by Edward Goble
Chapter 14
Andy decided to grab some lunch before continuing the story so he left he desk licking his lips, trying to figure out what he was in the mood for. He visited the restroom on the way to the kitchen and paused to step on the bathroom scale. It was the old style with the round dial full of numbers that spin around like the big board on the Price Is Right. He wanted to see if his Good Choices commitment had resulted in any weight loss. The dial swirled and shook and dove past the red line where the numbers end before it sprung back and finally settled at 283. He had gained two pounds. He stepped off the scale and looked in the mirror, “Well, five days into the program and you’ve gained two pounds,” he said. “How does that make you feel Big Guy?” He could feel a combination of anger, anxiety and depression begin to push against his brain, a weird mixture of sensations that made him want to throw the scale through the front glass window, yet without the energy or the will to bend down and pick it up.
Without giving it any thought he grabbed a black garbage bag from the kitchen pantry, opened it wide and began emptying the pantry of all sweets and salty snacks. He swept through the cupboards like a crazed maid with a shop-vac. Gone were the chips, the Pringles, the Ho-Ho’s and Twinkies. Shoveled in to the bag were the candy bars and chocolate covered pretzels and goo-goo clusters. He filled one bag and reached for another. He moved to the refrigerator where he pulled out the cans of soda pop and cake. He tore through the freezer as well and when he was done there was nothing left but a plastic container of ice and a carton of Lean Cuisine meatloaf. The refrigerator had been raped and pillaged with all that remained being a bottle of V8-Splash, a lone can of Slim Fast Chocolate Royale and a couple stalks of celery. Before he could talk himself out of it he drug the black bags down the stairs like a couple of dead bodies and hefted them into the dumpster. He went back in the house and grabbed the last slim fast drink and fell into his chair. He wasn’t sure if he’d taken a breath in the past ten minutes. He sat staring at the wall, holding the unopened drink with one hand and clutching the sides of the chair with the other.
Albert Martin, a first offender, was scared and spent Sunday night in the corner of a group cell cursing his luck. He wasn’t ashamed of his business idea, “Hell no,” he thought. It was easy money. The stupid part was involving his family. But he had no idea that Uncle Albert would be such an asshole. “Why did he open my package,” he kept asking himself, blaming his Uncle for screwing up the plan. “It was my mail for crissake.” He mumbled and whined through much of the night as he sank in to despair after the cocaine wore off. His red jacket reeked of sweat and was smeared with his own snot, his hair was oily and tangled; the black bags under his eyes betrayed three days without sleep. He just wanted to get out of this hellhole and crash.
His father arrived at SFO at 2:00 pm, Monday, and took a cab downtown to post bail. He placed a lien on his home in Phoenix and purchased a $250,000 bond. When his spindly, wasted son was marched out from behind the iron bars with his hands cuffed behind his back, his father didn’t know whether to deck him or hug him. How could his son have sunk this low? They didn’t speak, just turned and walked back out to the curb where his dad stepped up to the front car in the line of taxis.
“Get in,” was the first thing he said to his adult child as the frustrated older man stood by the open door of the cab.
“Give the man your address,” Albert’s father said.
“1331 4th Ave., Daly City,” he said grudgingly. The cab driver engaged the meter and drove away from the jail.
“What are we doing?” Albert asked.
“Going to get you cleaned up, you stink.” His father was in no mood for small talk. He had been awakened early by his older brother and told a story that he would never have believed. Now he sat with a bum who barely resembled the young man he had raised and poured his life in to. The cab was silent save the buzz of the talk radio diatribe in which the driver was engrossed. His father paid the fare when they stopped in front of the old complex that his son called home. Due to his hasty exit the previous day, Albert had to stop by the manager’s apartment for a key. He was informed that he had one day to clean out the place and get lost.
“We won’t have no drug dealers in our place,” the lady said. “This is a family complex.”
Albert didn’t say, but his friend in 1-C was brokering deals just like his all day long right under her nose. All he did say in response, was, “Whatever.”
They stepped in to the dingy apartment. Albert’s father was repulsed at the way his son had been living. The police had contributed to the clutter as they rummaged through collecting the drugs and evidence. But the dirt and scum was all his. “How can you live like this,” his father wanted to say, but held his tongue. The boy had made his choices. Bad ones. What he did say was simple and direct, “Get cleaned up.”
