The outside doorbell had rung, this evening, and I had pressed the intercom to answer, not even startled this time by the unexpected interruption, regardless of it being dinner time. Well, what other people consider dinner time. My dinner time starts earlier and ends later and can sometimes last until nearly the next day. But I wasn't startled. Moises was up to three surprise calls in a two-week period now, so my capacity to still be surprised at the doorbell went away around the time he used my bathroom.
I even half expected to hear, "Food Mart," so when I did, I was already pushing the buzzer. Familiar voice and everything.
Javier's.
But wait. I mentally scratched my head, as I went about getting myself to my feet to answer my door, knowing I had a full minute before I'd hear the knock. Did Javier get re-hired, or was Moises mistaken that he'd been fired? And, even stranger, why was he here? How many more extra grocery orders can there be? This was kind of weird. Plus, it was late. Food Mart doesn't deliver in the evenings.
I knew that something was amiss before I opened the door to Javier's knock, but the power of denial is a persuasive thing. I bet, if someone had frozen the moment right then, and selected only me to unfreeze and interview, and said, "Mona Jamborski! Javier, lately from Food Mart, is coming up the stairs right now, and it's 7 p.m.! What do you think is about to happen?" I'd probably have said, as the microphone was pointed at my face, "Well, this has every capability of being bloody and violent, doesn't it. I'll have to go with … he's coming to kill me! And rob me blind!"
Ding ding ding. "You win! Thanks for playing!"
And then unfreeze. I heard the knock, and I opened the door.
So all this is completely my fault. My red flags were flying, every one, but I ignored them all in favor of the status quo of denial.
"Javier," I greeted him, keeping my voice completely normal, because of course, as long as I insist on viewing this moment as normal, it will continue to be so.
"Hi Mees Jamborski," he said, his hair as greased back as ever, his trimmed moustache as unappealing as it's ever been. "I'm afraid this veesit isn't going to be a pleasant one." He's not really looking at me – he's looking past me, into my apartment, getting ready to make his move. I can't help but compare his accent to Speedy Gonzales's. He's a little rodent-like too, but Javier is closer to a rat than a mouse.
Fear struck hard in the back of my throat, but I played dumb. Denial denial denial. Act normal, keep it normal. "What do you mean?"
"Ah, Mees Jamborski, mi favorito grasa mujer," he said. "I need to do a terrible theeng, don't you know? I neeeeed money, and I need it now, and you've got some money, don't you."
I could smell stale cigarette smoke as he pushed past me and strode into my living room, wearing a red flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, his wiry upper arms tense. He walked in a quick circle, looking at the furniture, his eyes darting everywhere.
"Hey!" I said. "You can't do this, just come in here and ask for money. You need to leave, now!"
"Ah, who's asking?" he said. "Don't take this personal, like. I need to run, you know? I got involved in some bad sheeet, Mees Jamborski. Bad sheeet. I need to spleeet. Hey, you know, you'll never see me again. This can be short and sweet."
He walked quickly to my kitchen and started opening and closing the drawers, and banging the cabinets. He was looking for my cash, I realized. He'd have to know I had limitless ten dollar bills to tip him with, over the past few years. I wondered if I could get to my desk drawer and take out maybe half, before he saw me, and if he'd grab it and go. I started to inch my way towards my desk when he came back to the living room.
"I know you keep it all somewhere, you always have that tenner in your hand," he said, walking straight to my desk, opening the top drawer. Well, that ended quickly.
"Santa María madre de díos!" he exclaimed. "Hot potato! You reech white woman, I don't understand you people." He started grabbing at my stacks of tens, stuffing them into all his pockets. "Look at this, there's gotta be a thousand dollars here! Si, this is why I came here. You don't disappoint me, senora."
"That's my money," I said, angry. I looked around for something to grab. If I lunged forward quickly enough, I could grab the big brass lamp (my parents') off of the desk (mine) which was solid and heavy and could crack his skull, if I could swing it quickly enough.
