Stay with Me

by Paul Griffin

  “PBJ.”

  She’s eating one too. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

  “You’re absolutely sure? I’m doomed.” I grab her beer and dump it in the sink.

  “Don’t turn on the light, Céce.” Her voice is soft, sweet. Headlights from a passing car briefly light up two shiny streaks of mascara slitting her cheeks. I practically have to carry her up to bed. I tuck her in. She winks at me and slurs, “Howya doin’, sister?”

  “Carmella, the sister act is getting old. Could you be the mother for five minutes?”

  She smiles. Those gold teeth. Anybody else would look four hundred percent retarded, but she’s beautiful. Sometimes I want to hug her till I break her. The woman is demented.

  I wonder if that Mack boy is working today.

  I pop my head into Anthony’s room. He’s out?

  Middle of lunch shift, Marcy sticks her head into the walk-in. “Céce Vaccuccia, why you hanging out in the refrigerator?”

  I hide my third slice of cheesecake. “Cooling off, duh.”

  “God swapped June for August on us. Probably be like this till winter, and then overnight it’ll be five billion below zero, freeze nail polish right in the bottle. You can’t win, Cheech. You can’t. They got it stacked against us.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Them, chica. The system.”

  I pat the cheese wheel for her to sit with me. “Hang out.”

  “Ohmigod.”

  “What?”

  “Ew!”

  “What!”

  “You totally made out with that loser delivery guy dude last night.”

  “What? No.”

  “I can see it in your eyes, you lovesick bitch.”

  “You need to pop another Lexapro.”

  “Tell me later. You got a tray of manicotti up and your tables are howling for their checks. And Céce, the manicotti? Vic totally went heavy with the ricotta this morning. Gonna feel like you got a Honda Element on that tray. I can’t believe you swapped spit with that dropout moron.”

  “I. Did not. Kiss. The delivery boy.”

  “Ick.” She leaves.

  I’m totally bloated. Skirt zipper is gonna rip any old shift now. It’s like I ate a ten-pound box of chalk and then somebody pumped hot gasoline into my stomach. Make out with Mack? Is she out of her half a mind? Dude won’t even look at me.

  End of lunch shift I’m at the bar, refilling the salts and peppers, thrill-a-rill. The salt is all clumps in the heat. While I’m spilling the condiments I’m checking my G and T practice test grid against the answer key.

  I aced it?

  Maybe not so remarkable, because Vic keeps quizzing me words all the time. Like last night, I was picking up an order, and he handed me my linguine red sauce and said, “Frenetic.” And I replied, “Crazed, as in ‘Marcy is running around in a frenetic state, trying to catch up on her orders, because Vic’s Too, currently the one and only Vic’s eating establishment, is slamming.’”

  Of course, this is only the multiple-choice part. I still don’t have any idea what I’ll write for the essay, but I have a few weeks to cook up a really good lie.

  Marcy flies into the bar and drags me to the bathroom. “Your psycho boyfriend?” she says.

  “He’s not my—”

  “Yah. He’s a felon.”

  “What?”

  “Your mother was asking Vic about him because she, like everybody else who isn’t you, can tell you’re crushing on him.”

  “I’m crushing on a felon?”

  “Vic’s like, ‘Well, I suppose you should know he’s had some problems in the past.’ And then your mother’s like, ‘What kind of problems?’ And then Vic goes, ‘Well, he has a bit of a record.’”

  “What’d he do?”

  “I don’t know. I snuck out from where I just happened to be behind the trash compactor to run here to tell you, but it was probably something wretched.”

  Ma comes into the bathroom. “You know what they have to say about those who gossip?”

  Marcy hides behind me. “What do they have to say, Mama Vaccuccia?”

  “Not a lot. Go fill those pepper shakers, girls. And Marcy, you keep sneaking around like that, we’re gonna have to make you wear a bell.”

  Wow. A felon. It had to be something not too bad. A boy that quiet would never do something violent.

