August and Then Some (19 page)

In the quarter of a second after I wake up, but before I open my eyes, the memory of the last twelve months doesn't exist. My heart beats normal, my guts don't churn or bark, and I breathe deep. Not all of my reality is in focus yet. And for a cruelly quick moment I can contact the part of me that has been untouched by my collapsing building of a year, the part of me that isn't hurt, that has never been hurt. I feel the August humidity sticking my sheets to my skin, the early sun on my back, smell the dust on the wood floor; I open my eyes and the memory dam opens—my reality rushes back. I remember where I am, what I've been doing, and my insides snap back into fast motion. I turn over in my bed toward the light, and Stephanie comes into focus sitting on my windowsill looking very pensive.

“Qué lo qué?” I ask her.

“Nada. You slept.”

“Really? You put a spell on me?”

“Yeah, go check the mirror. You're a frog.”

“What time is it?” I yawn.

“Eight something.”

“Shit.” I scramble out of bed. “I gotta go.” I flip some clothes out of the cardboard box and grab clean underwear.

I make for the bathroom and Stephanie says, “I'm sorry about your friend.”

I stop and turn to her. “Huh?”

“I didn't say it last night, but I'm sorry your friend died.”

“Thanks.” Now I stall. “I don't really know what to say about it.”

“His parents feel like they messed up?”

That hits me as a weird question. “I don't know.”

She nods, still looking out the window. Now her hair registers: it's out of her slicked-back ponytail for the first time, wet and falling down in corkscrews past her shoulders. Her beauty hits me so hard I feel like I should go to the doctor. Daytime has taken all the gray out of her eyes and left only green. Without the gel in her hair I can see highlights coming through, like thin shards of red glass. She's stone-faced, staring at the street, oblivious to the picture she's created in this window frame.

Last night, for the first time, we fell asleep wrapped around each other. We laid there strung out on our own lives and made for each other's bodies. It was just hugging, we didn't swap any spit, but we did exchange some snot. She rocked, like someone who was cold. “Dormir,” she kept whispering, “dormir.” And it came out of her mouth like a prayer for both of us. It worked.

I walk over to her. She smells like my shampoo, which makes me feel like we're actually living together. I like that. “Your hair looks great. Did you take a shower?”

She nods.

“You know … it may not feel like it now, but I think you'll be better off raising your kid without him.”

“We'll see. But if I'ma do it right I got to get out of here.”

“Out of where?”

“New York.”

“And go where?”

“I don't know. Dominican Republic? But who the hell goes there from here? Is that stupid?”

“I don't think so. I mean, people always say it takes a village to raise a kid, and I doubt they're talking about the East Village.”

Her face looks like she's doing complex equations that have multiple answers.

At some point during the night I wound up losing my shirt, and now she's looking at me standing here with my pants half undone holding a pair of underwear in my hand. I say, “I'm a size 30 in case you're shopping.” She doesn't smile. Then I say, “What if I went with you?”

“Shopping?”

“To the DR.”

“You're not coming with me.” She folds her arms over her chest.

“Why not?”

“Because you don't want to.”

“Why you say that?” I try to squeeze next to her on the sill, she stands up.

“What is this,
The Little Mermaid
?”

“I don't know that movie.”

“Well it's make-believe, that's all you need to know.”

“Is this a racial thing for you?”

“Oh, please.” She starts pacing around the apartment. “I meant you're not even right with your own shit and you wanna what—be a family guy now? If you're lucky, you'll wind up in jail again for fighting somebody. If you're unlucky you'll wind up with a knife or a bullet in your neck. Or put one in mine.”

“Bull-shit.” Now I stand up. “BULL-FUCKIN-SHIT. Where do you come off? Like I fuck up every person I know? I do not. And I definitely wouldn't do it to you.”

“I need someone less fucked up.”

“Jesus Christ, Stephanie. If you didn't notice, I'm kind of having a rough week here, why you gotta stick it to me?”

She stops pacing, comes closer to me, and slightly softens her voice. “I ain't saying like you're not a good guy, like you'd fuck me over on purpose or shit like that. You been nice to me for real. And thanks, you know. I mean it.” She reaches out for my wrist and squeezes it. Her eyes are filled with enough compassion to feed many, and her lips are full enough for one.

“I wish you could see yourself right now.”

She snaps her face into something annoyed and drops my wrist. “Don't play games. I don't want you putting your shit on me.”

“What shit, I'm not putting any shit.”

“You will. And don't say that we can work out our shit together, cause we can't.” She's pacing again.

“Then we'll get help.”

“You get help.”

This damn fight of hers comes out so easily, and anyone standing in her vicinity gets clocked in the head with it. “I know it sucks that he broke up with you, but why are you taking it out on me?”

“I'm not. I'm just being myself.”

“This is only one self. This is the self that's had to deal with assholes her whole life. You're not always like this. I've seen other selfs.”

