Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One) (11 page)

“
No, no. Blaze, I’m sorry for taking up
your time. I wanted to come by and check what your plans are. I
also wanted to let you know I had no choice. These lofts are
bleeding everything I have out of them. I need to unload them. And
then...don’t even mention what happened to that landlord back in
’
13
. Remember
that? They
burned
him,
Blaze. Actually, maybe I will take that coffee...”

I make us a cup each. We sit at my
rough-hewn
kitchen-counter, the one separating the kitchen from the
rest of the loft. Mr. Bernstein looks up at my fifteen-foot wide
wall shelf. “I see your library’s growing.”

“
There’s still space for more.” I look at
the bottom row of the shelf, on the right.

“
How many?”

“
Well, it depends, but it averages out to
about one book per inch so...” I count. “...forty more? Give or
take.”

“
One per inch?” I can see he’s
counting.

“
There’s about four hundred and eighty up
there now.”

He smiles, realizing I caught him out. He
also knows I’ve read every one of them, so he doesn’t
ask that. But I see in his gray
eyes that he wishes I got out more, that I would associate with
people more.

That I would let them closer...

In time.

“
Your friend built them
sturdily.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s
talking about the shelves.
I nod, thinking about how Patryk also built this very
counter on which we’re drinking coffee now, as well as the stands
on which my decks sit—the vinyl
and
the CD decks—and the protective casing for my
top-of-the-line
B&W 683
speakers. (Which, incidentally, he also gave me when he
left.)

Take it all. I don’t want any
link to the past. Don’t want any link to...
her., he’d said with red-eyes just before
he left back to Poland. And where is he now? I wouldn’t even know
where to look...

He’s
the only dude I know who turned his graffiti skills into a
paying gig (that and a little carpentry on the side.) Not rags to
riches, but enough to have me constantly ogling the dough he
sometimes brought in. Mostly bedroom walls in the city.
Because they pay
like a mofo
, he used to
say.

Out of the blue (
or maybe not, because I was distracted) Mr.
Bernstein says: “Forty-five years, Blaze. Forty five years I been
doing this for. And now...” He shakes his head again.

“
What you gonna do...I mean,
financially?”

“
Oh, I’m fine! Don’t you worry about me.
Decades of smart management. But it isn’t about the money. It’s
been about providing homes for people. I remember a couple who
moved next door about twenty years ago, young, just had a baby...
Oh, never mind. Memories of an old fool. That’s all. You know I
turn sixty-eight this year? I’m too old for this stuff as
well.”

“
Can’t you sell to another landlord? I
mean, instead of selling to the developers. A new landlord might
raise the rent, but I could manage that. Developers will surely
offer no option to renew.”

He gives a regretful, slow shake of the
head.
“No one wants to
buy, sweetie. Too much pressure from the big boys. As more and more
condos go up, services and upkeep goes up. Landlords will be
forced
to charge higher rents. You
can’t charge higher rent for an old building like this when, next
door, in the up-and-coming high-rises, people will be paying
similar rents for five times the quality. Ten times!
Feh!
”

“
It feels a little like the end of an era,
Mr. Bernstein.”

“
Or the beginning of a new one.” He smiles,
trying to cheer my spirits. “You and I been through a lot, eh
kiddo?” I feel embarrassed as he says it. “How’s your Mamah
doing?”

“
Good, thanks. She’s got regular work now.
Cleaning.”

“
That’s good, that’s good. You still
sending money up to her?”

“
Yeah, but that don’t hurt me nothin. A
couple hundred dollars goes a long way in Poland.”
And a very short
way in New York
.

“
Blaze, I know you send much more than a
couple hundred a month. You’re an angel, kiddo. Tell you what,
forget the rent for the next six months. Just put it into savings
up for your next apartment. Who knows, maybe you’ll be one of the
first to take up one of these new luxury condos.”

“
Mr. Bernstein, you know I don’t like
charity.”

“
It’s not charity, Blaze. I promised your
Mamah I’d take care of you, and I don’t feel right about
taking
any
rent from
you!”

“
You know very well she never meant
that
. And if she
knew there were months you just let the rent slide, she’d be the
first to call you up on it.”

“She is a proud woman, isn’t she? Never took
anything from anyone.” He sighs. “Anyway, but this is between you
and me, Blaze.” He cocks his head like a naughty kid.

I blush. “Yeah.” My voice croaks.
“And...
thanks
. I don’t
know how I woulda made—“

“
Oh, shoosh!” He flicks a hand at me. “When
you get to my age, you realize the only reason you probably wake up
in the morning is because you see spark and hope in people younger
than you.
Much
younger
than you! I probably needed you more than you needed me. I’m just
an old fool who took a liking to you. Don’t worry, I’ll squeeze it
out of these other schmucks who complain too much about what
peanuts I charge them as it is.”

“
I can cover
some
of what I owe you.”

He sips his coffee. “Blaze, you’re also a
proud girl, just like your Mamah. But, as you’ll get older, you’ll
realize that money comes and goes. I was fortunate, I’ve made a lot
of it in my life. I know this is getting all schmaltzy, but I
consider you almost like a daughter. After what happened next
door...oh, goodness...” He puts his hand to his eyes. “...Well,
let’s just say I believe you’re a good luck person. And Good Luck
People should be supported. You never let life drag you down. If
you insist on paying me, then pay this old fool in kindness. I’m
gonna retire over in Long Island. Come by and visit me every now
and then.” Mr. Bernstein’s a true-and-true Brooklynite, one who
doesn’t consider Brooklyn itself to actually be a part of Long
Island. And when he says it, he actually means the suburban
counties of Nassau or Suffolk.

