Breaking Night (13 page)

Riding up Fordham Road, I rested heavily against the bus seat, soothed by my exhaustion. Change weighted my pockets, rolling over my thighs in my shorts—more than enough to buy Chinese food for Lisa, Daddy, and me. I began to work out the next day in my mind. Leaning my head against the window, I drifted into a light, easy nap made sweet by the new idea that I could have some say in what happened to us, after all.

The next morning, with twenty dollars’ worth of leftover earnings tucked away in my room, I walked up and down Fordham in search of work. With station attendants chasing me at the gas station, it could never be a real job; I wanted something I could count on, something consistent. I entered each store and requested a conversation with an employee, trying to look as serious and responsible as I could. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get one person to take me seriously.

“
You
want a job? You asking for someone else, or
you
want a job?” Though I made every effort to be clear—yes, I was hoping you might have something; doesn’t have to be a real job or anything, maybe you need someone to sweep up here—the responses at Alexander’s, Tony’s Pizza, and Woolworth were the same. No one seemed to want to bother with me. Some even laughed outright.

“You have to be
at least
fourteen, kid. How old are you—ten?” One woman leaned over the counter to pat my head and smile, a thick gold chain resting between her coffee-colored breasts. Laughter from the entire cashier’s section followed. I stomped away, embarrassed, deeply frustrated. I was sure of my ability to work, if they would just allow me to; though the more I was rejected, the more self-conscious I became. I began noticing my tangled hair, my dirty, cracked sneakers, and the dirt caked under my fingernails. Yesterday’s exhilaration was beginning to seem foolish.

I walked so far down Fordham—from rejection to rejection—that I ended up at the end of the shopping area, well on my way back to the gas station. I hadn’t originally intended on going to the station, given the problem of dodging the workers. Rick and Danny had let me know yesterday that one day’s work had been more than enough for them. At least, I thought as I walked toward the pumps, I probably wouldn’t have to come home empty-handed if I took a shot at it.

I decided to work into the early afternoon, pumping gas until just after lunchtime. Then I would make my way back uphill until I reached the Grand Concourse, where there was a whole strip of stores I could try my luck at.

Apart from constantly looking over my shoulder to check for the station attendants, the first two hours of pumping gas went by smoothly. I learned that early-morning traffic from the Bronx Zoo brought a rush of families to the station. I jumped from van to car to station wagon, each packed with its own family. There were babies screaming, adults counting money, children my age fighting in backseats who looked at me with curiosity, the smell of ripe diapers and fast food rising toward me from their open windows.

Change from my tips crashed against my thighs as I ran, weaving between gas pumps to rush up to people. Missing a customer meant missing profit, so I wasted no time. Soon I delighted at how I could afford anything from the McDonald’s. I thought, as I saw a bus pass, that I could even go far away, if I felt like it. As long as I was able to work, I was beginning to feel as if I didn’t have to be stuck anywhere. I had options. Yesterday’s excitement returned to me, and I raced back and forth from one customer to the next, fattening my pockets, oblivious to the passing hours and the station workers.

By one o’clock, I had made almost as much money as it had taken me the whole day before to gather, but I’d been chased out of the station three times. The final time I had decided not to come back, when a station worker grabbed the back of my T-shirt, screaming at me, threatening to have me arrested. He tried to drag me back into the booth with him, but I thrashed around, shook loose from his grip, and escaped, pumping my skinny legs as fast as I could, letting his insults fade as I gathered distance.

I rested to catch my breath on a bench at the foot of the hill, where I counted twenty-six dollars in tips. My skin had turned dark pink and sensitive from hours of standing in the sun. Stuffing the money back into my pockets, I resumed my search along the Grand Concourse, pushing my way through crowds of people whose elbows and heavy shopping bags brushed painfully against my sunburned arms. Warm sweat spots dampened my T-shirt beneath my armpits and the top of my back, then turned freezing cold each time I entered another air-conditioned store to ask the same question over and over again.

As the afternoon wound down, my luck at finding a job on the Concourse turned out to be no better. I couldn’t locate one person to take me seriously. Finally, I started on my way home. As I walked, I tried to come up with another possible location to search for work, maybe on nearby Kingsbridge Avenue, or over the bridge on Dyckman, but doubt began sinking in.