  I head upstairs to get the linens for dinner. Vic lives up here in a little bedroom stacked with vinyl records and books flagged with pink stickies that say POTENT and bright red ones that say VP! I can’t help but peek into the room as I walk past, because Vic never remembers to close doors when he leaves. He leaves his car door open half the time. He has one picture on the wall over his desk, this crappy printout Ma gave him. He framed it. Me, Ma, Anthony, and Vic a few Christmases back. It’s a blurry picture. Ma set the timer and put the camera on the stairs and ran to be in the shot without bothering to check the auto focus, which was on a sweaty beer can she left on top of the TV.

  Down the hall is another bedroom, the supply room. Anthony is at the window with a stack of pizza boxes that need folding under his arm. He waves me over. “Quick, check this out,” he whispers. The exhaust fan blocks the window, but I can see through the grate: Mack is down in the alley. He pulls his broken plastic watch from his pocket, checks the time, frowns.

  “So?” I say.

  “Hang out,” Ant whispers. “They used to meet like this back at the other Vic’s.”

  “Who?”

  A few seconds later this guy comes into the alley, older, slash scars from the corners of his mouth up to his ears, shabby-looking army coat in all this heat.

  Mack checks the alley, all clear. He gives the guy money, they palm grip, the other dude says, “Dog Man, whatever you need, you let me know,” and goes.

  This Mack kid is not only a dropout felon but also a junkie? I’m crushed, until I remember I don’t even know him. “Awesome, a meth transaction behind Vic’s Too. Great crowd draw. We gotta tell Vic.”

  “No meth involved,” Ant says. “It’s a one-way. Mack’s just giving him money.”

  “Anthony, wake up. There’s a mothball being transferred in the palm grip.”

  “Cheech, I know this kid. I’d bet my life on it: It’s charity, pure. He makes fifty bucks a shift and gives away ten of it. I feel like I’m a firewalker when I see stuff like this. Puts me on a totally different plane, faith restored.”

  “You’re retarded.”

  “I swear, I ever get rich? Just to see what he’d do with it, I’m giving Mack all my money.”

  “What about me?”

  “You can give him all your money too.” He sighs as he leaves the window. “Feel bad for the dude with the smiley. He would’ve had to been held down to be cut twice.”

  “Ant, you’re trying to find magic in the bottom of a mud puddle again. Can you please stop feeling bad for everybody?”

  “Actually, kid, I can’t.” He messes up my hair and goes.

  I pull the linens from the rack and count the creaks in the steps. When I’m sure he’s downstairs, I bury my face in the napkins so nobody hears me. I can’t breathe. In two weeks my best friend is on a plane, headed for boot camp.

  (The next afternoon, Monday, June 15, the fourth day . . . )

  After last period I head for the library, basically where people go to take part in the unending spitball war that has been plaguing my class since the fifth grade. How many times have I scratched a monster zit on the back of my neck only to discover it was a masticated quarter page of Warriner’s English Grammar and Composition?

  Mustering a rare burst of initiative, I’d booked the back room for a study session for kids who were thinking about taking the G and T. I advertised it on my Facebook page and hung a lame sign on the announcement board. As I’m walking into the study room, my ESP zings me: I’m going to be the only one who attends the session.

  I am correct.

  I dump my backpack. Yupper, I left it home,
the book I need. I’m hungry and grumpy and so flipping hot and why can’t I stop wondering why the junkie dishwasher avoids me at work? Or am I a paranoid loser? “Or am I both paranoid and shunned?”

  “Who you talking to?” Nicole Reeni swings into the room. She’s breathless, spitballs in her hair.

  “Thanks for coming, Nicky,” I say.

  “What are you talking about? G and T study session? I’d rather pick the corn out of my crap.”

  “I want your life, Nic.”

  She drops six quarters into the soda machine, clunk goes the Fanta Zero, and the Reenster bounces.

  One more week of school, and then I go from working weekends to slinging hash full-time at the just barely airconditioned Too in a one hundred percent synthetic fiber uniform that went out of style in 1954. I so rule this Earth.

  THE NINTH DAY . . .

  (Saturday, June 20, morning)

  MACK:

  When she laughs, she snorts the tiniest bit. I like that. I couldn’t stop thinking about it all week, her smile. Her. I double-checked the schedule. She’s definitely on tonight.

