David Hagerty

The Two Davids

by David Hagerty

Like most men, I learned the importance of self-defense when I was just a boy.

Other guys on the school yard used to tease me for being timid. They’d call me sissy and wuss and wimp. To most of my friends, those were fighting words, but as the son of a preacher, one with thin arms and no strength behind them, I’d learned to forgive insults not seven times but seventy times seven. My parents had named me after King David in hopes I would grow to be a leader of men, like my father, who ministered to a small progressive congregation, but when someone challenged me I’d shrug and walk away.

That philosophy only worked for so long in the neighborhoods of Chicago. Even though we lived on the peaceful North Side, far from the gang violence and mayhem you read about in the newspapers today, eventually everyone gets tested. During recess when all us guys were playing smear the queer with the football—a playground version of rugby that gave us an excuse to tackle one another—I tried to disappear. I didn’t like any sports involving a ball since my poor vision made it tough to time its flight. On that day, I ran at the perimeter of the action to stay out of the scrum, which worked well—until I lay sprawled on the ground with a stinging pain in one cheek. A hard layer of trampled snow covered the blacktop, but the cold did little to relieve the pain. I looked up to see Erin, the school bully, climbing off me.

Gabe had developed faster than the other seventh graders, with muscular arms and a thin stubble. Even his voice had dropped to the timber of a man’s. To accentuate his natural advantages, his mom had sent him to karate school, a skill he practiced on us all. I’d seen him kick and punch guys for nothing but amusement, and now it was my turn. For him, the game served as an excuse to tackle me—even though I hadn’t touched the ball all morning—a challenge to play by his rules.

While I searched for my glasses, which had flown off somewhere, I debated what to do—whether to provoke a beating in the name of pride, or to hew to my father’s advice. As I crawled toward a glint of light off my gold frames, all around I heard taunts and jibes, directed at both me and Erin, urging us toward combat.

“Gotta keep your head in the game,” Gabe said and reached out a hand to help me up.

I ignored the gesture and found my glasses, which had one bent arm but both lenses still in tact.

“He’s gotta fight now,” I heard Josh, Erin’s best friend, say.

Before I’d made the choice, Mr. Crowder, the recess monitor, shouldered his way to the center of the group and ordered everyone back to class. He didn’t bother to ask what had started this scuffle, likely knowing the answer by who was involved, nor to check my injuries.

“You’re fine,” he said.

As I stumbled back to the safety zone of the school, Mr. Crowder put a firm arm under mine, feigning support, but really I think to keep me away from Erin, who kept looking back at me, expectantly.

“What a baby,” I heard him say. “Crying over a tackle.”

I felt my cheeks grow wet and realized my eyes were watering, not from fear or pain but from being so close to the cold ground. Neither this excuse nor my father’s lessons spared me any shame at my cowardice.

Being a PK (preacher’s kid) comes with its own special burdens. My parents expected me to attend church every Sunday and absorb my father’s sermons. They also expected me to defy the ethics of my peers by practicing non-violence even if it hurt.

So when Josh stopped me in the halls later that day and said, “Gabe wants to meet after school at the park,” I nodded, non-committal.

I hadn’t fought since elementary, when conflicts consisted of a lot of shoving and name calling but few punches. Back then none of us had the strength to inflict much harm, so the risks were low. Lately, though, I’d seen black eyes, bloody lips, torn clothes, even a broken arm once when Marlin fell awkwardly on blacktop. I feared all of those—but more how I’d react. Would my watery eyes betray me again?

By the time the dismissal bell rang, I felt as if I’d stepped into a boxing ring and that clanging signaled the start of the first round. I thought about running home, where I’d be safe for the afternoon, but instead trudged toward the park.

“What are you gonna do?” asked Steve, my closest friend. His voice tinged with anticipation, as though even he wanted to see how I’d respond in a real fight. He was small and had also been victimized by Erin, but as a little brother he’d learned to fight back.

I shook my head and walked on silently. In the distance one bird squawked to another, a dog barked aggressively, someone honked a horn, and someone else shouted, proof that conflict was inevitable in all species.

By the time I reached the park, boys from our class crowded the playground. They hung from the monkey bars and dangled from the chain swings. One had even climbed atop the jungle gym, acting as lookout. I heard him shout “here he comes” to the others, who all rose in expectation.

Gabe lay back on the slide as calm as if we were meeting to play. A half smile creased his face as he stood and walked to within arm’s reach of me. “You scared?” he said. I shook my head and willed myself to stare him down. Up close, I realized I was a few fingers taller, with longer arms, but that did nothing for my confidence.