I entered through the automatic doors of Met Food supermarket four blocks away from my building, into air-conditioning. Stealing was something I knew I could do. I would take a package of steak and a stick of butter. I could afford the food with my tips, but until I was sure I could earn money consistently, I did not want to spend any of what I had. In the meantime, I would settle for taking things; after doing it so many times with Rick and Danny, I was sure I could manage without getting caught.

The supermarket was packed with evening shoppers, which made me all the more confident that I could slip in and out without being noticed. Customers stood in long, winding lines and stock boys in white coats stained with cow blood weaved their way through, carrying crates high up on their shoulders. I searched for the manager and the assistant manager, the only two people I knew to be on the lookout for shoplifters. Instead, I caught sight of something else—kids only a few years older than me standing at the end of the cash register counters, dressed not in workers’ uniforms but in their regular clothes, packing grocery bags for tips.

I counted four baggers, and saw that all four had a few things in common. They were all boys, either Latino or black, and all had a container where customers dropped change before exiting. My impulse was to take one of the two empty counters, but instead I stood beside the bread rack up front and watched to learn how the job was done. Single bags were used for eggs and bread, which were packaged alone. Heavy items were spread out with items of medium weight. Smiles and polite conversation prompted tipping. I took in one deep breath. With a mixture of excitement and fear, I approached a register.

The cashiers were a string of young Spanish girls in tight clothing and baby blue aprons, all wearing similar gelled hairstyles. At the counter where I took my place, the girl smiled sweetly. We exchanged no words, but her gesture told me I was welcome. I peeled a plastic bag from the bag rack and before I could think or do anything, she reached over and began sending items rolling down the counter toward me. A cake box and cold cuts slid over; cans of soup and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol followed. A stout, middle-aged man watched his purchases ring up on the register through thick, bottle-capped glasses. I was glad he didn’t seem to notice me touching his things.

Boxes have sharp edges; they need double bagging. Cold cuts fit on top and don’t weigh the box down, so it all gets packed in together. Only two cans, they go together . . .

Somehow, I was able to finish before he was done paying, and this made me feel proud. But when I passed the neatly packed bags to the man, now staring right into his eyes, he took his receipt from the cashier and headed for the door without so much as glancing down at me. I continued to follow him with my eyes, half expecting he’d realize his mistake and turn back. But he kept on going. Frustrated, I remembered that each bagger had his own change-packed plastic dish.

Leaning over the partition of his booth, a manager shouted, “Attention shoppers, we will be closing in ten minutes. Thank you for shopping here. Good night!” Under the metal counter I found a half-pint container. I fished in my pocket for some change and quickly dropped it inside.

A large woman in a floral muumuu and her children pushed three carts full of groceries to the counter. Scanning the enormity of their purchase, it seemed they’d spent the entire day inside the supermarket, gathering food. I panicked, seeing the large mass of items rolling swiftly toward me. The children unloaded the carts so much faster than I could pack the items. Their mother waved a stack of coupons in the air, rippling the loose skin on her arms.

“I got coupons, so
don’t
let me catch you overchargin’, miss.”

The girl hardly looked up from punching in the numbers.

“Thass right,” the lady emphasized. “I got my eye on you.”

One of her three children began an argument with another. The woman spun around and whacked the boy in the back of his head, putting an abrupt end to the argument. “Unpack the goddamn food and behave yo’self!” I could feel my insides tighten; I wasn’t sure a tip from her would be worth the trouble.

The woman returned her glare to the register. Chips, dip, pudding, various slabs of meat, and two-liter bottles of Pepsi rolled to my end of the counter and clunked against the partition. I worked fast, avoiding eye contact in spite of my hopes to be tipped.

Meat with meat, cereal fits with bread. Gallons of milk get individual bags.

I finished the job as the cashier sorted through the woman’s coupons. Looking down over the packed bags, I felt another small jolt of pride. Each one was neatly arranged, the weight distributed evenly, the items sorted in the correct clusters. I stood still, waiting.

That’s when I spotted a yellow Lunchable package protruding from the grocery bag closest to me.

Pink bologna meat, a row of crackers, and a small block of cheese sat behind the plastic. I could imagine the texture of the meat, the bland taste of the cheese.