“You think cause I slept in a bed all cuddly with you, you know me?”

“I know something of you. Would you stand still and talk to me.” She keeps pacing.

“You don't know shit. You don't know that I was the one who couldn't sleep because I was thinking: this is great, now when's this one gonna leave.”

“Where the hell am I gonna go?”

“I picked a guy who would leave his own kid. And that's it. I'm done.”

“So that's it? No more guys for you for the rest of your life?”

“I made myself pregnant and I made my kid fatherless. Some people are cool with that, but I ain't. Good things don't come from people who messed up like I did.”

“Stephanie, you're way off. You're only saying that because every person you ever knew was a screw up, but you're different than them.”

“Look, you got to sleep with me, and we talked about some stuff, but enough.” She stops and takes a little bow like her show is over. “Thank you very much, I'm out.” She makes for the door, I cut her off.

“Why you been sleeping here?”

“Get out the way.”

“Why did you ask me to come babysit with you?”

“Move.”

“Why did you get up, wash yourself in my shower then wait here for me to wake up?”

“Just because you can talk to someone and sleep next to them don't mean you should be raising no kid with them. Like you ever had any girls as friends. Look how you live.” She spins around in a full circle presenting my apartment. “You move rocks for money.”

“What if I love you?”

“You don't even know why you're saying that.”

“What if I'm saying it cause it's true?”

“You wish it was true, but it's not.”

I grab her by her shoulders. “No one else cares about you,” I yell. I watch my words go right through her heart, shoot up her chest and come out her eyes as tears. She puts her hand over her mouth to try and stop it. I let go of her.

“Tu ta' pasao,” she whispers through the crying.

“I'm sorry. That was …”

“True?”

“No. It's not true. I'm a dick. Your baby cares about you. Your uncle. Your aunts and your cousins.”

“You're right. They are the ones who care.”

“Hold on a second. I'm gonna get you a tissue. Don't go anywhere.” I go into the bathroom and wad up some toilet paper. Before I come out I hear my apartment door open then shut.

Nokey pulled a one-hitter from his ashtray, stuck it in his mouth, and with his elbows on the steering wheel clicked a flame under it.

“I'm probably the idiot for asking,” I said, “but what the hell are you doing?”

“Don't worry,” he said sincerely, “I got enough for you.”

“I don't want any, you stupid shit.”

“Now I'm not allowed to take a hit?”

I gave him a look that desperately asked him to give me a fucking break. He took one more drag, tapped it on the lip of the ashtray and slid it closed again. In a slight cough he let out, “I'm done. That's it. It's away.”

Mist turned to light rain on Nokey's windshield. He put his ancient wipers on and they smeared the water around. He squinted his eyes to see through the glass, then like a stoner said, “Whoaaa, the world looks carbonated, man.”

The Bronx River Parkway is a curvy four-lane highway you don't fuck around on in any kind of weather. No shoulders, just a cement divider in the middle and occasional guardrails on each side. Nokey was in the right lane doing sixty in a forty, gaining
on a green Oldsmobile. At the precise moment the road snaked under the arch of an old stone overpass, Noke accelerated to pass the Olds. He smiled because he loved that shit. For the few seconds it took to go through this little tunnel the road got narrower and left two inches of negotiation between us and the Olds. I grabbed onto the strap over my window and said, “Jesus Christ. You wanna chill out under the tunnel?”

“I'm a foot and a half away from the guy.”

The driver in the Olds hit his brakes and we came out from the tunnel one car length ahead of him.

“Happy?” Nokey asked.

The other driver accelerated into the left lane, got his Olds right up our ass and hit his high beams.

“Oh yeah, now I'm real fuckin happy.”

Nokey bent his rearview down to get the headlights out of his eyes then hit his brakes; everything behind us went red. The Olds swerved back into the right lane and pulled up next to us. The driver rolled down his window and called me a fucking asshole.

Nokey yelled, “I HOPE YOUR WIFE SUCKS DICK BETTER THAN YOU DRIVE.”

“Nokey, let this fucking guy go. This is not the night to get into a fight.”

“Fuck him. FUCK YOU ASSHOLE.”

I reached over and stepped on the brake myself. We all jerked forward and Nokey grabbed the wheel with both hands. “What the fuck?”

The Olds sped out ahead of us and kept going, apparently no longer interested in our assholeness.

“That was a royal cunthead move. The alignment's fucked on this car, it pulls to the left when you hit the brakes, and you know it. I could have slammed into the divider.”

“You done acting like a potato head for the night?”

“Watch your mouth.”

“You get it all out of your system? Cause I don't need you fucking this thing up.”

“You wouldn't be in this thing if not for me. And I'm not a potato head. I'm the best driver in this car and you know it. If anyone ever got into an accident with me behind the wheel raise your hand.” No one moves. “Come on, if you ever—”

“Noke, I'll give you eighty percent of what we score tonight if you just grow up for a few hours.”

