by Alynn, K. H.
But remarkably all this isn’t what I really notice about him. What I really notice is his face. It’s beaten and gashed, as if he had been attacked by a bear—and his right eye is so swollen that I doubt he can see through it.
And I’m not the only one who notices these things. The bartender notices it as well when he rises with my beer—and he stares at the mountain with a face full of shock.
“What happened to you?” he eventually mutters.
“Just get me a beer,” answers the mountain.
“What kind?”
The mountain responds by tilting his head inquisitively at the nearby taps for a few moments, prior to returning his attention to the bartender and pointing at my beer—while telling him: “That’ll be fine.”
Right then, I realize something. I realize the mountain is speaking with an accent—an accent quite familiar to me.
Too familiar.
Badly, I want to forget it—and him, but I’m just too drunk. So, instead I say, “Where in Boston are you from?”
He looks surprised. Not just at what I said, but that there’s somebody next to him.
“What’s it to you?” he growls without looking at me, just as the bartender brings us our beers and asks the mountain if he wants a tab.
“Yeah,” he replies. “And just keep bringing these every five minutes.”
The bartender nods and walks off, and I slur, “Is it a secret?”
“What?” the mountain roars, as he finally looks at me—or, more exactly, looks down at me.
“Where-in-Boston-are-you-from?”
“You wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me.”
“West Ninth Street.”
“I know it. I even knew some people from around there.”
“Yeah?”
“All assholes.”
“I guess you do know it. Where you from?”
“East Boston.”
“You don’t sound like no Eastie.”
“I haven’t lived there for a long time.”
“Where’d you live?”
“Lots of places. Too many.”
And they’re all coming back to me. One in particular—my very last one. Also coming back is one of the few good memories I have of it.
I CAN REMEMBER everything about the day, even in my blurred state. I can see the entire playground and all the kids—kids who usually kept their distance from me, and with good reason.
I was ten at the time, and had been living at the Bennington Street Home for Girls for about eight months when its director, Mrs. Falcona, came marching up to where I was standing against the fence. Which caused me to gaze out into the street. I was often gazing, no matter where I was—looking for something better—or at least something different.
In the corner of my eyes, I saw the gaunt and perpetually crabby middle-aged woman put her hands on her hips, like she usually did whenever she was about to lecture me. Then, she said, “You ever hear of the Goodwin Foundation?”
“Nope,” I told her, before crossing my arms.
“Look at me,” she commanded.
Reluctantly, and with a loud sigh, I turned toward her.
“They help girls at risk all over the world,” she continued. “That means you.”
“Is there a point to this?”
“They’re opening a community center up on Chelsea Street in a few weeks. The head of the foundation—Rudi Goodwin—will be there personally for the grand opening. And we’ve all been invited, even you.”
“I don’t wanna go.”
“But you will. And you’ll be on your best behavior, young lady—or I’ll make your life hell.”
“It’s already hell!”
Angrily, the woman leaned down and shook my arms—and she howled, “You only think it’s hell! But it can be worse—much worse!”
She was actually right.
“RUN, YOU FUCKING prick—run!”
These are the words of the mountain, who’s screaming at the TV as if the players could hear him. He afterward claps and hoots as if they could hear that, too.
With lots of disinterest, I look up at the screen and see that it’s the middle of the second quarter, with the Patriots up 10–0. I then turn my gaze toward the mountain and I notice that—despite his battered face—he’s sort of attractive in an odd way—a way much different than Julian. In fact, the two couldn’t be more different, which makes him even more attractive. So much more that I try to convince myself that he could be an even better escape than the booze.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply, or even seem to recognize I’ve spoken. So, I repeat myself—this time louder.
“Mark,” he says, after a terse sigh. Actually, he says “Mahk”—dropping the “r” just like I used to do.
“Aimee,” I tell him.
“Can I get a shot of whiskey?” he shouts at the bartender, who’s a good distance away.
“Get me one, also!” I yell.
For seemingly no reason, Mark spins toward me, and he whispers, “You’re annoying, you know that?”
“Yeah,” I answer, as bitchy as possible. And I can see he wants to smile at this just as much as I do. But he stops himself. He stops himself and finishes his beer, before raising the empty bottle and calling out, “I need another of these, too.”
THE THIRD QUARTER has just ended, and the Patriots are up by twenty and driving for another score, and Mark has become more friendly—at least a little. He’s also become more drunk. A lot more drunk.
Even more drunk than me.
“You ever go to Revere Beach?” he asks me during the commercial break—a question that comes out of nowhere.
“A few times,” I tell him, while feeling myself beginning to fade. I actually want to rest my head on one of his impossibly big arms, and I even lean my head that way.
“That’s where I got laid for the first time,” he goes on.
“I never had that much fun there,” I reply.
He almost chuckles at this, but not quite. Instead he nods his head a few times and says, “You’re all right.”
“I thought I was annoying.”
“You’re both.”
He then puts one of those big arms around me—and he brings me to him, and I suddenly wake. I can also smell his sweat—and strangely like it. I like it much better than a certain cologne—a cologne I can’t seem to get out of my head.
