Staten Island Noir

by Patricia Smith

  At the end of his first week, Jenny offered to cook him dinner. He hadn't seen her all week. He'd been too tired to do anything but sleep, eat, and watch television. Her parents were away for the weekend. Tommy dropped him off at her house.

  He was going to take a shower and then maybe a nap but within two minutes, he was on the floor bare-assed and Jenny had him in her mouth. He was in ecstasy, the job a distant memory, when she said she wanted to feel him inside of her. She told him it was safe because she had just finished her period. She crawled up his torso and lowered herself onto him, slick and easy. It was different with nothing between them, primordial and elemental, the mystery finally revealed. He felt out of time, alone in the world with Jenny. After a few minutes of euphoric thrusting, they came together. She collapsed onto his chest, breathless.

  He fell asleep right there on the hardwood floor with his shirt off and his jeans and underwear clustered at his ankles. When he woke up, Jenny was setting the table and the air was thick with the smell of homemade tomato sauce.

  Mikey took a quick shower. A bolt of anxiety rippled through him as he loosened the grains of concrete in his hair. They were always careful; they'd always used condoms before. He hadn't even used the "pull and pray" method that Pete joked about. Jenny had just slid down on him, hadn't even really asked. Sure, it was fantastic, but it was too risky. She shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have let her. He wouldn't let it happen again.

  When he got out of the shower, dinner was ready. Spaghetti and meatballs with her grandmother's gravy, a simple salad, a fresh loaf of bread from Galluccio's. Jenny stood at one end of the table, a kitchen apron around her midsection, a satisfied smile on her face. In that light, in that pose, she looked like her mother. Mikey sat down. Jenny brought the platter of food over to his plate and loaded it with pasta and meatballs.

  "Isn't this nice?"

  Mikey didn't answer. He ushered a large meatball into his mouth and tried to ignore the dry aftertaste of cement that lingered in the back of his throat.

  * * *

  The summer droned on. July was brutal but fair; blistering heat but no humidity. The sun baked them in the still air of the empty stadium. Mikey understood why they started work so early: the mornings were bearable, the afternoons hellacious. After lunch, time hit the brakes. Mikey's legs grew sluggish and his stomach swelled with bread and meat from lunch. The air stung like lava. Nothing to rush the day. A nerve-wracking drive home on the horizon.

  Most days, Mikey worked by himself, mixing load after load of cement. The other guys would arrive in groups. There'd be a few minutes of companionship as he shoveled concrete into their pails. Fucking brutal today. See the Yanks last night? Look at Mikey, his tongue's hanging down to his chin. Mikey, you up all night eating pussy again? Mikey didn't mind. He'd stick his tongue out, reach it up to his nose, wink at Nicky. I can still taste it, he'd say, and the guys would laugh. The same jokes every day. Jokes you could lean on.

  He tried out his Spanish on the Mexican guys, all the dirty words he knew. Coño. Pendejo. Tengo grande pene. They laughed, maybe with him, maybe at him. He didn't care. It passed the time. A few minutes of fun in the soup. A flutter of camaraderie. Then he'd be alone again, for an hour at least, maybe longer.

  When he was alone, his mind drifted to the Sunday before he started working. Jenny and Amy lying by the pool in Amy's backyard; Mikey nestled on the lounger between them. He thought about his conversation with Amy, what she'd said to him about Jenny leaving for school early. He thought about some of the looks Amy had given him. Looks that said all things were possible. He thought about her green bikini, all the flesh it covered and all the flesh it didn't. He thought about these things until his groin stirred, until he felt half alive again in the scalding gray haze.

  * * *

  Jenny called him every night, complaining that they weren't spending any time together. When he hung out with one of his buddies or tried to slip in some batting practice or a lift, she protested, whining into the phone that she was leaving in a month, in three weeks, in two weeks. Did he even care? While she pestered him, he cursed her silently. He cursed his parents for making him take this job. He cursed his uncle for making him drive home every day.

  And he cursed the weather because his uncle had told him they couldn't work if it rained and it hadn't rained a single fucking drop the whole summer.

