August and Then Some (8 page)

In spite of my head I put my arm over her waist trying not to disrupt anything. The only thing on her that moves is her arm—she lifts it from between her knees and slaps my hand fast and hard. I pull it back and keep my hands to myself.

 

My arms just twitched. My heart's doing its wee-hour drum solo. I must have fallen asleep for a bit. Stephanie is out cold. It's much quieter outside. Sounds like the bars are closed. But it's not getting light yet. Moving in slow motion, I sit up. Stephanie stretches into the empty space I filled a second ago. I wait for her to settle. I ease myself off the mattress, crouch next to her. My God she has beautiful lips. Her shirt rode up
above her hip bone and I can see what looks like the top of a huge scar.

I pull the sheet over her. My knees crack when I stand up. Whoa, fucking headache. Dizzy. I put a hand on the wall for balance. In the kitchen I suck down two glasses of water, setting the glass onto the table with the least amount of noise I can. I sit on the floor in front of the table. Stare at the skinny black notebook for a while. And a while longer. A single car accelerates down 9th Street. I open the book. My handwriting is hard to decipher in some places, the words come in and out of focus, like the letters themselves are teetering between awake and asleep. My body feels like it could doze again, but I know better.

I hear Stephanie thrashing in the bed behind me. I flip around. She's pulled the sheet off herself. Now she rolls over onto her side. Then onto her stomach. She gets on her knees, folds her arm around her gut, and plants her face into the pillow. She stays there breathing heavy. Before I can say anything she scrambles up like there's a fire, heading straight for the bathroom. I get to my feet, “What the fuck?” She runs right past me, eyes still mostly closed, flings the bathroom curtain out of her way, drops to her knees, lifts the toilet seat, and throws up.

Oh. That's what the fuck.

After three long heaves and a lot of coughing she flushes. “Goddamn,” she says through a scratched throat, then flicks on the light and turns on the tap. She slurps up water from her hand, swishes then spits. She does this three times. She comes out of the bathroom breathing a little heavy, wiping her lips with her fingers. Her face says the taste isn't out of her mouth yet, so she goes to the kitchen sink and spits one more time. Then runs the water over it. She holds herself up with the edge of the sink, breathing for a second. “Who's Dani?”

And my heart was just about to start slowing down.

“What did you just say?”

She turns around, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and says, “I didn't see anything when I touched your book last night, or tonight, or whenever it was. But I seen
Dear Dani
. I didn't see any more of the letter.” She sniffles. Swallows. “Who is she?”

There's quiet.

“Come on, I told you all kinds of shit.” I still can't speak. “I write letters, too. To my aunts in Dominican Republic. I didn't tell you it last night, cause I didn't feel like it, but I do. Got a whole box of them in my uncle's apartment. Is Dani your girlfriend?”

“No.”

Stephanie buttons the top of her pants that must have come undone in her sleep.

She struggles to focus her puffy eyes on me.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then who?”

I pause. Close the notebook. “You sure you don't wanna go back to sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“It's a long motherfuckin story,” I say trying to brush it all off.

“That's OK with me.” She nudges me with a nod.

Now we're in a mini staring contest. Her face waking up, already receiving whatever I might tell her. “All right.” I put the notebook under the table. “You should probably sit down for this.”

She looks around for a chair that doesn't exist.

When I turned twelve and my dad told me he needed to take me to his favorite bar and treat me to my first official game of pool as a teenager, I didn't tell him he was off by a year. I was all for him making me older than I was; I enjoyed feeling twelve months closer to leaving the house. It was better than my dad getting my age right. I would have killed to know what it was like to have a job. To own a set of keys to something. Be able to drive. To have my own place. To shave. To feel a naked lady. To shave a naked lady. To see how light it felt to have my parents off my back. So when he said
teenager
I thought,
cool, let's shoot some pool and kill a whole year while we're at it.

After dinner, Mom, Dad, Dani and I ate ice-cream cake, I opened my new Nerf football with a plastic kicking tee, then my dad said, “Jake, go in the living room, to the lamp table next to the couch.”

Mom said, “No, you don't.”

“There's a little drawer under it.”

“John, no.”

“Frannie, yes. Open the drawer and get the keys out and bring them over here.”

I did what he asked and from the living room I heard my mom say, “Where are you taking him?”

“He's my son. I'm taking him out for a ride. Now, that's enough.”

Two shiny silver keys on a ring. He had soldered the separation on the ring so the keys were going nowhere. A medallion hung from it on a little silver chain, on one side it had a black cobra showing off its fangs, on the other my dad's initials. I have to admit, when I shook it around in my hand, heard the pieces clink together and felt its weight, I actually was older than twelve.