"Credit cards, everything. You lucky I just need cash," he said. Fear left me, and all I had was anger. I probably tipped better than any other customer on his route, but where did that get me? Nothing. I could have given him a one dollar bill each time and it wouldn't have mattered. He knew I was stuck here, he knew I had enough cash to tip him in any denomination for years, and he knew I'd be home to answer the door. And now he was on the lam from something, and I was the first pile of cash he thought of.
Fucker.
I guess for a moment I was just an angry soul: trespassed against, breached, infringed upon, infracted. I wasn't a woman being robbed by a man, the weak with no chance against the strong, and I wasn't 528 pounds with zero momentum. I was Pissed Off Mona, and that brass lamp had his name written all over it. I don't even remember lunging. I felt my fingers graze the heavy brass base when his knuckles came out of nowhere and connected with my cheek. And I went down like a sack of bricks.
"Carajo mierda puta grasa!" he yelled. "You want more? You want me stomp you where you lie down? I stomp your face, beetch!"
I had my arms crossed over my face but he didn't come after me. I might not have noticed if he had. Falling to the floor that hard felt like being crushed by a boulder – but I was the boulder. Fat doesn't bounce, in case you are wondering. Fat hurts, and the fatter you are, the more it hurts when you hit the ground. I felt pain shooting through my body from my cheekbone that he hit, to my arm that took the brunt of my weight, to a horrible skidding stop somewhere in my insides, as intestines and kidneys and at least one lung all rounded a corner and piled up against the guardrail of my body.
I couldn't see, even when I took my arms away from my eyes. I couldn't breathe. I experienced a moment of pure, ice-blooded terror, as I realized I had no way to brace for another attack. I couldn't get up. I couldn't even roll from side to side. I wasn't sure what position my body was in – I felt the floor everywhere. I needed to assess but who can assess one's position when your entire brain is screaming in panic and your body is screaming in pain.
I don't think my voice was screaming at all. I just gasped for air, over and over again, trying to figure out which way was up, and how I could get a foothold to be able to right myself. My vision cleared after maybe ten agonizing seconds, every one of which I expected a boot in my face. But he was gone. My door hung open, and my desk drawer was half-closed.
And I was on my back like a Japanese beetle. Maybe a gigantic tortoise is a better example. I gripped at the carpeting with my fingers, trying to gain enough of a grip to roll left or right, but nothing. I reached for the leg of my desk, pulling myself towards it with all my might, but all I did was slide the desk towards me in a heart-stopping jerk, while the brass lamp on top wobbled threateningly, reminding me just how heavy it would be against someone's skull.
This is it, I thought. This is how they find me. I don't know how long I lay there, growing painfully uncomfortable as the floor bit into all parts of my body were digging into it – the backs of my shoulders, the entire width of my ass, even the back of my head, on top of all the other parts that were already aching terribly. I heard light running footsteps approaching my door from the hallway and I didn't even care. A savior or Javier – just bring it. Make it end.
A strange version of Moises' face entered my field of vision. He was absolutely pale, with a trickle of blood dripping down the side of his head, and he was totally bald. Completely, cue-ball bald.
"Mrs. Jam? Mrs. Jam?" he was saying. "Are you hurt? Can you get up?"
I wasn't hallucinating – I could hear his voice loud and clear. As much as I would be glad to check out right now, I
was very much conscious and aware of my position. I knew I was going to have to try to get up and I knew it was Moises who was going to have to help me.
But I had one important question first. I drew a shaky breath, failed, and drew a second one.
"What," I asked, "the hell did you do to your hair?"
Chapter 11
The EMT is trying to take my blood pressure, and the cuff isn't designed for upper arms my size. She's gotten the Velcro to attach, but it keeps popping apart as the cuff tightens. She gets Officer Dunkin to hold it in place while she squeezes the bulb, harder, harder, harder, as I look anywhere except their two faces.
"One sixty over one hundred," she pronounces. "Very high. Ma'am, even taking into consideration that you had quite a scare, which would make anyone's blood pressure jump, this is concerning enough that I recommend you allow us to bring you in to the hospital to get checked out. Maybe stay for observation. See what we can do to control your blood pressure. Make sure you weren't injured when you fell."