The back of my throat and all behind my
ears is
twanging
with
uncried tears of gratitude—
and of those memories of what happened next
door..
.

“
Anyway.” He gets up. “I better get going.
I just wanted to come by and check on you. You did get my note,
didn’t you? It looked like I woke you—”

“
Yeah, I did. I played a late gig last
night. Been up all night.”

“
Then let me get out of your way so you can
get some sleep. Lemme know if you need help finding a place, Blaze.
I’ll keep my eyes open as well.”

“
Thanks, Mr. Bernstein. I’ll walk you
down.” I’m thinking I want to see what Declan’s still doing
here.

“
Oh, no, I’m good.”

“
I was leaving anyway.” He looks at me
suspiciously, and I realize the lie is obvious—because he woke me
up, hello! “OK, fine,” I admit, “there’s someone I want to go and
see.”

He breaks into a smile. “I saw the
blond-haired boy getting into the elevator on this floor. New
friend?”

I shrug.
“Maybe.”

“
He feels lucky.”

“
Mr. Bernstein, I think I’m definitely
gonna visit you in Long Island when all this is over.”

“
Oh, sweetie, even before it’s over. The
people over there are about as exciting as snails. I miss the good
times, the excitement. Anyway...”

I wrap my arm around his round shoulders,
and we catch the elevator.

Downstairs, he turns and holds both my
hands. Thinks.
“Is she
good? Your Mamah. I mean...is she
happy
now?”

I swallow. “She’s...surviving. I Skype
with her once a week or so.”

Mr. Bernstein’s pretty short, with one of
those
wise and cuddly
faces. No James Franco, but I think it works differently when
you’re older. I think you look at other things other than the
instant visual gratification of
Sex Appeal.
Mamah was never one to get involved with men in my
presence. For all I know, she and Mr. Bernstein did get together.
Mamah was always very shy. I never met my father, and as far as I
know, Mamah never saw anyone else after him. Even back home now, I
don’t get that she’s seeing anyone. Is that how it gets when your
heart is broken once? Do you become afraid to reach out one more
time for that hot passion that just might get you burned? I like to
believe that it’s because I became her life, that I became the most
important thing to her—I like to think that’s the reason she never
followed a romantic life of any kind here; not that she was burned
by love.

“
OK, Polish girl with an Irish name, say hi
to your Mamah for me next time you talk to her.”

“
I will, Mr. Bernstein.”

He lingers just a second longer,
need and longing evident in his
gray eyes. Then he leaves.

A blast from the
past
...

We were all into the drugs back then, not
just Tolek. And I’m pretty sure Mr. Bernstein knows that, but I’ve
always found that he tends to assume I’m
the innocent cherub who only got in with the wrong
crowd and made mistakes.

I wish it were true.

Tolek was older than me by four
years
or so, so I guess
he must be around twenty-five now. But he’s not the reason I
started dropping—
oh, please no
.
Savva and I had been in the scene long before he came
around!

All he and I had ever done was tongue,
some rubbing with our clothes on (mostly uncomfortable on my part),
until the day we broke up—and, by the way, I’ve always had a
resistance to using the words “we broke up” when referring to him,
because it never really even felt like we’d dated in the first
place.

I’d always had a resistance to having him
touch me, a resistance I didn’t understand but which was
nonetheless there. I’d gone all through High School without a
boyfriend
(the “totally
cool” Eliasz Piscor and I never did get it on, not even behind the
school dumpster), and I was starting to get a little self-conscious
about it. So I’d hooked up with Tolek at a party I was mixing at
(one of my early ones, where the pay was beer and the people passed
around a hat “for the rent.”)

Savva used to tell me that if I’d had real
feelings for him, I’d let him get nearer to me. It was a foreign
concept to me. All I knew is I didn’t like him being
there
. Once,
right at the end, I did let him put a finger inside me—at his
constant insistence. It disgusted me so much that I called the
whole thing off afterwards. I told him we weren’t “compatible.” I
remember using that word: “Compatible.” I’d picked that one up from
one of Savva’s many philosophical ponderings on the state of the
universe while we mowed the grass at her appointment.

Mowed the
Grass
—that was Savva’s
favorite euphemism for smoking weed. Mine was
Firing up the Colorado
Cocktail
. There were
other minor differences in our lingo: She called ecstasy
Molly
or
The Doctor
; I stuck with
Adam
in those days. Now? I don’t call it shit. I think I stopped
caring what name you use for any of it when Savva graduated onto
shooting H (which she called
Chasing the Dragon
or
Meeting with Aunt Hazel and George Smack
.)

She
only ever smoked “the good shit” (another favorite term of
hers.)

And she never knew when to stop,
either...

But,
back to Tolek: After he touched me, I thought,
If all boys are
that rough
there
, then I don’t want any part of it
. And I certainly wanted no part of it with
this
boy. So I explained that to
him.

He didn’t take it well.

Mr. Bernstein had come knocking while we
were in the middle of the argument, Tolek’s voice (and hands) high
up in the air. The walls of my loft damn near reverberating with
how much he was shouting at me, telling me I’d “led him on.” I
remember that day well—it was a Thursday, around five. And it was
high summer. I remember this because a fierce sun was up and shafts
of it shone across the grids of my loft’s windows, cutting Tolek’s
face in half with its shadows. I recall thinking, as he stood there
blaring at the top of his voice at me, that the shadow down the
center of his face made it look like his face was cut in half—just
like
Two-Face
from
Batman, one face dark, one light.