by Zach Wyner
“My insurance is garbage,” you said. “If I make a claim on it, I lose it forever.”
Habib sighed. “I do not understand this health care system.”
“American medicine is about as functional as your relationship with June,” said Amare.
“No one’s relationship is perfect,” you said.
“I realize that, but few are so perfectly fucked as yours.”
“Cut the guy some slack,” said Bill. “He just got in a fight for chrissakes.”
“And why was he fighting?” said Amare. “Josh, you’re a responsible adult who’s a role model to teenagers and your shiftless friends. What the fuck are you doing brawling with your ex-girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend?”
Your jaw quivered and pressure swelled in your chest. You glanced around the room, at the assembly of faces waiting for a response to a question that had no reasonable answer. “Bill was getting the shit kicked out of him.”
“And why was Bill getting the shit kicked out of him?” Amare looked Bill up and down and shook his head back and forth. “Because of June! Because he’s infatuated too and he decided to defend her honor or something by getting in his first ever fistfight!”
“Boys,” interjected The Wizard.
Bill grimaced and adjusted the frozen peas. “Ah, excuse me.”
“This arguing will not help you,” said Habib.
“That was not my first fistfight.”
“Habib is right,” said the Wizard.
“I punched Billy Livingston in the fourth grade.”
“Jesus, Bill,” said Amare. “That’s not the point.”
“He called my sister a bitch so I slugged him. I would’ve won too if he hadn’t bit me. Jaws like a pit bull. I’ve still got the scars,” he said, proffering his furry arm.
The door swung open, the electric bell chimed and two police officers—one tall and trim, who looked to be in his mid-thirties, the other younger, portlier, with meaty arms, no visible neck, and a ruddy complexion—walked inside, boots clomping the laminate floor like hangmen marching across the gallows. They sported crew cuts, dark sunglasses, and, judging by their stiff gait, raging cases of hemorrhoids.
Bill shrank behind the beef jerky display. Amare and The Wizard migrated back to their stations beneath the monitor and dug into their pockets for their Lotto tickets.
“Good afternoon, Officers,” said Habib, resuming his post behind the register.
The fat one’s sunglassed gaze roamed from you to Bill and back to you. “You guys in some kind of accident?”
The trim one kept his eyes on you as he plucked a smoothie from rows of refrigerated drinks. He nodded at your injury. “That shoulder looks like it’s seen better days.”
You felt the color drain from your face. “I fell off my bike.”
“Yeah?” the fat one said. He craned his neck to get a better view of Bill. “You land on this guy’s face?”
“Why do you not tell them?” said Habib. “These two,” he continued, gesturing to you and Bill. “They were victims of an assault.”
The fat one lowered his shades to the bridge of his nose. “That true?” You pictured him practicing this face in front of the mirror, eliciting imaginary homicide confessions.
“No, no, no,” you said. “He misunderstood. It was a bike accident. I just said that I felt like I’d been in a fight.”
The trim officer broke the seal on his smoothie. He sighed and stood by the register, his boredom giving him an air of experience, as though he’d seen enough to know what kind of policing would bring accolades and what kind would bring paperwork. The fat one wasn’t satisfied. He turned and looked out the front window.
“Where’s your bike now?” he said.
The trim one scrutinized Amare and The Wizard. “Hey, big man. I’ve seen you in here before, right?”
The Wizard smiled and nodded. “It is eminently possible, Officer.”
“Sure I have. Always stationed right there, playing the Lotto. Who’s your friend?”
The Wizard glanced at Amare. “Perhaps you should ask him?”
“What’s your name, fella?”
Amare smirked.
The fat cop frowned and took a couple steps toward Amare, his ruddy cheeks further reddening, his blond eyebrows forming a truculent V. “Hey homeboy. My partner asked what your name was. This is where you answer him.”
Amare sighed. “Amare.”
“Stoudemire?” said the fat cop, chuckling.
“Ha. No. That’s a funny observation though. Because Amar’e Stoudemire and I do share a first name. That’s funny.”
The fat cop’s mouth hung open while he tried to figure out if he was being insulted.
“You can cut the sarcasm now, fella,” said the trim cop.
“Hussein,” said Amare, fishing out a mini donut and plopping it in his mouth. “My name’s Amare Hussein.”
The fat cop put his hands on his hips. “What, are you kidding me?”
“Why?” said Amare. “Is there an NBA player named Hussein too?”
“What do you…don’t you read the papers?” said the fat cop. “Or do you just piss away your time playing the Lotto?”
“Who reads the papers anymore?” said Amare.
The fat cop rolled his eyes. “Well if you did…”
“Doyle,” the trim cop interjected.
“…you’d know that we’re at war. My brother’s in Iraq right now, fighting a nation of terrorists led by one of your relatives.”
Amare winced. “That sure sucks for your brother.”
The trim cop slid his ATM card and punched in his Pin number. “He’s pulling your leg, Doyle.”
The fat cop tilted his head and looked at Amare. “That true, Hussein? You having fun with me?”