A 1965 Shelby Cobra. Two-seater, ragtop. Red with two thick white lines running over the hood and the trunk. So compact and low to the ground it looks like it can muscle its way underneath an eighteen-wheeler and throw it off its back. This thing is shinier than the counters at the Yonkers Raceway Diner and curvier than the waitresses. The way the story goes, Dad bought it the year I was born. What little refurbishing it needed, he and Noke's father, Ricky, did together. He would drive it a couple times a year, the first clear spring and fall days. That was about it. It sat in the garage as something I wasn't allowed to breathe on. I would stand on my toes at the window, press my face between my cupped hands and spy on it like it was a naked lady. But that night Dad pulled the garage door open, carefully slid the cover off it, folding it up as he went, and then, like a guy who knows how to wear the fuck out of a smile, said, “Get in.”

If you put a car in neutral and keep your foot lightly on the brake, you can roll out of our garage, down the slope of our driveway, take a slight left and let the hill pull you the two blocks to the entrance of the Bronx River Parkway without having to hit the gas. And that's exactly what he did. Kept it in neutral as we crawled towards the entrance ramp and revved it a few times so I could hear the power and speed to come. We got to the parkway entrance and he said, “Hold on.”

The wind blew my hair to one side; my dad grinned at me.

When we pulled up to the bar and got out of the car, heads turned and fingers pointed; people grinned at us like we had something they wanted, like we were famous.

He introduced me to the bartender as his “sidekick, Jake”, and told him it was my birthday. “Happy birthday, son.” I said thank you with the deepest voice I could manage. And he said, “You're welcome,” in the same voice, which made me feel even farther from being a teenager than I was. Then my dad leaned close to him. “Smitty, we're just gonna shoot a game.”

“Savage, I'd say something about if I thought anyone would care.” My dad ordered a pint of Harp for himself and a soda for me that Smitty sank a skinny black straw in. Van Morrison's “Caravan” busted out of the jukebox like a birthday song and, feeling important, I followed my dad as he strolled to the pool table.

The place smelled like a cocktail of beer, smoke and lipstick. The windows were caked over in grime that the streetlights couldn't seep through. The only brightness came from the blue and red jukebox, one dim bulb over the pool table and neon Budweiser and Heineken signs. The barstools' vinyl seats were cracked and peeling from all the ass they'd had in the past twenty years. A woman in tight jeans, legs crossed, sat at the bar next to a guy who talked to her about something that had nothing to do with the fact that his hand was on her thigh. Past the bar were a few booths, one filled with four guys getting loud over a pitcher, another with a couple who tried to disappear in each other, which seemed like an easy thing to do in that place even if you didn't have someone to fold yourself into.

Two guys already had the pool table. My dad took me aside, sat me on a stool where we could see the game and said, “First thing we wanna do is watch these guys. See what they got and see if we can beat them. Understand?”

“Yeah.” We watched them and they watched us watch them. After a few shots I asked, “What are we watching for?”

“Good question. Technique and confidence. Look at the guy in the white shirt, the one about to shoot. You can tell by the way he chalks up his cue he knows what he's doing. And see the way he looks at the table? He's scanning every ball. He's not just looking at the shot he's about to make, he's looking three shots ahead. And he doesn't crouch down and close one eye to line up his shots. Pool players from Omaha do that. Not that there's no good pool players in Omaha. But how would I know?”

Dad told me to take a few more sips of my soda. After I did he reached into his jacket, came out with a flask and poured something that looked like water into my Coke. That was the first time I smelled vodka and I swear I about got drunk off the fumes. I looked up at him as he screwed the cap back on the flask, and he hit me with one of his wink/smirk combos I'd seen him throw on my mom. It was a combination that stretched her bitter look into a smile and left her ready for surrender or compromise. She hated it, but was defenseless against it. You don't really see its magic until you're on the receiving end of it. In the quick of a light the room and your own thoughts disappear. The lines around his eyes spread into sun rays, as he admits, just between you and him: you're his favorite, the only one who really exists for him. And you believe every fractured second of it.

The white-shirt guy leaned over the table and set himself up for the shot. “He's gonna try and bank the green ball off that far cushion and get it in the close-left corner pocket. Watch.” The ball hit off the far cushion and headed for the corner, but it hit the back of the pocket so fast it jumped right out. “Speed kills,” my dad whispered to me. “He hit that way too hard. A little softer it would have stayed in. He's got good aim, but lousy control. He's jumpy. Guy like that can fly off the handle.” Dad gave a knowing nod. “We wanna play this guy.”

He walked to them and put four quarters on the side of the table. “We got next game, OK?”

The guy said, “Sure.”

My dad came back and said, “Didn't wanna challenge him yet. Don't wanna seem anxious.”

Eventually the guy in the white shirt sank the eight ball to end the game. He shook hands with his friend and called out to us, “You guys are up.”

“Hey listen, you guys wanna play my son and me? It's his birthday and I told him we would win him twenty bucks at the table tonight. You in?”

“How old is he?”

“Old enough. You in?”

They looked at each other and laughed. “All right,” the guy in the white shirt said. “We'll play you.”

And that's when it got embarrassing, because even I knew I was being humored, that these guys were about to go for ten dollars each on a birthday present in the form of a thrown game. But my dad was having so much fun. He put the quarters into the slots, pushed the lever, the balls came out, he said, “Rack em, JT,” and I thought,
What the hell, I'll play along
.