  * * *

  In August, the weather turned diabolical. A humid front squatted over the city. The air swelled thick. Every night, the weathermen predicted thunderstorms and downpours that never came. The sweat came off Mikey in sheets. It was too hot to even laugh. Even the Mexicans slowed.

  Mikey barely saw his parents or his brother. He woke before them, got home before them, went to bed before them. When he did see them, he floated past, a ghost stuck between two lives, not fully there but not yet at college. He counted the days. Just a few more weeks. Then he'd never mix cement again.

  * * *

  One day, a week before Jenny left for school, his uncle sent him and one of the Mexicans, Renny, to knock out some cement in the ceiling above the concourse. They had to stand on a platform and use a mini-jackhammer. The motion was awkward and painful; Mikey had to switch shoulders every few minutes.

  Renny was the hardest-working and happiest guy in the whole crew. He spoke no English. He smiled constantly. They fell into an easy rhythm. A few minutes of attacking clatter, thirty seconds of rest. The same exchange filled every silence.

  "Renny, yo quiero muchas cervezas? Coño-faced."

  "Coño-faced?"

  "Yeah, coño-faced. Shit-faced. Borracho."

  A big laugh from Renny. Then back to the jackhammers.

  One time, Mikey pulled the trigger a second too early, while he was still looking at Renny. The jackhammer's blade spurted to life, found something metal, recoiled, and popped him below his left eye. Mikey stumbled back and his feet slipped off the platform. He had a moment of complete terror, like dropping into a dark cave, until his right ankle found the ground and buckled. The rest of his body followed, pain reverberating through him as his right knee, elbow, and shoulder impacted. He flopped over onto his back, throbbing everywhere. Ten feet above, Renny looked down, surprise and concern on his face.

  Mikey closed his eyes, tried to assess what hurt the most. His ankle was screaming; the bone below his eye felt like it had been pushed back into his mouth.

  He heard Renny climb down from the platform, heard the scamper of his boots on the concrete, and heard his uncle name's being yelled in a panicked Mexican accent.

  * * *

  His uncle drove home, annoyance slowly losing out to compassion. Mikey wasn't really hurt. No permanent damage. He had a sprained ankle, a skinned knee, and an ugly black eye; his ribs and back were tender and sore, but he was otherwise fine. An ice pack dangled over his bare ankle. He held another up to his eye.

  "Renny thought you were dead."

  "I did too."

  Tommy chuckled. "I'm glad you're not. Your mother would've killed me." He glanced over, gave Mikey a tight smile.

  He does this every day, Mikey thought. Then he goes home to three kids.

  They drove the rest of the way without talking. The incessant heat had sapped the whole city of energy. Even the callers on sports radio could only register mild complaints; their quibbles were swatted away by an aggravated host.

  Hot air rushed in through the open windows of the van. Mikey peered out on the highway and watched the blurry lines of heat rise. Every bump renewed the pain in his joints; still, his eyes fell shut.

  A gentle flick on the ear woke him.

  "Keep icing your ankle, Mikey, though I don't think we'll be working the rest of the week."

  Mikey was still groggy, didn't understand. He followed his uncle's gaze until he saw a fat drop of rain land on the front windshield of the van. The sky had darkened during his snooze. The temperature had dropped a few degrees. Mikey hobbled out into a sudden downpour, feeling bet
ter than he had all summer.

  The house was empty. Mikey checked the weather report. Rain for the rest of week and through the weekend, bringing much-needed water to the drought-plagued tri-state area. He felt renewed, alive for the first time in many weeks, despite the pain all over his body. His thoughts turned to Jenny. He wanted to be with her right now, wanted her to fawn over his wounded, tired body.

  She answered on the second ring. She sounded like she'd been sleeping.

  "Hey, it's me."

  "Hey."

  "Looks like I won't have to work tomorrow or Friday. Maybe we can go to Denino's tonight, stop at Ralph's afterward. We can hang out all day tomorrow."