“Nope.” Amare chuckled. “I promise you,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not having any fun.”
The fat cop walked within a couple feet of Amare and stared into his eyes. He squinted. “You wouldn’t happen to be under the influence of narcotics, would you?”
Amare stiffened. “No, sir.”
The fat cop squinted at Amare’s eyes. Then he turned his head and addressed the room. “My brother’s off fighting jihad, risking his butt to protect our way of life and what does this guy do? He hangs out at 7-Eleven, playing the Lotto.”
He turned back in time to catch Amare rolling his eyes.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?”
“I’m sorry,” said Amare, his eyes fixed passively on the floor but his voice strong and steady. “I just wouldn’t put it that way…that your little brother is fighting for me.”
“Well maybe it’s time you woke up and smelled the coffee.”
“Dude,” Bill harshly whispered.
As Amare met the fat cop’s belligerent gaze, his eyes twinkled. “It’s just that I don’t work for Big Oil or Halliburton is all.”
The fat cop straightened his back and hooked his thumbs on his belt. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that I don’t profit from American imperialism. Quite the opposite in fact.”
“Liberal claptrap,” snarled the fat cop.
Amare sighed. He looked at the monitor, then at his Lotto ticket; he crumpled it in his fist and tossed it into the garbage. “With all due respect, Officer,” said Amare, “you should know whose side you’re on.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s the same side I’m on, the same one he’s on,” he said pointing to Habib, “and him and him and him and your brother too.”
The fat cop smiled, a light shining in his eyes like he was savoring these last few seconds before he took out his nightstick and demonstrated the difference between the two of them. He pointed an accusatory finger. “I know your kind. You don’t have sides, you have opi
nions. What good are those, huh? You’re just talk. You leave the doing to others.”
The trim cop strolled toward the door. “C’mon, Doyle.”
Amare waited a few beats, pressure mounting, as though he’d covered the nozzle of a running hose with his thumb. “People who think like you make me sad.”
The cop crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh yeah?”
Amare cupped his hands in front of him. “You get fed a big bowl of shit, but instead of saying, ‘I refuse to eat this shit,’ you praise the people who gave it to you and ask for more. Look at your poor brother. He goes halfway across the world and risks his life, and these assholes can’t even get their story straight about why he’s there.”
The fat cop shook his head in vehement disagreement.
Amare said, “Meanwhile, what does our government do? They slash veterans’ benefits so they can subsidize oil companies, and give tax breaks to the billionaires who will be counting on you, the police, to protect them from the people when the people finally get fed up with eating shit.”
The fat cop’s face went from red to violet and his gaze wandered to you. The grimace you’d been wearing had evaporated like water from a wet towel left to dry in the sun. You rubbed your cheeks, dissembling your smile.
With one hand on the door, the trim cop said, “Hey, man of the people, how about you take your friend to a hospital?”
“If that’s where he wants to go,” said Amare.
“Doyle,” the trim cop said, opening the door and triggering the electric chime. The fat cop squinted at Amare and rubbed his chin. “Ronnie!”
“I hope your brother comes home safe, Officer,” said Amare.
The fat cop took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and nodded. Without uttering another word, he pivoted and headed out the door.
“Jesus Christ,” said Bill, emerging from the background, the flaccid bag of peas still pressed against his eye. “You’re a fucking lunatic.”
Habib came out from behind the counter and frowned at your shoulder. “So you do not use the hospital when you are injured and you do not go to the police when you are beaten. Is this correct?”
“Believe me,” said Amare. “These things just turn into accusations and recriminations and in the end, the only winners are the lawyers.”
“This is democracy,” said Habib.
“This is capitalism,” said Amare.
“You’re lucky that cop didn’t cave in your skull,” said Bill.
Amare laughed. “I’ll bet that brother of his beat the shit out of him when he was a kid.”
Habib took your good arm. “Come sit down.” He guided you around the counter to a high stool. The Wizard followed. You took a seat and the Wizard stood behind you, his cannonball belly pressed against your lower back, his nacho cheese and jalapeño-breath on your neck. Gently, he rolled up the sleeve of your shirt. Bill and Amare leaned against the counter and wiped powdered sugar from their fingers onto their shirts, their eyes blazing like naked light bulbs.
“You are sure that you want to do this?” said Habib. “You could risk aggravating the injury. Surgery would be much greater expense than an X-ray.”
“I guess so. I don’t know.”
The Wizard placed a hand on your good shoulder. “Life is a difficult journey to navigate without a little faith in our friends.”
“Fuck it,” you said. “I trust you, Ozzie.”
“Take a deep breath,” he said.
You sucked air into the deepest recesses of your lungs, corners you imagined untouched by nicotine, smog, and stress, traces of vibrant pink tissue that would one day spread across blackened terrain, rejuvenating damage and decay wrought by pollution, cigarettes, and the fragile self-image of a diffident teenager that inspired you to take up such a nasty habit in the first place.
“Exhale.”
You blew out and a flash of white—instantaneous and searing, like an electric shock or the first time June smiled at you—eclipsed the faces of your friends. And then, just like that, you were back, repaired to your imperfect self.