“I need to sleep for a while,” Albert said, not so much as a question.
“You’ll sleep later. We’re going to the hospital,” his father announced.
“What? No. I’ve gotta sleep.” Albert started to step into the small hallway and open door of his bedroom when his father caught him by the sleeve of his jacket and spun him around. His dad was trembling mad.
“Albert. You nearly killed your Aunt Maria. She is my brother’s wife... You will shower and get cleaned up and we will go to the hospital. Now.” He shoved Albert’s skinny body toward the bathroom. Albert realized he had little choice.
“Whatever,” the boy mumbled.
The cab ride to the hospital was a bit more pleasant for the older Martin, as the smell of the other passenger was not so rank. He still had very little to say to his son, though. He knew a conversation was pointless. What was done, was done and talking about it would just make the old man angrier. He wanted to walk his son through the process of apologizing, get him settled in a new apartment, and, be on the last flight out of San Francisco Monday night.
Mr. Martin was helping his Maria with her dinner when the knock came at the door of the semi-private room. The curtain was pulled, veiling the view to the door, so Mr. Martin excused himself from his wife’s side and stepped quietly out of the room. His brother and nephew were standing there. Mr. Martin glanced at Albert who was looking at his own shoes, and saw the broken look in the eyes of the young mans father.
“My brother,” he said. And the two men embraced. It had not been long since they had last been together, but it had been under markedly better circumstances.
“Maria?” his brother said.
“She will be alright. She is strong, ja?”
“Good. I am so glad... Albert?” his father said, redirecting his attention to the youngest Martin. Albert couldn’t bring himself to look at his uncle. He looked past him, his eyes darting. He looked at his feet and glanced again at his father.
Mr. Martin stared at the boy. He was ashamed and disappointed. He wasn’t interested in having this exchange but his brother had requested the time. He wanted the boy to take responsibility for his actions.
“Albert. Don’t you have anything to say to your uncle?” his father asked, not meaning for it to be understood as a question so much as a demand.
The younger man looked around, he was self-conscious, he felt every eye in the place; he wanted to run, get on with his life, and leave these two dinosaurs to their love-fest. But there was no getting away—for now anyway, he was stuck.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, looking briefly at the his uncles face, then back at his father, then back down at the floor. “But you shouldn’t have opened the damn box,” he thought to himself.
“Albert.” Mr. Martin said. “Albert. Look at me.” The young man forced his eyes to meet those of his uncle.
“Albert. You are my blood. The son of my brother. We are family, ja?” Mr. Martin said and the younger Martin nodded slightly with a look on his face that said he just wanted to survive the speech and get on with life. He looked away again.
“Look at your uncle,
dammit,” his father demanded with a slap to the side of the young man’s head. Albert glared briefly and then looked back at his uncle.
“Albert. You are my blood,” Mr. Martin restated, “But she,” he said, pointing back to the closed door, “she... is my life.” Mr. Martin’s small grey eyes welled with emotion. His hand shook as he pointed back to the hospital room where his wife of over three decades lay hurting for no reason but the selfish greed of an out of control young man. “She is my life!” he said again, looking firmly, sternly at his nephew, then at his own brother. The young man got the point. At least to the extent he could in the sleep deprived state he was in.
“What can I do?” his brother finally asked when it was clear the boy would not respond. Mr. Martin just shook his head as his pulse slowed and he calmed down.
“We are okay,” he said. “You go home. Take the boy.”
“He can’t leave the state, stipulation of the bond. He’s got to stay till trial, then, probably jail.”
Mr. Martin nodded, not volunteering to be of any help.
“I’m going to get him set up in a new place. He’s been evicted from. I can’t stay out here for a month.”
“I know,” Mr. Martin said.
“At some point, he is an adult, right? We can do only so much,” Albert’s father said to his brother as if the younger man were not standing right next to them. Young Albert counted the tiles on the floor and the ceiling wishing he could die right then or at least be anywhere else, even back in the cell. He had to get away from these idiots. The brothers hugged. “Give Maria my love and apologies,” Mr. Martin’s brother pleaded.
“I will,” Mr. Martin said. “Thank you my brother.”