  "I'm sick, Mikey. I've been nauseous all day. I didn't even go into work today." She sounded awful.

  "All right. Well, I'll come over then and we can just hang out in your room, watch a movie or something."

  "Right. Or something. I don't feel good, Mikey. Maybe I'll feel better tomorrow."

  This was bullshit. She'd whined all summer that he wasn't spending any time with her and now she was too sick to hang out? A nasty thought popped in his head.

  "Okay, Jenny, maybe tomorrow." He softened his voice, tried to sound spontaneous. "Hey, do you know if Amy's around?"

  He could just imagine the look on her face. He waited.

  "What do you mean?"

  "No, I just figured if you're not feeling great, maybe Amy would be up for some pizza."

  "What do you mean?"

  He'd hit his target. He could hear it in her voice.

  "Well, I've been so busy all summer, I haven't seen anyone. I just thought maybe I'd—"

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Forget it, Jenny. I was only asking."

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Jenny, just forget it."

  He heard her start to cry. A dose of guilt shot through him. Then he felt something fierce and explosive, an anger that shook his hands. He screamed into the receiver.

  "You're not the only one who had a shitty day, Jenny!" His face was burning. "My whole summer sucked. And all you did was make it worse!"

  Jenny was sobbing. Mikey wasn't even sure whether she'd heard him. He repeated himself.

  "All you did was make it worse!"

  Then he hung up.

  * * *

  He wasn't serious about calling Amy. Sure, after he had a shower, he took out his address book and turned it to the page that held her number. He looked at it for a long time, imagined how the conversation would go, and thought about what would happen if she said yes. But he wasn't really serious. He just wanted to try it out in his head. He ended up calling Benny, who he hadn't seen in weeks.

  Mikey'd heard about the place. It was a few miles over the Outerbridge in Jersey. Benny had gone a few weeks earlier with his older brother. He described it to Mikey on the drive over. They had split a six-pack in the basement of Benny's house and were feeling pretty good

  "What if they don't let us in?"

  "Relax, Mikey. They don't care. They just want your money."

  "Shit, I hope we get in."

  "We will. Wait till you see these chicks, bro. Wait."

  The big neon sign out front read, Molly's. The lot only had a few cars in it. Benny parked near the entrance. The rain had thinned to a drizzle.

  The doorman, a hulking figure in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, didn't even want to see ID. He just took their twenties and waved them in.

  Inside, a few customers sat at a rectangular bar that surrounded a stage. Soft light filtered through the room, dying in the corners. At either end of the stage, a scantily clad stripper was wrapped around a pole. The woman nearest Mikey was topless. She titled back, hands around the pole, bare legs stretched up to the ceiling. Her breasts hung back toward her face. Blond curls of hair dangled down to the stage floor. She flashed Mikey an upside-down smile.

  The bartender—an older woman, all business—interrupted their reverie. "Boys, what are you having?"

  Benny stepped forward, put a crinkled ten on the bar. "Two Buds."

  The bartender put two bottles on the bar, flicked them open. "Try not to fall in love."

  * * *

  Mikey had never been inside a strip club. He was overwhelmed; his eyes flitted around the room, trying to take it all in. There was flesh, a cavalcade of it: curved rears, hardened nipples, bruised thighs, lithe necks. It was all on display and you were supposed to look. The dancers wanted you to ogle them, to desire them. They cavorted and gyrated and contorted. They took the stage and stripped down until only a sliver of fabric remained between their legs. They pulled and tugged at that fabric until what was behind swelled into relief.

  After they danced, the strippers walked straight up to you, unabashed, and pulled their tits apart so you could place a dollar bill between them. Most of them weren't beautiful, most weren't even cute, but it didn't matter; their appeal was primordial.

  After a few hours, it was time to leave. They'd had their fun, slipped a single between the tits of every dancer in the place three times over.

  Mikey was drunk; all the beer had dulled the pain in his ankle and the soreness everywhere else. He took a difficult piss in the bathroom and when he came back to the bar, the blond dancer was seated on his stool and Benny was whispering in her ear. Mikey saw Benny slide a twenty into her hand. She was wearing a see-through white teddy and she extended her hand. Mikey shook it.