  “I shouldn’t mess with this girl, Boo. Why start something that can’t last?”

  My girl Boo cocks her head. She’s bouncing back good. Cuts look clean, closing up nice. She’s eating. She’s strong enough to take with me on my dog walking rounds.

  “Boo.”

  She cocks her head twice. Brown eyes, big and pretty.

  First dog I pick up is another pit, big red-nose goofball. What happens next all happens in about a second and a half.

  Boo goes for Red’s neck, just like I knew she would. I say “Ey” as I bump Boo’s shank with the back of my sneaker. She spins to me. I snap the lead hard to pull her behind me and put myself between her and the other dog. Her eyes bug on me. Her ears go from high and forward to back and soft. I’m standing tall and strong, my head up high and proud as I lock eyes with her and say real quiet, slow and deep, “I got it.” Meaning that I got the situation under control. I won’t let anybody hurt her, dog or human. Dogs don’t know what you’re saying, but they know what you mean. Now her tail goes soft too and into a nice easy slope. Her hackles flatten. Her eyes are soft on me and only me. Rest of the walk she’s an angel.

  I wouldn’t trust her alone with another dog yet or maybe ever, but as long as she’s with a human who will take the lead, she’ll be peaceable. They only fight because they’re scared the other dog is going to get them first, and wouldn’t you be if your whole life was fighting?

  Before you know it, six dogs are trotting along behind me, nice slack leashes, and it occurs to me I wish I could play guitar. Never let a dog walk in front of you, especially when you’re going through a door. There’s leaders and followers, and I wish I didn’t have to be either one. For my probation once they made me run rec center track. Winning made me feel worse than losing. I felt good when I quit. But with dogs, you have to force yourself to be a winner. Losers make them nervous.

  Thing about walking dogs is it goes pretty good with thinking, and I can’t quit dreaming of Céce. We’re holding each other, and I’m not afraid to look her in the eye.

  Tony keeps pushing hints. Did I know that Céce loves movies, and wouldn’t it be sweet for her to have somebody to go with after Tony heads south? I don’t like movies too much because you can’t talk to her and you don’t know if you should hold her hand or when to kiss her and how far does she want you to go and stuff like that. I’d like to walk with her again instead. Her, me, and Boo.

  Me and the dogs climb through the cheat weed hills to where the grass softens and gets long in the swaying tree shade, and we lose ourselves in the wildwood.

  This is my secret place, the graveyard. The people who owned this land before they gave it to the city are buried here. Ten crypts, all worn by rain and mossed over. Nobody comes to visit them except me, and they let me sip the quiet. I lie back in the high grass and watch the hot wind punch it, and the dogs settle in around me.

  I see signs taped to the light poles. Land, cheap. Six hundred bucks an acre. Have to clear the trees yourself. Get me fifty acres, build a cabin of the deadwood, have like twenty pits with me, nobody messes with us. I wonder if Céce likes the woods.

  She’s going to find out about me any day now. Everybody does sooner or later. That I got a record.

  Me and Boo drop off the other dogs. Up on the main drag the vendors are out with their tables and signs that say EVERYTHING A DOLLAR. A buck picks up a wrong-made soccer ball for Boo. Pits like to chew soccer balls, so don’t take them to a tight match. I see real nice fake leather wallets and stuff. I nod polite to the old lady behind the table, just like my mom taught me. “Ma’am, you got any ideas about what a girl would like in the way of a present?”

  “What’s she like?” lady says.

  “Reckon she’s fifteen, about so high.”

  “Fifteen and so high, you got to get her a phone case.” She points to a bin of a thousand pink phone cases. They’re a little moldy, but other than that they look pretty good. Thing is, I heard a rumor that girls don’t like to wear phone cases. “What else you got?”

  “How much money you got to spend, chico?”

  I fish my pocket. “’ Bout a sourbuck.”

  “Gets you a gorgeous little piece of magic.” She dumps a bucket onto the counter, and all this real sparkly jewelry comes out, stickpins with diamonds on them shaped out into letters. “Will you just look at these?” she says. “Stunning, no?”