Albert and his father left down the same hallway they had entered—took the elevator back to the lobby and hailed a cab for Daly City. The old man picked up a newspaper from a stand outside before getting into the cab and was marking low-end rentals all the way back to Albert’s apartment. Albert watched silently, it looked like his old man was going to help him get set up in a new place. Better just be quiet and take what he could get.
The sun had retired for the day before Andy moved again from the overstuffed chair in the living room. He had sat for nearly four hours in silence. He dozed off a few times, but mostly just sat quietly, his brain disengaged, not thinking about anything. He wasn’t planning the next twist for Rance Broadback, he wasn’t dwelling on his loneliness or lack of discipline. He was just staring in to space. If someone offered him a penny for his thoughts they would have deserved a refund. The normally fertile field of Andy Boyd’s imagination had shut down, offering no levity, no questions, and no comments. He didn’t wonder if his mental hard drive were rebooting, because that would have required rational observation. For almost four hours he was a zombie. His first conscious thought was that it was cold. That caused him to look around and notice it was dark. Next his stomach joined the awakening with a complaint of starvation. Andy leaned up in the chair to stand and found that all his muscles had either fallen asleep or had grown accustomed to the previous position and were in the process of rigor mortis. Moving his body felt like Gulliver breaking the ropes of the Lilliputians. “Rrrr,” he said, stretching his arms widely and twisting at the waist. He shook the cobwebs from his head and looked around the darkening condo. As if he had dreamed his earlier pantry-purging episode, he stood and walked to the kitchen, looking in the cupboards and refrigerator. “Wow,” was all he could muster.
His eyes were still heavy and his body weak and sore. He thought about going to bed. It was 5:30 pm. Not typical, but not something he was unfamiliar with, either. Sometimes the day just got the upper hand and wouldn’t let him get up to speed. He thought about retrieving the black bags from the dumpster and getting something to eat, but that sounded too much like work. So he decided on a nap. The next time his eyes opened it was 8:00 am, Tuesday morning. He hadn’t moved all night and, except for a Cal State sweatshirt that he didn’t remember putting on, he was dressed exactly as he had been the previous day. After a long shower in which he stood motionless for twenty minutes before actually washing himself, he pulled on a change of clothes and realized that it had been twenty hours since his last meal, now he really was starving, at least by his standards. He habitually posted his morning blog before deciding on food.
Andy’s Weblog - November 6th
Depression
Depression, by dictionary definition, is a sunken place. That is, an area lower than the surrounding surface. It’s a hole. There are, of course, the definitions for depression that are applied to people as well. Like sadness, dejection, being gloomy for no objective reason, things like that. But I like this picture of a hole. That comes pretty close to how I feel much of the time. On the sidewalk, I seem to lag behind and below the rest of the people. They are energetic and driven, while I am slogging as if through quicksand.
I think it is this whole preoccupation I have with my weight and how I have been so quick to blame my waistline for my loneliness, my singleness and the fact that I seem to reside in this sunken place. It is times like this when I wonder, and it is an honest question, what happens after this life. Could it be, like my mother has discovered, that there is a beautiful, eternal home awaiting those who follow a certain path? Or, is death just the end of conscious existence, which I’ve always seemed to believe. Because, I’ll tell you what, living in a perpetual sunken place is no fun, and being done with it, just not existing any more, seems somewhat attractive at times. I can’t help but think that if there really were a heavenly mansion, that mine would have a sunken living room. I’m not sure I want to risk the belief that I might be like this for eternity. Thirty-five years has been hard enough.
I don’t know who reads this tripe, actually, I know one person who does (Hi, Mom), and she seems to love me the way I am. But to anyone else who stumbles upon these ramblings, I apologize if I’ve pushed you into a little ‘sunken place,’ by reading this. Take a look around while you’re here, welcome to my world.
Looking up
Andy
Andy posted the blog and shut his eyes, his morning dose of honesty hadn’t really made him feel any better, but it had, at least, gotten the feelings out of his head and that was probably better than holding them inside, at least that’s what he told himself. He decided to walk up the street to Martin’s Deli and see if an Italian Special might perk up his day.