The other guys surrounded us, expecting a show. Several of them came from families who attended my father’s church and who saw me sitting passively in the front pews every Sunday. To them it would be no surprise if I ran, but I’d have to push my way through the circle to escape, confirming my cowardice. Even though the pain from the morning tackle had faded, a twitch started in my left eye, one so slight that nobody else could see, but enough to distract me.

“Sorry about bending your glasses,” Gabe said. His smile changed from mocking to genuine. “It was just a game.”

Confusion and relief suffused through me like the blood rushing to my limbs. All around, I heard murmurs of disappointment and disbelief. One boy even uttered “they’re not gonna fight” with contempt. I ignored the jibes and reached out to shake Erin’s hand, but before we touched, time fractured.

My next memory is of a stinging pain coming from the side of my head, and my ear ringing as though I stood next to a loud bell. I felt the cold, damp bark of the playground digging into my cheek and palms. Since I couldn’t see or hear anything clearly, I lay for what felt like minutes trying to regain control of my senses. By then, Gabe had left and the pack had dispersed.

“What happened?” I said.

“He sucker punched you,” Steve said. His tone betrayed no judgement. His older brothers had taught him to accept the injustice of beatings without cause, but I had no siblings to train me.

That night, when my father saw the bruise on my cheek and the abrasion beside my ear, he didn’t question me. Even a man devoted to peace understood the signs of violence. Instead, he probed the wounds with a finger until I pulled away in pain. My head still ached, and having someone prod it emphasized my shame at both fighting and losing.

My father had taught me how to ride a bike with no hands and recite a poem without looking and bone a fish with a pocket knife, but never how to keep my dignity in a hostile world.

Instead, he informed me we’d be waking early the following morning.

Principal Skinner sat silent and upright as my father explained his concerns. Once we’d shown off my swollen cheek and scabbed ear lobe, the principal nodded solemnly and clasped his hands atop his desk as though readying to join us in prayer. “Boys are rambunctious,” he said.

My father straightened the white collar of his clergy shirt. He typically saved the outfit for Sunday services but wore it that morning to claim the moral high ground, I assume. He appeared almost as uncomfortable as I felt but asked the principal to clarify his thoughts.

“Reverend, these kind of skirmishes are common in every school. They’re how boys test themselves, prove their manliness. We can’t suppress such innate instincts. What’s more, young people have to learn to manage their conflicts without adult intervention. It’s as important as math or history.”

“How do you teach them to settle differences without violence?” my father said.

“I’ll have our recess monitors watch them, but really they need to work it out amongst themselves.”

My father tried several other appeals to propriety even as Principal Skinner maintained his benign neutrality. I could tell by his rigid posture and voice that my father was furious, but probably to model conflict resolution for me, he left quietly, albeit without the handshake he offered to all his congregation at the end of services. Back then, no one worried about bullying. Instead, like Principal Skinner, most adults accepted it as a rite of passage.

For the rest of that day, I monitored Erin. In class, I eavesdropped on his conversations. In the hallways, I observed his movements. On the playground, I stood with my back against the school’s brick wall like a convict on the prison yard and watched the other boys playing soccer with a flattened tin can. Gabe ignored me.

His indifference gave me false hope. By the time Steve and I were walking home, I’d resolved to forget it all, too. Until a hand from behind shoved me face first into a wall and held me there. The bricks felt even more rough and chill than the playground or the bark. From this vantage, I couldn’t see anything other than mortar, but I recognized Erin’s voice.

“Snitch,” he said.

I tried to stammer out some defense, but the pressure against my cheek made me unintelligible.

“You think Principal Skinner’s going to protect you?” Gabe said. “Where’s he now?”

Illogically, I listened for any adult who might intervene but I heard only Steve sigh.

Next, I felt Erin’s breath on my ear as he whispered, “You gotta learn to fight.” He punctuated the phrase with a punch to my kidneys so hard I couldn’t breathe in more than gasps. I clutched my side but couldn’t reach around far enough to protect myself. Instead, I crumpled against the wall as Gabe threatened me with way worse if I ever told on him again.

Once I’d finally regained my wind enough to walk on, Steve said, “You know how there’s always fights in hockey?”

I shook my head. My father refused to let me watch any games as he’d heard more about its brawls than its goals.

“The guy who starts a fight usually wins. The refs never see a high stick or a trip until two guys square off. And all that happens is they both get sent to the penalty box.”

“You think I can beat Erin?” I said, unable to conceal my doubts.