  “Whoa.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Like Céce.”

  “ Chee-chee? You kidding?”

  “I don’t believe I am at all.”

  “Lovely name.” She hunts for a C, can’t find one.

  “Is that there a . . . wait. That one. That a Q?”

  “G,” she says.

  “I’ll take it.” I swap her the ten bucks for the G, pull my army knife and clip the little thing off the G. It passes pretty good for a C now. Old lady’s nodding at me.

  I walk away eleven bucks lighter for two items, which is about the way it always goes for me at the Everything A Dollar table. The lady chucks me a moldy phone case. “On the house.”

  I study the pin in a slash of sunlight twice bent off the tenement windows. The diamonds come alive. I look at Boo. She wags her tail. We head off. I’m pretty sure I’m levitating. A hawk’s wings are lifting me. I have a sparkly G-turned-C stickpin in my pocket.

  I stop off in the basement to grab a water jug before I head up to the roof to bed my Boo for the night while I’m at work.

  Pops is watching afternoon TV. “Get that goddamn dog out of here.”

  “I will.”

  “Y’all take that goddamn mountain of trash to the curb like I ast you last night?”

  “I did.”

  “Make sure you double-check the door is shut on yer way out. Woke up this morning and the goddamn thing was left wide open, mister.”

  That’s because you left it open when you stumbled in smashed this morning, I don’t say. “I will,” I say. I pull my pay from my back pocket and fork him my share of the rent.

  Don’t he just count it too, before he shoves it into his pocket. “Don’t be late for work neither.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I got no time for latecomers in my book. Be on time or be gone.” He sips beer and burps and his phone rings, and he picks it up, and he’s like “Oh, yeah, hey, how y’all doin’, missy? Sure, we can forty-up right out back if you want,” and I ain’t even in his world no more.

  Boo’s going to sleep good tonight after all that walking we did today. She’s curled up in her pen and snoring. I put a street-found air conditioner in the front window, but it’s cool enough out. I raise the side windows and get the fans I found at the construction site pulling in a good strong breeze. Found this CD player in the trash too. Had a disc of soft piano music in it. I keep it on loop for Boo. I don’t use the radio part of it, because when the wind ch
anges, you get static sometimes, and I don’t need that at all.

  I’m heading out of the hutch when this old stoop-back crank Larry comes up to the roof to hang his wet sheets. Larry is the brand of idiot who catcalls at the ladies when they’re getting off the train. I see him out on the street, telling them what he would do to them if he got the chance. He nods at the elevator housing. “You better not have another dog in there. I’ll call the cops. When is it going to sink into that bag of dirt renting space in your skull? No dogs allowed in this building.”

  “No cats either.” Larry has cats, which I don’t mind. Cats are sly, but they’re all right sometimes, especially the ones who act like dogs.

  “Filthy, dogs are. The stink gets into my sheets.”

  Why can’t folks just leave folks alone? Serious, why do they always need to mess with you? I force myself to head for the stairs.

  “Look at him running away now. Look at him go. Queer bait. If I kicked that dog in front of you, you wouldn’t do anything but bawl like a baby hungry for the tit.”

  And that’s when it comes, just a flicker of it, that low note of a hiss always hanging deep in my mind. A sound that can’t decide if it wants to swell or fade. I tell myself to keep walking, but I’m not me anymore. I’m a rag puppet trying to get free of the strings. Getting jerked up high and fast into a sky hot enough to char the blue from itself. No air up here. Rib cage is caving in like these two fierce arms are clawing me from behind. The invisible hands turn me around real, real slow. I hear the hissing so loud that I can’t quite hear myself, or whatever is making me say “I’m warning you, man, first and last.” I sound like I’m underwater.

  “Waste of life. You warn me? I was in the navy. The only reason you’re standing here free on this roof to disrespect me is because I fought for your right to do it.”

  “Thank you for your service, but if you mess with my dog, I will hurt you, man. That’s no promise either. That’s a threat. I mean the other way around.” I’m shaking bad.