He stepped in to the little corner Deli a few minutes before 11:00 am, at least half an hour before the beginning of the lunchtime rush. Mr. Martin was behind the counter, taking inventory of assorted meats and cheeses, and writing his findings on a small spiral notebook while singing along quietly with the opera that was playing on the old boom box. He stepped on tiptoes to look over the counter and see who’d come in to the shop. His eyebrows perked up when he saw his young friend.
“Andy! Gut morgen! Come in, come in.” Mr. Martin stepped over to the cash register area; he tossed the notebook back by the boom box and wiped his hands on his apron. If Andy didn’t know better, he would have thought the old man was just excited at the prospect of a big sale, but Mr. Martin wasn’t like that.
“Gut morgen,” Andy replied. “How is Mrs. Martin?”
“Getting better, thank you.” She is eating, you know, Jell-O, and juice. Soft things. She wants her puzzles, ja?” he said, smiling. “The doctor says no puzzles for one week. He doesn’t want her eyes to strain, ja?”
Andy nodded, “I guess that makes sense.”
“What do you have today, Andy? It is a good day, no rain today.”
“I think I’ll have the Italian Special. If you can do it like Mrs. Martin, that is.” He said, kidding with the old German.
“Ja, I think I can do it.” Mr. Martin said proudly.
Andy added a bag of Doritos and two cookies to his order and sat down at his familiar perch by the window, watching the people and wondering about their lives. His sandwich came and he immediately noticed that Mr. Mar
tin had tried to out-do his wife. The sandwich was enormous.
“I do okay, Ja?” he boasted.
“Looks great to me,” Andy said.
In truth, the sandwich wasn’t really as good as Mrs. Martins, but it was bigger. Much bigger. Mr. Martin had added double-everything in an effort both to say thank you and demonstrate his preeminence behind the counter. Andy got a kick out of the thought. While the old man went back to his inventory Andy got to work on his first meal in almost an entire day. His first impulse was to devour the sandwich like Attila the Hun ripping off the first hunk of roasted pig. But after two bites he began to slow down and appreciate the flavor, the subtle combination of ingredients. “I’m going to choose to enjoy this, not inhale it,” Andy whispered to himself.
Still focused on his meal, taking sips of brewed ice tea between luscious bites, Andy noticed a familiar car make the turn off off Chestnut in front of the deli. A few minutes later the two men walked in whom Andy had met the previous Saturday, the Italian-looking guys who were either stand-in’s for a Soprano’s episode, or, probably less likely, real bad guys. The monster in the black bomber jacket held the door open for the sharp looking older man in the topcoat. Instead of taking their coats off in the warm deli, the two men stepped over to the counter, glancing at Andy in a way that suggested that he find another place to finish his meal. He ignored the look.
“Hey, come in, come in,” Mr. Martin said to his customers. “What will it be today? Everything is good, ja?”
The older man stood close to the counter with his hands tucked in the pockets of his top coat while the gentleman with no neck stood to the side, bending to look at the meat and cheese and inspecting the bread and biscotti on top of the case.
“Just need a minute of your time today my friend,” Top Coat said to Mr. Martin.
“Sure. Ja.”
“We have a young business associate who missed an appointment. We haven’t heard from him and are growing concerned. We wanted to know if you could help us find him.”
“No,” Mr. Martin shook his head slightly, not following the man. “I don’t know...”
“Albert Marteen,” Top Coat said, his eyes never leaving those of the deli owner. “The young man’s name is Albert Marteen... Like Marteen’s Deli,” he added for effect.
“Albert is my nephew. Ja? But I don’t know where he is.” Mr. Martin was catching up to the conversation.
Top Coat was still wearing a small, disbelieving smile, and a cold stare, “Of course. Well, we went to his apartment and it seems he left sometime last night. The manager said he was evicted and didn’t leave a forwarding address.” Mr. Martin pursed his lips and nodded.
“That sounds like Albert, ja,” he said.
Top Coat leaned in to the counter slightly, “When our company did business with the young Mr. Martin, he listed you as a reference. His only reference.”
“I cannot vouch for my nephew,” Mr. Martin replied, “I rarely see him.”
“Be that as it may,” Top Coat said, “our policy is that if something happens, wherein the primary party is unable to meet the obligation of the contract, then the contract becomes the responsibility of the personal reference.”
“I will not be responsible for my nephews business, I am sorry,” Mr. Martin said.
