I love my wife and adore my son and daughter. My family has helped me escape from many of the pains of my past. But the haunting memories of childhood are always close at hand. My body is older than its years and my mind is filled more with horror than with the pleasures of life. The dreams I have are still vivid, the nightmares painful, the fears steady. The nighttime hours always carry a sense of dread.
I sometimes feel that the lucky Sleepers are the ones who died.
They no longer have to live with the memories.
They are free of the dreams.
Epilogue
Many's the road I have walked upon
Many's the hour between dusk and dawn
Many's the time
Many's the mile
I see it all now
Through the eyes of a child
Take It Where You Find it – Van Morrison
Rueben, a Puerto Rican kid with dark curly hair and tight gray slacks, the crease sharp enough to cut skin, was the favorite to win the contest and the fifty dollars first prize. He stood in a corner of the gym, his back to the three-piece band, chewing gum, sneaking puffs on a Viceroy, waiting for the disc jockey on stage to signal a start to the school-sponsored Chubby Checker King Twister competition.
'He looks good,' I said, staring over at Rueben. 'He looks ready to win.'
'He looks like he seen West Side Story a couple of times too many,' Johnny said.
'He won't figure you to be any good, Shakes,' Michael said. 'Since he don't know you.'
'I don't figure you to be any good neither,' Tommy said, putting an arm around my shoulder. 'And I know you.'
'He's got you beat on the shoes,' John said. 'He's wearing those roach stompers. They're good twist shoes. They got a light look, but good soles.'
'Who are you, Tom McCann?' I asked. 'The shoes I got are okay.'
'Who else is in this?' Michael asked. 'Outside of him.'
'Three Irish guys from 46th Street,' Tommy said.
'They any good?' I asked.
'I hear they're pretty stupid,' Tommy said.
'Now you need to go to college to do the twist?' Michael asked.
'They just signed on as a goof,' Tommy said. 'Make each other laugh. These guys couldn't get laid in a women's prison.'
'There's that goofy kid from the pizza place,' I said. 'I hear he signed up.'
'I know him,' John said. 'He's got all those zits and that black shit on his teeth. I make sure he never touches any of my slices.'
'Anybody else?' Michael asked.
'That black kid who spits when he talks,' Tommy said. 'The one whose father just got shot.'
'They might give it to him just for that,' I said. 'Start feelin' sorry for him.'
'Don't worry, Shakes,' Michael said. 'We see the vote goin' that way, we'll have somebody stab you.'
'Not too deep,' I said. 'I need this shirt for school.'
'Just deep enough to win,' Michael said.
The gym's overhead lights were turned off, the spotlights shining on the center of the floor. Eighty or more kids surrounded the circle, many of the boys and girls holding hands, some sneaking soft kisses in the dark.
'Will the twist contestants please enter the circle,' the disc jockey ordered from the stage, his jacket tight around his shoulders, his pants cuffed, white socks sagging below the ankles.
'Go get 'em, Shakes,' Tommy said, patting me on the back.
'Anybody gets close to us, we push,' John said 'Knock 'em off balance.'
'We'll be here waitin' for you, Shakes,' Michael said. 'Win or lose.'
'We can't let you go out there without a good luck kiss,' Carol Martinez said, easing her way through the crowd to join our group. She was wearing a white dress with black shoes and white lace stockings. Her long dark hair was done up in a pony tail.
'You give it to him,' Michael said. 'We already kissed him once today.'
Carol put her arms around my neck and kissed me firmly on the lips.
'Kiss or no kiss,' Tommy said, 'we ain't cuttin' her in on the prize money.'
'You're nothin' but heart,' John said.
Each contestant was placed under one of the six spotlights, the circle large enough to give us all room to dance. I was sandwiched between the kid from the pizza parlor and one of the Irish guys from 46th, still in his St. Agnes school uniform. Rueben was across from me, a relaxed look on his face, a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth. The tall black kid, the best-dressed of the group, was the only one who looked nervous.
'C'mon, everybody!' the disc jockey shouted in a poor Chubby Checker imitation. 'Clap your hands, we're gonna do the twist and it goes like this.'
Chubby Checker's joyful voice boomed out of the faulty sound system and we began to twist, cheered on by the screams and cries of our friends in the crowd. We all kept it simple at the start, except for the three Irish guys, who tossed in spins and whirls to impress the audience.
It was an easy contest to lose. If you fell, missed your motion or stopped twisting, you were automatically bounced. Barring that, the disc jockey, the designated twist judge, walked among the dancers and tapped out those he felt were not up to the demands of the dance.
It would take less than twenty minutes to declare a winner. The Irish kid in the St. Agnes uniform was the first out, losing his balance on a one-knee twist. One of his friends followed soon after, trying to do a foot and hand move that backfired.
'They're Irish,' Tommy said, laughing and nudging Michael. 'Just like you.'
'They're stupid, too,' Michael said. 'Just like you.'
By the third go-around I was getting winded, sweat coming off my face and back, the heat of the spotlights and the constant movement causing the faces around me to blur. Rueben kept his pace steady, his eyes on me, every so often flashing a smile to show he was in the game and breathing easy.
By the end of 'Twistin' U.S.A.' the kid from the pizza parlor grabbed his side, stopped dancing and walked out of the circle. A short girl reached toward him, put her arms around his waist and kissed his cheek.
'You see that?' John asked with a look of disgust. 'She kissed him on the zits.'
'A connect-the-dot face has a girlfriend and I go to movies alone,' Tommy said, shaking his head. 'Is that fair?'
'Yes,' Michael said.
Rueben was moving faster now, shaking down lower, twisting his body till his knees seemed to be waxing the floor. The toothpick was still in his mouth and a sneer had replaced the smile, his confidence building with every beat.
The black kid was all sweat and little style, his legs starting to cramp, the overhead lights bothering him more with each move. He was favoring his right knee, wincing whenever he went down on it.