“Starting when?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“Too late.”

“If you can't grow up, then shut up. For two minutes, just shut the hell up.”

“Starting when?”

“We can't cowboy this one, we've never done this before. And if we fuck it up it's not just my father we're gonna have a problem with. You understand what I'm saying?”

He took this in, nodded. “I hear you. I hear you.”

“Good. Now please. For two minutes. Just shut up.”

He thought for a few seconds. “All right, the guy in that car was an asshole, but I admit, on a night like this maybe I didn't need to tell him he was. There. I confess. Three Hail Marys, I'm sorry.”

I was unimpressed and he knew it.

“Come on, we're cool man.” I looked at him like I was waiting for those two minutes of shutting up to start. “Jake, we're cool, right? Jake? Come on, tell me we're cool.”

I said nothing.

“Well fuck, I know I'm cool. I'm James Bond cool.” He paused. “Humphrey Bogart cool.” Pause. “Linus and Lucy. I'm fuckin Snoopy cool.”

I hated it when he made me laugh when I didn't want to. He
knew he had me and punched me in the arm. “We cool?” He punched me harder. “We cool?”

“Being cool with you is like being cool with a swamp.”

“Ha, ha! That's good, that's good. I like that. Swamp.” His stuttering laugh rose then fell. “Oh, man. Fucking swamp. That's funny.” Then he got a little serious. “So,
are
we cool?”

“Yes, we're fuckin cool already.”

He punched me in the arm and waited for me to hit him back. “Lemme see it.”

“Not while you're driving.”

“Oh, come on. Lemme see it.”

I finally punched him in his arm.

“That's my brother,” he said. Then rubbed his arm. “Good shot.”

We squeezed under another stone arch; the road got smaller and louder. Noke adjusted his rearview and caught Dani's face in it. “Dani, you cool?”

I looked to the back seat and saw her nod a very loud yes.

I walk down to Houston Street near Avenue A to my landscaping company's office. I see the hose on the side of the building that I used to shower with and try to drop that image like a riot gate.

The office is a converted warehouse with high ceilings that dwarf everyone, glassed-in offices against the walls, industrial-sized fans in each corner blowing the smell of damp rug and coffee. Phones ring constantly, people yell over other people and grab papers out of each other's hands.

Frank—my and Brian's boss—stands at his desk. Guy never sits, and runs on a speed unattainable by coffee alone. He wears expensive jeans with work boots and cheap plaid button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up—like an urban lumberjack. I walk toward his desk. I don't have anything rehearsed. He's looking for a piece of paper that is probably buried beneath eight layers of identical papers. He sees someone walking to him, but doesn't know it's me until the second look.

“Jesus, Jake. Get over here. Where you've been for the last two days? Actually I don't care where you been, I'm not firing you, because between you and Brian you guys moved more rock at that Upper East Side patio in the last month than four guys
should have. And from what Brian tells me you never even take a break. Which, you know, you should. But you're still in good standing. You want some coffee? You look like hell, where you been?”

“I was in jail.”

This stops him from the paper search. “Oh Jesus Christ, you're kidding me? Do I
have
to fire you now? What the hell did you do?”

“I got into a fight.”

“A fight with who?”

“Another guy.”

“Was he wearing a uniform?”

“No.”

“Was he a high church official?”

“No, it—”

“Just some guy?”

“Yeah.”

“You hurt him?”

“Not really.”

“Break any of his arms? Pop out any eyes?”

“No.”

“Then who gives a shit, it's just a fight.” He goes back to his mess of papers. “What, were you drunk? I don't need to know, it's no big deal. There a chick involved? Not my business. Sorry. You know if I got arrested for—hold on a second.” He picks up the phone, hits a button. “Linda … Where are the invoices from Bayonne Cement?… What are they doing
on their way
? …Would you please?… Now would be ideal.” He hangs up. “She's adorable. But …” He lifts his hand to his forehead telling me he's had it up to his eyebrows with her. Then sips his coffee. “Listen, if I got arrested for every fight I got into when I was your age, I'd have a rap sheet you'd have to unroll from a fifth-floor window. Did you want coffee or no?”

“I'm leaving anyway, Frank.”

“What? Whudda you mean leave? Why you gotta leave?”

“I have to—”

“Wudda you want, you wanna raise?”

“No.”

“How long you been here, over six months? About eight months, right? You're due for a raise, we'll get you a raise.”

“Frank, that's—thank you, but I have to go anyway.”

“I know it's hot out there, but the way you guys are going, you're keeping us ahead of schedule. So we'll be done by, you know … fall. Just when the weather gets nice. How's that for incentive?” He laughs at his joke.

“It's not the heat.”

“What's the problem? Brian? I'll tell him to shake his legs more, I'll get on him, don't worry about it.”

“No, I like working with Brian, he's great, it's just that … No offense, Frank, I like you, I've liked working for your company, you've been great, but I don't want to carry rocks anymore.”