Top Coat was unmoved. “Of course. However, that is the way our contracts work. Young Albert should have apprised you of the details before he entered in to the contract. His inability to inform you is not really our responsibility,” he said, his thin smile never leaving his face.
“I don’t understand this,” Mr. Martin said, “Do I need to call the police or talk to my lawyer?”
“Or,” Top Coat affirmed, “just tell us where young Albert went last night and we will be happy to take up the matter with him personally. Because, as you said, this is not your problem.”
“But I don’t know...” Mr. Martin began before being cut off by a firm rebuttal.
“But I assure you, Mr. Martin, that this will become your problem, if young Albert does not meet his obligation.”
“Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?” Mr. Martin was heating up.
“It is not a threat,” Top Coat said, removing a hand from his jacket and raising it slightly in protest, “it is the contract. According to the contract, you are the liable party should Mr. Martin fail to meet the obligation. It is simply business. I’m sure you understand.”
“I don’t understand and I don’t like it,” Mr. Martin said.
“My advice, Sir, in all sincerity, would be to communicate our request to young Mr. Martin and assure him that this is an issue to which he must attend, as soon as possible.”
Andy thought the guy even sounded like a TV show mobster, but he consciously remained focused on his dwindling Italian Special and bag of Doritos.
“What are we talking about, exactly?” Mr. Martin said.
“It would be best if your nephew explain the terms of the contract. But if we have not yet heard from him by tomorrow morning, we will come back with a copy for you, as you will become the lien-holder.”
“But I...” Mr. Martin began only to be rebuffed again.
“Now, Mr. Marteen, again, your involvement is a non-issue as long as your nephew meets the terms, which I am certain he will do.” Top Coat now smiled and nodded, “So we will say good bye for now, and please, give young Mr. Martin our message.” He stepped away from the counter and turned to leave. No Neck pulled a twenty from his pocket and tossed it on the counter to pay for the biscotti he had been eating and the loaf of fresh bread he grabbed from the counter basket. Mr. Martin was too stunned to ring up the sale or make change. The room fell silent after the clang of the bells on the door. Mr. Martin looked at Andy, speechless. He paced up and back behind the counter for several moments before picking up the wireless phone and dialing a number.
“Brother, where is Albert?” Andy heard Mr. Martin say in to the receiver.
“He has people looking for him... They came to my store...”
“No. They were not police... I don’t know, I just... Okay.” Mr. Martin took a pen and flipped to a new page in his inventory book. He wrote down an address.
“Okay. I know... It’s not your fault... Auf Wiedersehen.” He hung up the phone and tore the page out of the notebook. Mr. Martin stepped through the saloon doors and came over the Andy’s table.
“Did you hear any of that?” he said.
Andy nodded, “Who were those guys?”
“I don’t know. I think Albert is in trouble.”
“More trouble,” Andy said.
“Ja. I need to find him, I think. Can you help me?”
“Whatever you need, Mr. Martin.”
“I will close the deli early and go to his new place. You can take me?”
“What time.”
“Three o’clock?”
“I’ll be here.” Andy looked at his watch, 11:33 am. A small group of people entered the deli and Mr. Martin glanced in their direction and then back.
“Thank you,” he said solemnly, patting Andy on the shoulder before returning to his post.
Andy finished quickly and walked back to his house. Now that his mind was nourished it was filling his head with a plethora of mobster scenarios right out of the movies. He was envisioning all the possible bloody endings to this drama when his cell phone chirped breaking the spell.
“Andy Boyd,” he said without checking the number.
“You sound pre-occupied,” his mother said, “Is this a bad time?”
“Oh, hi mom. No. Just walking back to the house. How’s it going?”
“Good, real good. Listen, I’m having Marg over for dinner tonight. Will tonight work for you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, mom. I’m taking Mr. Martin on an errand at 3:00 pm., don’t know when we’ll be back.”
“I was thinking 6:30-ish.”
“Well, uh, I can plan on it and call you if I’m not going to make it. How’s that?”
“I’ll take what I can get from the big-time author. Let’s try for six thirty, then?”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Okay. Love you honey,” his mom said.