“You okay?” said Bill.
“I think so.” You tested your arm. It was sore, but you could move it.
“From the clutches of sin and Satan,” intoned the Wizard.
You put your hand on the Wizard’s meaty shoulder. “Thank you.”
Habib instructed you to perform a few basic motions and then, satisfied that all was well, he retrieved an old tee shirt from the back, and constructed a makeshift sling.
“If the pain gets worse, you must promise to have an X-ray taken.”
You tried to answer. All you wanted to say was that you understood, that you were grateful for their help, but you couldn’t. There was a lump in your throat the size of a lemon. Your eyes filled with water and you ground your teeth, unable to accept that you were again fighting tears. It was crazy. You weren’t a crier. You handled adversity with equanimity and aplomb…occasionally with alcohol. But in that moment, as your gratitude and shame centers converged, you found you could not speak. So you sat there, breathing heavily, the lies you’d fed yourself about being able to hack this alone echoing back at you from the towering edifice with which they’d collided.
The Wizard placed a giant palm in the center of your back and your breathing steadied. You rubbed the tears from your eyes before they had a chance to escape and inhaled a sour, fetid odor. You sniffed your armpit.
“I reek,” you said.
“It is okay,” said Habib. “You are in a convenience store. I pass gas in here all the time. No one notices.”
“Ha!” laughed Bill. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
Habib nodded. “Thank you.”
“Gentleman,” said the Wizard, waddling toward the door. Dimmed was the prideful glow that had just brightened his unshaven face. His cheeks sagged like a discarded rubber mask and his complexion was the grey of collected ash. “All this excitement has suddenly taken its toll.”
You stepped in his path and stuck out your hand; your slim fingers disappeared inside his fleshy paw.
“Thank you for reaffirming my belief in the kindness of strangers.”
“We are strangers no longer, Joshua.” A childish smile of readily accepted praise tugged at the corners of his mouth. He lumbered through the doors, the electric chime rang, and a cool breeze blew inside. You skin, sticky with dried sweat and flecked with burgundy droplets of Bill’s blood, felt reptilian, desiccated, toughened by the harsh elements to which you’d suddenly become acclimated. A middle-aged man in a grey pinstripe suit entered, paused at the threshold like a traveler who has returned home to find his furniture rearranged. Then, satisfied that whatever had just transpired would not impact him, he headed toward the Slurpee machine.
“See you soon, Habib,” you said.
“A hot bath and then ice, my friend. It is the doctor’s orders.”
*
You sank into the tub. Images and conversation fragments swirled around in your head like water vapor: your promise to June’s dying mother, the weightless, brittle bones of her feeble hand; an assurance made to your own mom over coffee and zucchini bread that you knew what was good for you, that you wouldn’t allow your life to take a back seat to someone else’s drama; Bill and Amare’s foul and decrepit hostel, your insistence that they spend a few nights at your place; their gratitude, the rounds of whiskey and gingers imbibed at The Burrow that first celebratory night; long nights of communal sleep, four people without a wall between them and the honesty of sound, sight, and smell that was the natural outcropping of such an arrangement. You tried to discern a story, place yourself, this moment, in some kind of narrative arc. But stories are never discrete. They start long before the beginning and reverberate long after the end—aftershocks, alerting generation after generation to structural vulnerabilities they either forgot ab
out or were ignorant of all along. In all likelihood, none of this would make sense until the precise moment, years later, in which you found yourself a player in a similar story.
A few short weeks ago, you had seen your small gains—your job, your relationship to your students, your inclination to help friends in need—as evidence of a page turned; triumphs over the memory of a failed relationship. But that viewpoint was unsustainable as long as June was still in your life. Viewed through a different lens, you weren’t so sure that triumph was what you were after anyway. Its implications—that the trials you had endured brought you no closer to enlightenment or peace; that time, youth, and energy had spilled from a glass that could never be refilled; that despite signs of progress, you had merely drifted further from her, further from yourself, further from love—terrified you. Your mother used to say, “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.” But you’d been here before—June with Reno; you left shouldering a duffel bag of guilt. In your experience, guilt was the only habit tougher than smoking to quit.
A key rattled in the apartment door. Your listened to it open and close. A moment later, keys clattered on a hard surface. Footsteps crossed the carpet like a soft patter of spring rain and stopped outside the bathroom door. There were three light knocks—she wasn’t taking time to gather herself, wasn’t deviating from a course that had been charted before entering the apartment.
“Are you in there?” she said.
“I’m in the bath.”
“Can I come in?”
“Of course.”
She entered with bowed head and averted eyes. She lowered the toilet seat cover and sat, her black hair serving as a blinder to your nakedness, as though there were one square inch of your flesh that she hadn’t thoroughly investigated.
It occurred to you that the reason she was hiding her face might have nothing at all to do with modesty. You sat up quickly, sloshing about lukewarm bathwater.
“Show me your face,” you said. She brushed her hair aside and looked you in the eyes. There were no marks. “Did he hurt you?”