She has a nice face – she's sincere. Her blond hair is cut short and her gaze is level without being threatening. She's giving me the choice, actually. This isn't a threat, even though my heart rate is reacting like it is one.
"I'd vastly prefer not to," I say, trying to communicate telepathically to her what I will not say aloud with such a packed living room. "I haven't had a check-up in a while, sure, but I'm sure I'm fine after all this. I mean, even falling and all, I don't think I'm worse off than … before. I'm fine."
Of course I'm lying. I'll tell her the sky is yellow and that I grow petunias from my anus if it will get her to leave me be. No matter what's happening with me, this is not the day I am going to be carried down two flights of stairs to get hauled to a hospital. Not today. No, the condo doesn't have a freight elevator – give me a break. I'm not ready. Even if I'm actually injured, I'm not ready. If I get worse, I can always call an ambulance for myself. Right? Sure. Sure, I'd do that. Suuuure.
"Those bruises on your arm indicate how hard you fell to the ground," she says. "Ma'am, you were assaulted. Don't sweep that under the rug. You're hurt, we don't know how much, and we need to get you checked out."
"Really, I already feel better just since you got here," I insist. "Bruises heal. He didn't beat me up or anything. He was probably just defending himself anyway, since I was coming at him with a lamp—"
Moises coughs loudly into his hand. "Bullshit," we hear.
"I'm actually serious," I say. "I'm not defending him, I'm just saying he didn't draw back and cold-cock me in the face. It all happened … so fast."
"Yes indeed," says the EMT. "All the more reason to take some time to assess any injury. In a hospital."
She leaves me alone to think about it while she tends to Moises's head, which isn't going to require anything more than ointment and gauze. I can hear her murmuring with Officer Soul Patch. "…concerned about internal injuries … yes of course we could, just need a few more guys … really her call … no legally not a danger to herself, the home is more than livable … well that's really her choice … yes I'd love to meet you for champagne later…."
I'm not even sure if I invented that last part. I am powerfully exhausted, all at once. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, tuning out all of them.
"… do that with my tongue … yes a thong, black and lacy, don't you want to see?"
Now I am definitely hearing things. I open my eyes and the EMT is pointing with concern to something Officer Soul Patch has written on his clipboard. "Make sure you have contusion, right cheekbone, minimal swelling," she is saying sternly. His walkie talkie is squawking and he unhooks it from his belt and says something that sounds like a sentence of numbers.
"Ten four, my twenty is thirty-third, suspect is approaching a ninety-seven on a two." I don't know. Something. I close my eyes again.
"Hey." Moises nudges me with the toe of his shoe. "Keep your eyes open or I'll help them carry you out of here."
"I'm fine. I swear," I say. "I'm just so tired. I didn't hit my head that hard. I just need this day to end. That's all." I smile at him reassuringly, and he nods. The gauze on his head isn't a whole lot whiter than his scalp – it almost matches.
So Moises has gone straight edge.
"What does that mean?" I had asked, flat on my back earlier as he hopped around me, trying to find the best angle to help me get up.
"It's a punk thing," he had said. "Don't worry about it. Are you okay? Did he hit you? I got you two of your tens back."
He pulled out two ten dollar bills from his pocket and laid them on top of my desk.
"What? How did you—"
"I was following him," he said tersely. "He came into Food Mart to collect his last check, and was trying to get the manager to give it to him in cash. He kicked over a cart. It got ugly. The manager was calling the cops when he left. I followed him. I thought maybe he was going to drive around back and start ramming people's cars or something. But he peeled out, and I just stuck to his ass. I couldn't have even told you why, at the time."
"He needed cash alright," I said. "He got into some baaad sheet…."
"Mrs. Jam, how hard did you hit your head?" Moises's face floated above mine again. He looked ridiculous. I looked ridiculous, laying on my back, stuck in place.