“Love you, mom.” he clicked the phone shut and looked at his watch again. He was absent most of yesterday and today was closing in on him. “I need a ghost-writer,” he thought to himself, “I’m too busy to write the dang book and it’s all I do.” He shook his head and climbed the steps to his front door. He had trouble finding the key to unlock the Broadback story in his head and was only able to pound out a few lines before time to drive Mr. Martin.
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Appalachian Malady - 5
“John Sanchez.”
“John, Rance,” Broadback said into the satellite phone from his room on the third floor.
“Hey buddy,” Sanchez replied.
“Up for a field trip?”
“I can shuffle some things around. Where we headed?”
“The Bluegrass state. Fly in to Nashville and rent a car, I’ll meet you in Somerset, KY tomorrow afternoon. Here’s a cell number, call when you’re close.”
“Any special tools?”
“We might use that GPR thing you were telling me about.”
“Ground Penetrating Radar? Digging for gold?”
“Something like that. Tomorrow then?”
“On my way.”
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He didn’t want to leave the story right now. This was the time the scribe looked forward to, the time when the plot began to come together and the story wrote itself. He wanted to stay in the secret room and find out what Rance was planning with John Sanchez. Andy liked Sanchez. The guy was amazing. He was a natural mechanical genius that most men wish they could be. He loved it when Sanchez was brought in to a story. Even though Andy didn’t understand how Sanchez came up with half the gadgets he made, Andy just loved to sit back and watch him work.
“Okay Broadback. You guys wait till I get back, okay?” Andy said to the screen as he clicked Apple-S and put the computer to sleep.
Mr. Martin was locking the door to the Deli when Andy pulled around the corner in the white Buick. Mr. Martin saw him and hurried across the street to the passenger’s side. Andy could see the anxious look on the old man’s face as he approached the car. Mr. Martin had scratched out rough directions to his nephew’s new apartment complex that was right off Junipero Serra Blvd, in Daly City on the other side of town.
The address belonged to a house that had been converted in to a 4-plex. Albert’s father had told his brother that he had moved his son into unit 3, on the second floor, up the wooden stairs along the left side of the house.
“Do you want me to go up with you?” Andy said as he turned off the ignition.
“No. Thank you, Andy. I will talk to the boy.” Mr. Martin was madder than he was nervous, and Andy was a little relieved that he wasn’t invited in. Mr. Martin stepped from the car and made his way around to the side of the house where Andy lost sight of him. For an instant Andy was in one of his stories and he had the instinctive feeling that he had been followed. He should have been careful. He should have considered that Top Coat might have been waiting for the old man to make this move.
“Oh crap,” Andy said out loud and began scanning the street for the dark Lincoln or any other car that looked suspicious. “Some Secret Agent you are, Andrew Boyd. Can’t even anticipate being tailed by the bad guys.” He tried to convince himself that he was thinking crazy and those things only happened in books but his nerves began tickling his bladder and Andy found himself needing to pee like a little kid hiding in a closet during Hide and Seek. “Great!” he said.
He didn’t want to abandon Mr. Martin in search of a restroom, and he couldn’t very well go in the hedges, so he squeezed and wiggled and willed himself to think about something else.
At the top of the stairs, Mr. Martin confirmed the apartment by the black, peel and stick, numeral 3 that was stuck to the middle of the door. He knocked firmly. Behind the door was quiet. He tried to see through the glass on the window, but the shear white curtain on the inside and the accumulated grime on the outside obstructed the view. He knocked harder on the door, then on the glass. He tried the door handle, locked. “Albert!” he said, “Albert! It is your uncle, open the door!” Just as he was about to give up and return down the steps the curtain pushed to the side slightly and his nephew peeked out. Albert grudgingly opened the door for his uncle who stepped inside without invitation. Albert had been asleep on a twin mattress on the floor in one corner of the studio apartment. Mr. Martin scanned the room and saw that the boy’s father had set him up with a bare minimum of comforts; a folding metal chair, a card table that was well used, the mattress, and a package of paper plates, flatware and cups. Albert closed the door and stood scratching his bare chest.
“Dad give you my address?” he yawned.
“Albert. You have a problem,” his uncle began, to which the boy shrugged.
“I’ll be alright,” Albert said.
“Did you enter some kind of contract last week?” Mr. Martin said, refreshing the boy’s memory. Albert’s life flashed before his eyes.