“What do you say we celebrate after this?” he slurs.
“Celebrate what?” I mumble, while rubbing my nose against his moist shirt.
“The Patriots!” he howls.
“I hate football.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I hate everything.”
“Even me?”
He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. He just leans down and kisses me. He kisses me both hard and soft at the same time. And it feels good. He really is better than booze, and much better than Julian. It’s not even close. His lips make me forget everything.
“Yes,” I mutter, as he breaks our kiss, which occurs at the very moment the game comes back on.
“What?” he says—again not listening to me.
“Let’s celebrate.”
“Sure.”
Awkwardly, he raises his hand and yells to the bartender: “Tequila! Bring the whole fucking bottle!”
I DON’T KNOW how many shots I’ve had. All I know is that the bottle is almost empty and that my buzz has come roaring back.
I’m even singing. I’m singing with Mark—singing “Dirty Water”—Boston’s unofficial theme—and I’m singing it loudly.
Suddenly, he lifts me on top of the bar—doing so as if I were made of nothing, and we sing the chorus together.
At the same time, I notice everyone’s staring at us. They’re staring as if we were crazy, especially as hip-hop music is playing in the background. But we don’t care. We don’t even care that we’re somehow singing worse than the Standells.
�
��Touchdown!” someone nearby screams.
“It’s not over yet!” another person hollers.
Hearing this, Mark stops singing, and he looks up at the TV—and so do I.
It’s now 30–20 Patriots, with a little more than three minutes left. But strangely Mark looks worried.
“There’s no way they’re gonna lose,” I say as I jump onto him.
But again he doesn’t notice I’m there. So, he doesn’t even try to catch me—and I crash onto the floor, smashing my knees.
“Hey!” I cry out. “You fucking asshole!”
He doesn’t respond to this. He just stares at the TV.
Angrily, I stand up, and I want to walk out—on him and everything else. But I have to go to the bathroom first, and so I limp toward it, which is at the end of the railroad car.
It takes me forever to get there, but—when I do—right away I trip on a loose tile—and I fall to my knees, which I know tomorrow will hurt even worse than hell.
Suddenly, I hear muted voices. And I glance around and see a pair of women whispering to themselves. They’re whispering while staring at me, with big smiles on their faces. Which reminds me of something.
Something both bad and good.
MRS. FALCONA PERSONALLY took me to the new community center. Actually, she dragged me there by the hand, after discovering a hiding place I thought no one knew about.
Then, we entered a hall, which had computers and books and athletic equipment, as well as lots of food and drinks.
At once I saw a bunch of girls I knew staring at me, while whispering to themselves with big smiles on their faces. They often did this. Individually, they were afraid of me, but in groups they made fun of me. And I wanted to run from it.
So, I broke away from Mrs. Falcona, and rushed to the farthest corner of the room, where I crossed my arms just as someone entered the building—a someone who would change my life.
Rudi Goodwin was then a little over forty, with short brown hair and similarly colored eyes. She was also about average height, if not smaller. But still she was the tallest person I’ve ever seen, including the mountain. You couldn’t measure it in inches. It was the way she carried herself—the way she walked. She was in command of the whole fucking world, and I was just awed by this, no matter how hard I tried to pretend I wasn’t.
Everyone there was awed by her that day, kids and adults alike. Most of them rushed up to her and she greeted them warmly before giving a short speech about how we all had value and were special—something she was out to prove.
I thought it was all bullshit, so I turned away from her, with my arms still crossed. Though I could still see her. I could also see she was staring right at me—and smiling. And, as soon as she finished speaking, she started walking toward me.
Noticing this, Mrs. Falcona rushed over to the woman, and tried to get her to go in a different direction—any direction. But she would’ve had an easier time stopping a tornado, and it wasn’t long before both women were in front of me.
“What’s your name?” Rudi asked.
I didn’t answer.
“I’d really like to introduce you to someone,” interrupted Mrs. Falcona.
“I want you to introduce me to her,” Rudi replied.
“Please,” Mrs. Falcona whispered, while trying to pull the woman away.
“What’s her name?” Rudi insisted, without budging at all—and, after a long drawn-out sigh, Mrs. Falcona finally told her.
“How would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow, Aimee?” Rudi went on.
This surprised me. It surprised me so much that I turned to the woman and mumbled, “What?”
“Ms. Goodwin, that’s not a good idea,” Mrs. Falcona pleaded.
“Why not?” Rudi demanded.
“She’s a very troubled young girl,” Mrs. Falcona softly replied.
“Obviously. Or she wouldn’t be here.”
“But she’s not like the other girls.”
“I can see that.”
“She’s insufferable! Been through countless foster homes, and fights with everyone. She’s also two years behind in school. That’s when she goes. And she’s already been in trouble with the law—for drinking, no less.”
Rudi only smiled at this, which neither Mrs. Falcona nor I could understand.
“So, are we on for lunch?” Rudi asked.
“Is this how you get your kicks?” I barked. “Hanging around with poor little foundlings?”