"Not nearly as hard as I hit the rest of me. So you had to shave your head to be punk? The Ramones are punk. They have long hair. Aren't skinheads anti-Semitic?"
"This is an anti-skinhead group. We're taking back the skin. Straight edge. No drugs, no drinking, no hate groups. No casual sex. No disgracing your mind or body." He sat down next to my shoulder, his back to me. "This is what we're going to do," he said over his shoulder. I twisted my head to look up at him. I could feel all the fat on my neck pushing down on my windpipe, like I was wearing a too-tight neck brace. I am wearing a too-tight neck brace. Made out of fat. "I'm going to push against you for counter-pressure. You push against me as hard as you need to, to sit up. Once you're up, we'll go from there to get to your feet."
"How did you know he had my money?"
"He had tens literally falling out of his pockets. I jumped him when he ran out of the building, but he threw me off and got to his car. I got two off the ground. How many did he take?"
"All of them," I said. I didn't have to look to know my desk drawer was empty. I also knew he'd left the credit cards. Credit cards don't do you any good when you have to spleeet.
"Mrs. Jam? Would you focus?" Moises had his ass more or less in my face. "Try to lift up your head so your shoulders are back against my back. And I'll push."
I sighed. The only thing more embarrassing than lying there having a conversation was trying to get up and have a conversation. I would have almost just preferred to lie there. The devil you know is better than the devil you don't, right? And I was getting to know the carpet pretty well. And if I lay here long enough, I bet I would suffocate on my neck fat.
"Moises, I really don't think—"
"Would you shut up and try to lift your head? Please?"
As much as this was going to hurt, my pride as much as my body, I hurt so bad lying there that I really did have to make an effort to get up. With a witness or not. I lifted my head and Moises scooted back so my head was up against the small of his back.
"Okay I'm gonna push back," he said. "You figure out an angle to use the leverage to get your shoulders up."
Before I could think about that, he was pushing against the back of my head and I found the top half of myself lifting off the floor, against him. I strained forward, not knowing if I was doing any good or if the power was all coming from him. I wiggled my upper body left and right, a bit, to alleviate the unbearable pressure that was growing in my spine, and found myself sitting, back to back, like I hadn't done with someone since camp.
"Wow," I said. "Are we going to hook elbows and stand all the way up now?"
He guffawed his single syllable. "Maybe after a year of salads," he said. "No offe
nse. If I move, are you gonna fall backwards or are you up?"
"Good question," I breathed. "Um…." I leaned forward and scooted each butt cheek left then right, about a millimeter each, as far as I could heft them. "I think I'm up."
"Okay." He got to his feet – effortlessly – and came around to the front of me. He held out his hands, crossed over each other at the forearms, grabbing my opposite hands. "I'm gonna pull like a mother fucker," he said, and barked a quiet syllable of half-laughter. "Sorry. Just try to stay tense so I don't dislocate your armpits."
"Jesus!" I cried. "Seriously, I mean—"
"I'm kidding. But stay tense. You don't want your arms to be all I'm pulling. Just … go with it."
Without any more preamble he was pulling and I struggled to my feet for all I was worth, not even caring if he saw my eyeballs popping out or my face turn purple. I hung in space, clinging to his hands, feeling all my poundage pulling me back to the ground, feeling sure the poundage was winning. I felt like I was coming up out of water, heavy water, water made of mercury even, thick and infinitely cumbersome and soaking me heavily, drenching me with dead weight, until I could not move at all.
And then my feet protested familiarly as my weight settled on them, and I was up. I was blind, but I was up. I didn't let go of Moises's hands until the blackness in my vision began to recede, perimeters first, and as soon as I could make out his face in front of me, I let go and covered my eyes. I didn't want to see.
He moved away from me and came back, stuffing tissues into my hand. "Here," he said gruffly. I started to use them on my forehead to wipe away the sweat until I realized I had tears streaming down my cheeks, tears that wouldn't stop.
"I'm gonna call the police now, Mrs. Jam," he said. "Just don't try to move yet."
Take a Load Off, Mona Jamborski Page 8