“Dad, why do you put chalk at the end?”

“So it doesn't slip off the cue ball. The white one.”

“Got it.”

Dad broke and pocketed two balls. He explained that we had to hit all the striped balls in and then the eight ball to win. “You try.” And he handed me the stick, which was just a little shorter than me. “See the green one?”

“Yeah.”

“You're gonna hit it into the left corner pocket.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“How?”

“See where the light is reflecting off of it on the top right, that little speck of light?”

“Yeah.”

“You're gonna hit the white ball so it hits that green ball right in that spot.”

“Got it.” I aimed my stick at the white ball.

“You gotta call it,” my dad said.

“What?”

“You gotta say, ‘Fourteen, corner.'”

I took a deep breath. “Fourteen, corner.”

“Good. Don't hit it too hard. Just kiss it.”

I had to lift one foot off the ground to take the shot. My hands were so sweaty the cue didn't slide through my fingers, it stuttered. I drew the stick back and hit the cue ball; where, I couldn't tell you, but apparently it was in the right spot because I actually sank the fourteen.

My dad let out a victory scream that wrenched necks. With hands that shook with excitement, but were steady with strength, he picked me up by the waist, lifting me over his head, making me the highest one in the bar. I held the cue over my head with both hands like my conquering weapon; he pumped me up and down and let out another scream that made everyone in the place—even our opponents—look up and toast me with a smile.

It felt good to be twelve.

Or thirteen.

Or whatever he thought I was.

That was, of course, the only ball I came remotely close to sinking. The rest of the time I'd hit one ball that would hit about six or seven other balls and four cushions with no results at all. Pop said, “Well at least you're playing a defensive game.”

Every time my dad got up to take a shot he'd walk around the entire table and manage to bump into one if not both of the
other guys. The room was small, no doubt, but I didn't see the strategy in turning pool into a contact sport.

After about the fourth intentional bump my dad turned around to the guy in the white shirt and said, “You trying to screw up my timing?”

“I'm trying to get out of your way, take it easy.”

Dad looked at him long enough for it to be awkward. Guy said, “Take your shot.”

“I will. Back off.” Dad turned slowly and set himself for the shot. The guy made a face at his friend like,
what's this guy's problem?

When it was the other guy's turn to shoot my dad bumped him from behind and screwed up his shot. “Doesn't feel so good, does it?”

“Listen, you got a big problem—that's obvious. But keep this shit up and you're gonna have another one.”

Then the other guy jumped in. “Come on guys, take it easy, it's the kid's birthday.”

“The kid's got nothing to do with this,” my dad said. “It's your friend who's got his panties twisted.”

“No panties under here, pal.”

“Sorry. I meant diapers.”

“How you want this birthday to go?”

“Just take your shot,” Dad said.

“I will. Why don't you back up?”

“Sure.” My dad did. The guy leaned over to take his shot and my dad said, “Asshole.”

And that's what it took for the guy to turn around and get inches away from my dad's face, yell, “The fuck's your problem?”

We all knew that wasn't a real question. That it was just a preface to a punch. And the white-shirt guy would have been better off skipping that, because in the middle of his useless etiquette my dad raised his pool cue and slammed it in his balls. White-shirt guy
folded in half like a switchblade and apparently understood that questions were no longer necessary, because from his bent position he drove his shoulder in my dad's gut, wrapped his arms around his waist and tackled him. Soon as my father's back hit the floor his neck snapped back and his head clapped against the tiled floor like a bowling ball. That scared me sick. The whole thing scared me, but that sound—the whiplash crack of it … even right now, playing it over in my ears, sends nausea through my stomach.

After that, the white-shirt guy landed his fist clear on the left side of Dad's face. He couldn't swing after that because his friend had grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back and lifted him off Dad.

Maybe I was trying to drown out that sound I'd just heard, or maybe it was the couple sips of vodka, maybe because Dad finally felt like my teammate and teammates were supposed to back each other up, but I swung my cue. It skimmed it off the guy's white shirt. He didn't even notice. Then as hard as I could, I hit the table with it and it splintered like a bat off a fastball. I figured I was done. I had no more weapons and as a twelve-year-old kid I didn't need to go any further into the fight barehanded. So I just stood back and watched Smitty the bartender and three other guys pull everyone apart. The same eye that my dad had just winked sunlight out of was swollen and red. Smitty held my father in a full nelson and pushed him towards the door saying, “That's enough, Johnny. You gave em a good show.” And Dad—as he was getting dragged out—smiled at me.

I looked back at the guy in the white shirt who, breathing heavy, and now released from his friend's grip, shook his head at me like something was a shame.

 

Outside Dad threw me the keys and said, “You drive.”

“
I
drive?”

“Yeah, come on. We did real good in there, so we take the victory lap home.”

I wasn't sure what doing real good in there meant to him. Starting a fight he had no chance of winning? Having his eye messed up? Getting thrown out by Smitty? We didn't even win the game.