“Foundlings? Where did you learn that word?”
“Tom Jones.”
“You’ve read Tom Jones?”
“Sure.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Mrs. Falcona interjected, with a condescending shake of her head.
“Have her ready at noon tomorrow,” Rudi told the woman.
I LIMP TO the bar and see Mark sitting on a stool, looking as if the world were coming to an end.
“What’s wrong?” I demand, still angry at him.
He doesn’t answer, so I look up at the TV and see that the score is still 30–20, with less than a minute left. Though the Browns are close to scoring.
“What is your fucking problem?” I shout. “They’re gonna win! Even a moron Southie can see that!”
“Shut up,” he says, and he jumps up just as the Browns attempt a field goal. “Miss,” he then gasps, while clutching his hands in prayer. “Fucking miss.”
I can’t understand this, or him—and again part of me wants to leave. But for some reason I stay. I stay and watch as the kick goes up and through the uprights.
“Fuck!” Mark screams, and he picks up an empty shot glass and slams it against the top of the bar—smashing it apart, leaving his palm both bloody and full of shards of glass. Though he doesn’t seem to care. He just keeps cursing, over and over—like his life was destroyed by this one single kick. He doesn’t even seem to notice that everyone in the bar is staring at him as if he’s insane, including the bartender—who I can tell wants him to leave but is way too afraid to tell him so.
“What is fucking wrong?” I cry out—way too drunk to be scared of him.
Instead of answering, he just sits back on the stool, and slowly the big mountain starts to crumble. And all that muscle begins to weep. Which strangely makes me want to weep, too.
“What’s wrong?” I again ask—this time much softer.
“Eight,” he cries, with tears coming down his face.
“Eight what?”
“They had to win by eight.”
Suddenly, I understand. I understand everything. And I put my arms around him—something he doesn’t resist. He even puts his own arms around me, and he holds me tightly. He holds me so tightly that I think he’s gonna break my back.
“I’m fucked,” he murmurs into my ear. “I’m so fucked.”
“Me, too,” I softly tell him.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“We’ve got nothing to celebrate.”
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go. Please.”
“I can’t . . .”
“Why not?”
“I can’t pay my tab.”
“I can.”
THE TWO OF us exit the bar, arm-in-arm. We’re standing straight, but only because of the other.
I’m so drunk that it takes a few seconds before I realize it’s raining. I also realize that the streets are almost empty. I look around and see only one solitary man, who’s beneath an umbrella a block away.
“Where to?” I say to Mark, even though I don’t really care. I just want to keep his arm around me.
“This way,” he answers, while pointing down the street, with tears still in his eyes—something he tries to rub away but can’t do fully.
“All right,” I tell him, and we slowly head that way.
“Just don’t expect much from me,” he goes on.
“Don’t expect anything from me,” I reply.
Suddenly, we stop, and I don’t know why. So, I ask him.
“This is my
building,” he states.
“Oh,” I mumble.
“You don’t have to, you know. You can go. I’ll be all right.”
“But I won’t be.”
I then reach up toward him, and he leans down to kiss me—and he takes me into his arms. And he spins me around.
Afterward, I climb up onto his big shoulders and wrap my arms around his massive neck—and I whisper into his ear: “Pretend you love me. Just for tonight. And I’ll do the same. I swear I will.”
THERE’S NO ELEVATOR in Mark’s building, so we have to walk up step after step, with my legs beginning to throb. They throb so much that I have to stop.
“What?” he asks.
“I can’t,” I answer, while rubbing my knees.
He responds by lifting me off my feet and carrying me up the stairs—carrying me like some knight in a fairy tale.
I also feel like a character in a fairy tale—so much so that I rest my head on his chest like some fair maiden, and I close my eyes.
And I smile.
WE TUMBLE INSIDE his apartment—one partially lit from all the stores and restaurants outside—and we land hard on the floor.
I know I should be scared right now, as I’ve only done what we’re about to do once before—and it was not only horrible but the cause of my ongoing nightmare. But I’m not scared, and it’s not just because of all the liquor. It’s because I want to negate that horrible time. I also want to negate me and everything about me.
Slowly, we roll over each other past the tiny foyer, onto the creaky wood flooring of his living room, without even closing the front door. Then we come to a stop, with me mostly on top of him—and he yanks open my jacket. And, after fumbling awhile with my shirt, he rips it apart, tearing it as if the fabric were just a handful of threads.
I gasp at this, and I pull my hands through the sleeves of the jacket so I can unclasp my bra. Which causes the jacket to fall to the floor—along with my backpack.
For some reason, though, I can’t get the bra off, and he can’t wait. So, he just pushes it up and puts my left breast in his mouth. My nipple’s entirely inside him, with his teeth applying just the right pressure—not too hard, not too soft.
This causes me to squeal like some crazed animal—and I keep squealing as I try to tear his shirt. But I just don’t have his strength. So he does it himself. He shreds the cloth in two and I can feel his muscles—on his chest and abs, and they’re like stone—unlike anything I ever touched or thought about touching.