Free Jumped In by Patrick Flores-Scott Page B

ask.
    â€œYeah,” Luis says. “In my mom’s room. She lets me use it whenever I want.”
    â€œWhy don’t we use that?”
    â€œI can’t explain it.” He points at the typewriter. “You just gotta hit a key.”
    He waits for me, so I do it. Thwack. An i snaps onto the paper.
    â€œFeel that pop ?” Luis asks.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œPretty cool, huh?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou ever feel a computer do that?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s why we’re using the typewriter.”
    He pokes the machine one finger at a time, searches for the next letter, then pokes again. He squints, concentrating on the searching and poking.
    The only sound is the metal arms of the typewriter smacking the letters of our poem onto the paper.
    I go use the bathroom.
    Come back and watch Luis type for a while.
    Get another root beer.
    Return to more typing.
    Finish the root beer.
    Go to the living room and watch Pat and Vanna. Then Alex Trebek all the way to Final Jeopardy.
    I head back to Luis’s room and wait until finally— finally —he whips the paper out of the machine. And studies it.
    â€œCheck this out,” he says handing me a page. “Does it look done?”
    I don’t know what the hell done would look like. But I check it out and tell him it looks pretty cool.
    â€œReally? You think it’s done?”
    â€œYeah. I think so.”
    â€œI think so too. I think it’s done … for now.”

 
    BOUNCE
    W E’RE FINISHED FOR THE DAY . I put my jacket on to go.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he asks.
    â€œI thought we were done.”
    â€œDone writing . Now we got to be able to speak the thing backwards and forwards. If we aren’t one hundred percent confident, it’s gonna blow. No matter how good the poem is.”
    I take my jacket off.
    We start reading the poem out loud together. It’s hard.
    But I try my best. I stumble along.
    Suddenly Luis waves his hands in the air and shouts, “Stop. Hold the phone! This is slam poetry , Sam. This ain’t old folks’ theater.” He smiles and says, “You’re gonna put a guy to sleep with that kind of slop. Those words gotta BOUNCE , man! We gotta mean what we say and say it like we mean it. We gotta be rock stars! MCs, busting a funky flow with these lines. You dig?”
    I do not dig. And I don’t know whether to laugh or to run.
    I look at Luis, and it’s clear he wants me to do this.
    So I decide to laugh.
    And to try.
    â€œI dig,” I say. “I’ll bounce.”
    We practice reading the poem until it’s time for me to go home for real.
    Luis makes me promise I’ll work on the bouncing.
    I promise.
    He says, “Good.” Then he grabs a pen and napkin off the kitchen table and starts making a little calendar.
    â€œWhat’s that for?”
    â€œWhen slackers are feeling fine, that’s when they sit on their useless asses and stop working. And, yes, I’m talking about you.”
    The calendar is thirteen boxes, one for each day until the March 8 slam. In each box, he writes the hours I’ll be coming over to his place to work and the hours I need to practice alone at home.
    â€œWho’s the real Luis?” I ask him. “The tough guy I see at school? Or the royal dork scheduling my poetry practice on a dirty napkin?”
    He’s immediately serious. “Whattaya mean?”
    â€œI mean, uh, you just seem really different than at school.”
    â€œHow do I seem at school?” he says, sounding pissed.
    â€œNothing. Forget what I said.”
    â€œHow do I seem, Sam? At school?”
    â€œYou seem … kinda tough—”
    â€œTough and …”
    â€œAnd, uh—you know—not like … like a guy who would work on a project like this.”
    â€œOkay. Let me get this straight.” He grips his hand tight on my shoulder and glares like he