“Oh shit,” he said, putting his face in his hands. “Dammit... What’s today?” He demanded from his uncle.
“It is Tuesday for Crissake,” Mr. Martin said. Albert started pacing around the small room, glancing out the window on the door, nervous as a squirrel. “What did you do? Albert?”
“It’s nothing. I’ll take care of it,” Albert said.
“It must be something, because two men came to my store this morning and said if you didn’t pay them back that I would have to. Now what is that all about?”
“That’s crap. You don’t have to...” His voice trailed off. They were going to hold his uncle responsible for the debt if Albert didn’t pay. Why waste time hunting for Albert when his Aunt and Uncle sat like ducks on a pond. A wave of nausea hit him. Albert sat limply on the folding chair and put his face in his hands.
“What? What did you do, Albert?”
“I took out a loan from those guys. For the dope,” he mumbled through his fingers. “I was gonna pay it back after I sold the stuff... god.”
“Well, you’ve just got to contact the company and make other arrangements. You’ve got a job.”
“They fired me... Besides, there’s no way. The loan goes up five hundred bucks a day. Interest.”
“What?”
“I didn’t think...”
“I guess you didn’t think. You borrowed from loan sharks? Those guys will break your legs or worse, do you know that?” Mr. Martin couldn’t believe his nephew was this stupid, although, after the weekend he might believe anything. “You have already hurt my family, Albert, and now this? You call your father... Or something. You deal with this, do you understand me?” Albert sat motionless. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Albert said. He felt like a child being scolded for breaking a stupid vase. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Look. These two guys said they are coming back to my store. You deal with them before they come to me. Understand? You talk to them today. Right now.”
“Yeah.”
Mr. Martin left the room without saying goodbye. He couldn’t fix this for the boy. Albert had gotten himself in to the mess and he would have to get himself out.
The apartment fell silent again after his uncle left. Albert sat in the chair with his face buried in his hands, his mind like a chalkboard that has been erased right after class. He struggled to find anything rational. His dad wasn’t an option. He burned the bridge with his uncle. He thought about stealing the dough, but didn’t have the first clue how to do that. Thinking made him tired. He eventually moved from the chair to the mattress. So he could think...
Andy sped to the nearest McDonalds to relieve himself before the two men spoke much about the encounter.
“Sorry about that,” Andy said as he got back in the car,
silently thankful that Mr. Martin hadn’t taken a second longer with his nephew. “Did you get it all sorted out?” he asked.
“The boy has taken a loan with these guys. Loan sharks... He borrowed the money to buy the marijuana. Can you believe it? Easy money, right? For crissake, Andy.”
“So he borrows the money to buy the dope. The dope gets confiscated and he gets arrested, but he still owes the money.”
“Exactly.”
Andy just shook his head. That was a bonehead move if he’d ever heard of one, but it wasn’t necessary for him to point that out. “What’s he going to do?”
“Probably get his leg’s broken,” Mr. Martin said, exasperated and worn out by the boy. “And then, he makes me the co-signer, or something...”
“He can’t do that without your signature,” Andy said before he could stop himself.
“I don’t think these guys look at it that way,” Mr. Martin said, but didn’t need to.
“Right.”
They rode across town quietly, distracted by their own thoughts. Andy dropped Mr. Martin off at the curb in front of his store. “If there is anything I can do,” he said, breaking the silence as Mr. Martin got out of the car.
“You’ve done plenty, Andy, you go now. Come see me this week, huh?”
Mr. Martin was sad and scared. So much had changed so quickly and it wasn’t getting any easier. Part of Andy wanted to fix Mr. Martin’s problems, doctor Mrs. Martin’s wounds, and make things go back to the way they were as recently as last week. Back when all he had to whine about was his weight problem. As he drove away he thought about calling his mother and canceling dinner so he could go to his place and be alone. He pulled to the curb again across from his house and sat quietly, thinking about what to do. Pull in to the garage; go in to the house and sulk, cry and sleep, wish the whole drama would go away. Or go to his mother’s house and meet new people. Solitude sounded much more appealing in his current mood. The clincher was the fact that there was no food in his house.
He put the car in to gear and drove to South San Francisco. His heart wasn’t in to it, but his appetite was.