Looking at the package, I realized how hungry I was. I stared at the food and suddenly felt a deep craving for it. My mouth watered. All around me, the supermarket was finally closing. A couple of cashiers were counting out their registers for the day. Someone pulled the gate down over the window outside, and I realized I would not have time to pick up my own food, as I had hoped.

I leaned down and pretended to tie my sneaker. No one was looking; the cashier made conversation with a stock boy while the woman organized her food stamps. I let go of my laces and very quickly slipped the Lunchable out of sight, underneath the metal counter where I’d found my change dish a few minutes before. I rose, smiling stupidly for everyone who wasn’t watching, my heart pounding.

“Let’s go, kids,” the woman shouted, clutching her receipt. “And we
ain’t
stopping at the quarter machine. So don’t ask!”

I passed the heavy grocery bags into her hands in groups of two. She handed them over to her kids. I thought I might die when I realized she was speaking to me.

“Look at that smile,” she said, looking down at me with affection.

My guilt made it hard for me to look into her face. “Here you go darling, this is for you.”

Leaning over, she placed a moist, limp dollar bill in my hand. I forced another smile, and said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Such a pretty smile,” she repeated. “Now let’s go kids!”

She charged out the automatic doors, children teetering and straining under the weight of the bags as they followed behind her, the smallest one wobbling like a penguin.

I tucked the dollar away and waited a moment to make sure they were gone before sliding the Lunchable into a new plastic bag. The other baggers had already gone for the day; only the cashiers sifting through their day’s count remained.

In the clear, I grabbed the bag and exited. I walked home much faster than I needed to, looking over my shoulder until I reached University Avenue. Two blocks from home, I tore open the package and shoved crackers, bologna, and cold, delicious cheese into my mouth; filled with guilt and giddiness, I consumed the food in just a few quick bites.

The rec-room phone in North Central Bronx Hospital’s psychiatric ward rang until the ringing dissolved into a distant hum. At home on my side of the line, the receiver grew hot against my ear. There was a calm I found in dialing and redialing the same seven numbers on our rotary phone, just to hear the connecting click and the rolling noise of the ringing go on and on. Nearby, Daddy was watching a game of
Jeopardy!
, slapping his knee with all of his correct answers. Resting my head on the table, I let the ringing lull me into a light sleep.

In my dream, Ma, miniature and far away, was screaming for my attention from someplace remote. “Lizzy,” she called over and over again in a tinny voice, “Lizzy, is that you?” I snapped out of sleep, realizing she was actually talking to me from the phone, which had rolled halfway across the table. I grabbed it.

“Ma?”

“Lizzy, I thought that was you, pumpkin. We were in friggin’ arts and crafts again. I made you something. A cup. It’s not as good as I wanted, but I couldn’t see the board.”

“Pottery? You can
make
cups?” The idea impressed me; it made her seem unusually capable. “Are you feeling better, Ma?”

“Sure. I guess. Well, actually I’m havin’ a hard time. . . . I just need a little bag. It’s been a while, ya know? They’re like the goddamn gestapo over here, these nurses. I can’t even get a cigarette from anyone. I just don’t feel that great right now, I guess.”

Ma complained that the staff was always placing her on smoking restriction for “bad behavior,” like cursing or showing up late to group.

“I feel like a goddamn inmate,” she said. “They don’t know what it’s like to need a smoke and not get one. They never had to go without, ya know?”

“I know, Ma.”

The shift down in rank Ma suffered as a resident of the psychiatric ward was a tricky issue to manage. North Central Bronx staff came to know Lisa and me by name; they inquired about school, commented on missing baby teeth, and remembered birthdays. But I resisted their kindness. Something about their interest, alongside the authority they exerted over Ma, made me feel like a traitor. So I pretended not to notice when they charted “behavior points” for Ma on the bulletin board, or spoke to her in a voice most people used to discipline their children. I turned away rather than watch how she was made to stand ten feet behind them, tapping her foot, dressed in hospital booties and faded sweaters from the lost and found, watching while they locked and unlocked ward doors to permit her access to places. There was just no way to acknowledge the people who contained Ma without acknowledging her confinement; no clear way of addressing them, I worried, without belittling her. So I always stood off to the side, looked to the ground, and only whispered my answers to staff during visits.