“Only if you try.”

That night, in the dark and quiet of my bedroom, I thought about Steve’s advice. Maybe, despite what my dad taught me, fighting back was the only answer. The Bible overflows with stories of wars and killings. Even Christ said, “Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth. I did not come to bring peace but a sword.” My name, David, originated with a boy who’d slain a giant. If fighting now meant preventing more violence in the future, that seemed my best choice.

A fresh snow coated the city overnight, a few inches that glistened in the morning sun and all but blinded me. On the walk to school, I kept vigilant for Erin, listening for the crunch of footsteps approaching, but all I heard were cars splashing through the slush and shovels scraping against blacktop. Usually those sounds foreshadowed a recess filled with snowball fights and tackle football, so I pressed my back to the bricks again and let the other boys battle like soldiers. Gabe ignored me even as he used his self-defense training to trip and throw anyone within his reach. I pretended not to see him and anticipated the end of the school day.

Before last period, I snuck down a side stairwell, collected my things from my locker, left campus early, and lingered across the street. I hid in the sunken stairwell of a basement apartment, then fidgeted from foot to foot, warming up against the winter winds.

By the time the final bell rang, I practically vibrated with anticipation. While the other students emerged with shouts of joy, I waited for Gabe with grim resolve. Soon he swaggered out with the confidence of a gladiator. I climbed the steps to street level and stared at him until he noticed me. Even from a distance, I saw him smirk as he walked closer. Still, I kept my hands pocketed, bluffing him about my intents.

This time, rather than a frontal attack, he tried to circle me. I kept my back against an iron fence so he couldn’t get behind me but felt the spikes pressing into the sore spot on my kidneys. As usual, other boys surrounded us. Only this time I had no impulse to run.

“You ready to fight?” Gabe said, mocking.

I nodded.

He laughed and turned to the crowd for encouragement. “Let’s see what he’s got.”

While he still had his eyes off me, I removed my hands from my pockets, hiding one behind my thigh as I fingered open the blade of a Swiss army knife, as I’d seen greasers do in fifties TV shows. Before Gabe was ready, I leapt forward and stuck it in his midsection.

I still remember how easily the blade entered his belly, as gentle as snow falling, and how soundlessly it cut into his flesh. Stunned, he grunted and looked down to see the blood seeping from the wound, staining his shirt and the white ground. He staggered backward with none of his former bravado. The other boys gasped when they realized what I’d done: that I’d defeated Goliath with the same cunning and stratagem that the original David had used.

Since then, I’ve had many fights. Juvenile hall taught me the necessity of violence. I learned not just to defend myself but to take the advantage. Now, rather than wait for conflict, I anticipate it, enjoy it. In bar fights and street brawls, I strike first to feel the same power and control I did with Erin. As Steve taught me, picking a fight never ends with worse punishment.

My father visits me whenever I’m locked up, which is a lot lately, but he’s given up on sermonizing about forgiveness or turning the other cheek. He knows that no matter how much he proselytizes not everyone can adhere to his pacifism.

Two Davids coexist inside me: the boy who allowed himself to be victimized seventy times seven times, and the man who refuses to be punked. That boy David survives somewhere, a vestige of my youth, but age has so thoroughly vanquished him I can’t find more than traces. Just like my namesake, slaying a Goliath launched me on another path. If, as my father says, we’re all descendants of Jesus, then we’re all descendants of David as well, who prepped the battle field for the Messiah.

Photos Never Lie

by David Hagerty

You can call me Gray. Not because it’s my real name, nor even my stage name, but because it describes my legacy. I sit alone in a dusky attic above my Hollywood mansion, staring at my face in a mirror. Unlike most aging celebs, and contrary to what you’d expect, I look as good as I did thirty years ago. Nearby sit photos from my youth, when I was acclaimed for my beauty, which has changed not at all.

Only now I notice not the soft skin, golden hair, and chiseled cheeks that gossip columnists and publicists exulted, but a stiff, unmoving face that betrays no emotion, no humanity. I’ve become a statue, a soulless reflection, my own wax mannequin.

How did I evolve to this unnatural state?

I hit hard and fast in the movie scene, a star from my first minor role as boy toy to an older woman. Publicists acclaimed not just my looks but my magnetism. They called me a modern James Dean, a man who embodied the innocent mischief of adolescence. With just a flash of my pale blue eyes, I could seduce anyone. Journalists forecast I’d be an icon for the 21st century.

Only my agent warned me: beauty and celebrity fade. He advised me to take acting lessons, study the craft of filmmaking, watch classic movies, so I understood how stars of old prolonged their fame. “It takes work,” he said.