  "I'm Mandy. Looks like you had a rough day."

  She brought a soft finger to the cheek below his left eye. She was younger than the other dancers. Less worn out. She had a pretty face that was somewhat familiar; she looked like a friend's older sister, someone you once pined for. She scooted from the stool and took his hand.

  "Well, you are certainly tall and long. Bet you're long in all the right places."

  No one had ever talked to him like this. This was the talk of porno movies. This wasn't real. Benny was leaning onto the bar, a sleepy grin on his face.

  "Your friend wants to give you a little going-away present."

  She led him over to a little side lounge, darker than the bar area and separated by a sheer black curtain. He was unsteady on his feet, a mixture of the beer and his swollen ankle. She pushed him down on the couch and removed her teddy. She started dancing, brushing her bare tits across his face. She smelled like perfume and sweat. She placed Mikey's hands on her hips. She turned, grinding her bare ass into his groin.

  This was a real woman with full tits and an ass you could mount. Jenny might be like this some day but she wasn't yet. Mikey was excited and embarrassed and trying to hold himself back. After a few minutes with her ass rubbing against him, he was ready to go. He tried even harder to hold back. But when Mandy turned again and slid her legs over his hips and lowered herself onto him, the whole throbbing bit of him, he came right in his boxers.

  Mandy relaxed in his lap as she felt him retreating. The euphoric feeling faded and left Mikey feeling hollow. Mandy smiled and kissed his forehead. He thought he might vomit.

  * * *

  The next morning, Mikey woke to the sound of rain pounding outside his window. The end of the night was a blur, just vague unconnected bits: a hasty exit from Molly's, Benny's car drifting across the narrow Outerbridge, Benny faking sobriety at the toll, Mikey sneaking under the covers as his alarm clock pulsed 2:57.

  His head throbbed. His body ached. At least he didn't have to work. He could sleep for a few more hours. He looked over at the alarm clock. Just after nine. The hostile red digits reminded him of the sign in the strip club's parking lot. He tried to ignore the guilt that was gathering in the back of his head. Better to sleep it off. It was just harmless fun.

  The door to his bedroom creaked open and his mother peered into the grayness, concerned. "Michael?"

  "Yeah, Mom, what's up?" He didn't open his eyes, hoped his nonchalance would throw her off.

  "Tommy called. He wanted to see if you were feeling okay. Why didn't you tell me about
the accident?"

  "It was nothing, Mom. Just a sprained ankle and a black eye. It happens."

  He could tell she wanted to come in, to inspect him and confirm that he was fine.

  "Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

  "Mom, I'm fine. I just need some rest. Can I just get some rest?"

  "Okay, Mikey." But she didn't leave. A thin slice of light from the hallway lingered on the bed. "Jenny's downstairs."

  "I'll be right down."

  He swung out of bed and gingerly placed his swollen ankle on the floor. It was twice its normal size and bluish streaks were visible on the swell. He threw on a T-shirt and the jeans he'd worn the night before and hobbled downstairs.

  Jenny sat at the kitchen table, still wearing her yellow rain slicker. His mother was at the sink, washing dishes but attentive. Jenny stood and he could tell that she had been crying. She looked like a little girl lost in a mall; she couldn't contain the panic on her face.

  He knew right then, knew before they left the house without a word, before she drove a few blocks away and pulled the car over. He knew before she started to cry, before the crying turned into great heaving sobs. When he reached over to comfort her, she blurted it out.

  "I'm pregnant, Mikey. I think I'm pregnant. I missed my period and I feel sick in the mornings. Mikey, what are we going to do?"

  Now it was solid, in the world. It was spoken fact. Desperation flooded through Mikey. LeMoyne was a million miles away, its campus sliding away in the rain. He saw his future harden into something ugly, something clichéd. The summer and its miseries had smothered the memory. A few thrusts on a hard wooden floor. One time. It wasn't possible. He started to cry.