Being young and foolish, I didn’t listen. Instead, I flaunted myself at every venue: on red carpets, at hip clubs, in trendy restaurants. I was the prototypical celebrity whore, chasing the paparazzi as relentlessly as they chased me. I loved the adulation, even for something I couldn’t control. I’d inherited a blessed face, and it took little effort at that age to maintain it.

Except I learned it couldn’t last. All around me I saw aging actors whose looks had faded, and along with it, their careers. My leading lady in that first film never got another part half as good. My next director had moved behind the camera because no one wanted to see his craggy face. Even most producers were washed-up stars.

I didn’t want that. I didn’t spend three years waiting tables and going to auditions to be a blip in the spotlight, a one-hit wonder. I didn’t want temporary fame. I wanted immortality.

So I asked makeup artists, fitness trainers, and plastic surgeons how to preserve my appeal. They all had techniques, which they shared for large fees, yet those only disguised the decay. In the mirror, I saw ruin edging around my eyes.

Then I heard about Doctor Henry—homeopath to the stars. He claimed to have a formula for eternal youth. His treatments didn’t involve shots, pills, or surgeries. A few drops of his potion could reverse a year of aging.

“How?” I said.

“Mithridatism.”

“Myth-what?”

“Mithridates was the sixth king of Pontus. He worried about being assassinated, so he took doses of toxins to develop an immunity.”

“You’d poison me?”

“In amounts too small to do any harm. To trigger your immune system. Like vaccines or antivenom. Treating aging with the causes of aging.”

I wanted to believe him, but after meeting so many false prophets, I doubted his promises. Not because I didn’t understand the science (the art had been practiced for centuries) but because it sounded too good to be true. How could a few drops counteract nature?

So I tested it. The potion tasted vile, like death in a concentrate. Still, I bought a small dose, then spent all night tanning, drinking, drugging, and screwing. Everything my agent warned me to avoid. The next morning, I saw a glow on my skin and a sheen in my hair. Only my ruined clothes offered evidence of the damage.

“This works no matter what I do?” I asked.

“Indulge all your desires,” Dr. Henry said. “Self-denial is the greatest cause of decay.”

I did as he prescribed. I drove fast cars, dated fast women, took drugs to make me faster still. My breath always tasted of Champagne, and my skin emitted pheromones. No velvet ropes could contain me. Soon, I became infamous for my hedonism.

Contrary to what my agent said, my bad reputation only enhanced my career. Magazines put me on their covers. Promoters begged me to appear at their events. Actors competed to be in my movies. Celeb magazine proclaimed me the Alpha Male of the industry.

Hollywood had changed. Once scandal could ruin a career—even for Charlie Chaplin—but in the 21st century it could propel one. No bad press existed on social media. All attention enhanced my image.

Once and again, I’d compare my appearance to my earlier one, holding up my first head shot against my reflection. True to Doctor Henry’s prediction, I grew not uglier but more handsome. Meanwhile, I came to disdain my younger self. In those early pictures, I saw naiveté. With half my later wisdom, I could have owned the industry in a year rather than a decade.

Then I met Sibyl. She was an adolescent model acclaimed for her precocious beauty, but also an aspiring actress, eager to learn the business. Her mother introduced us, asked me to apprentice her. A true stage mom, living vicariously through her child. Called herself a manager, though really she was more like a madam.

I heard that Sibyl’s mom once worked as a showgirl, but that glamour had passed. Her face looked skeletal, her skin cracked and sallow. She stank of hair spray and cold cream. I assumed she was compensating for her own aging by promoting her daughter’s beauty.

I’ll admit to being taken by Sibyl’s innocence. She smelled of talcum, and her flesh bore not a freckle. Yet like mine, her baby face hid a taste for the depraved. She quickly became my best girl. Not my only one, of course—that would undermine my image—but the costar I appeared with most often.

The gossip rags tagged us as a couple—a rumor inflamed by her mother—but I didn’t deny the innuendo. Despite our age gap, which should have cast me as her father figure, we were partners. I taught her the ways of fame in the modern era: the titillating selfies, the shocking quotes, the public feuds. She proved to be an A student, clawing her way onto the A list.

She’d text me asking for advice, but really she only needed validation. Should I date a bad boy? Why stop at one. Should I get a lewd tattoo? Why not two. Should I pose nude? Every chance you get. Only after each episode, proclaim you did it for the purest reasons: to empower women, to defy society’s conventions, to set an example for others. Never admit that it was for yourself.

I’ll confess to enjoying her company. Women my own age bored me. They were too inhibited, too controlled. I needed the free spirit of youth to match my own eternal adolescence.

Soon mom had lost control of Sibyl, who’d yet to reach the age of majority, but who petitioned the court for emancipation. Once that happened, once young Sibyl managed her own finances, mom would be destitute. And she couldn’t allow that.

Instead, she accused me of corrupting her daughter. Following my usual pattern, I answered with indifference. Then she claimed that I’d set Sibyl on a self-destructive path. Again, I didn’t deny it. To anger mom more, I told the scandalmongers Sibyl was mature enough to make her own decisions. That was the tipping point.

Without any evidence, mom reported me to the FBI for violating the Mann Act: transporting her daughter across state lines for immoral purposes. I’ll admit to having crossed that border a few times with former ingénues, and I suspected others had with Sibyl—but never me. I respected her too much to take such advantage.

The feds tried to entrap me with my own antics. They showed me press photos of us arm in arm, claimed it proved my lascivious intent.

“It’s a grip and grin,” I said. “All VIPs take them.”

They quoted interviews where she credited me with teaching her the ways of stardom, said it proved grooming.

“Nothing a good agent wouldn’t do.”

They took an affidavit from her mom, alleged I’d seduced the girl.

“How would she know? They only speak through lawyers.”

Without better evidence, they couldn’t bring criminal charges. Instead, they assassinated my character in the media: walked me past photographers into their headquarters, identified me as the subject of an ongoing investigation, slipped rumors to reporters about their suspicions.

For once, the bad press boomeranged on me. Instead of being cast as a bad boy, I got typed as a pedophile villain. Studios stopped sending me scripts. Endorsers stopped using my image. Promoters stopped asking me to their events. Even my agent stopped calling.

For the first time, I found myself home alone, a pariah. I’d been blacklisted, my career cancelled.

One of those lonely nights, I broke out my old publicity stills. I hoped for consolation in my enduring beauty. What I saw shocked me. While my features remained unchanged, their effect had transformed. Instead of innocent youth, I projected the weariness of wisdom.

Incensed, I drove to Doctor Henry’s office, demanded to see him. Typically, it took weeks to get an appointment—largely because I’d credited him publicly for my longevity—but for his best client, Dr. Henry cleared his schedule. I threw down that old photo, demanded to know why his treatments had stopped working.

He examined my face, so close up I could smell his tooth polish. I’d experienced that same intimacy many times in makeup chairs, but there it felt intrusive. After probing my pores, he sounded vindicated.

“The treatments work as they ever have,” he said. “It’s your mood that’s changed.”

“But you promised I’d never age.”

“On the outside. The inside, only you can control.”

Anger coursed through me like adrenaline. In an instant, I saw not a miracle worker but a charlatan. I knocked over his vanity lights, which crackled and hissed with exposed energy, then loomed over him like Frankenstein’s monster.

“You told me to indulge my worst impulses.”

“To satisfy your desires. But when that satisfaction fades . . .”

“You lied!”

“Other doctors attend to the mind—”

Before he could make more excuses, I grabbed a vial of his potions and smashed it atop his head, releasing a funk of chemical death. He looked stunned, then ran to the sink to wash away the poison. He was too slow. It had soaked into his skin, dripped into his eyes, seeped into his lips. By the time he’d rinsed it off, his face had turned pale, and his breathing had grown labored. He clutched his throat, then collapsed. I left him there to die.

Now, as I sit alone before my looking glass, I understand what he meant. He could head off physical deterioration but not mental decay. Never during my heyday did I feel depressed. I was too busy chasing immediate gratification. But even a sybarite can indulge only so much. I have exceeded not my own tolerance but the public’s.

In the distance, I hear sirens approaching. Truly, the devil has come calling. And resignation seeps over me.

I had my run. It lasted longer than most—thirty good years—but all stars burn out. In time, even those immortalized on a walk of fame elicit shrugs and questions of “who”?

So, I commit myself to the one thing that might prolong my celebrity. I pick up my old photo. As I gaze upon it, I feel I’m looking not at myself but at a stranger. With such detachment, I flick the lighter that has ignited so many acts of self-destruction and set my image ablaze. I let it burn until the flames singe my fingers, then watch the embers catch on my hardwood floors. As the fire surrounds me, I take one final, vain look in the mirror and wish only that I will be remembered as a shining star who refused to fade.

In honor of the greatest bad boy of literature, Oscar Wilde.