Slapboxing with Jesus (Vintage Contemporaries Original)

by Victor Lavalle

  —Strippers?

  I said, —I mean that as a compliment.

  —Well, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a while.

  I shrugged. —Wait till we spend more time together.

  We met on a Saturday and she was looking just as great as she wanted to, which was pretty damn good. Her walking next to me as we talked and made for the train was causing people to stare and think, What the fuck is going on with these two? We got out at West Fourth, making maneuvers here and there. She asked me, —What’s your job? But I was quiet because the setting sun was sending out rays like an encore performance—with a flourish and an eye toward the audience.

  —Well?

  —Oh me? Computers.

  She sighed. —What does that mean?

  —I, you know, punch in information and all that. Data entry. Log in a lot of facts for a communications company.

  She said, —You were wrong the other day. Selling clothes is one job, I go to school at Hunter too.

  —That’s not work, I said. That’s why I didn’t mention it.

  —You should see my classes and tell me that.

  Then we were walking down the block. She stopped at those caravans of tables selling many stolen things: books, music, clothes. I half expected to find one table with twenty blends of weed laid out, but of course they were all selling that in little doses. After two blocks she was walking closer to me, getting angry. I asked, —What’s wrong?

  —This is why I hate getting dressed up, she said.

  —Did you think men were going to be able to ignore you? You know these guys would be in your grill if you were dressed like a fucking bum.

  She nodded.

  —What do you mean?

  —You said it didn’t you?

  I laughed. —How about a little modesty though? You know? Just a No they wouldn’t or something like that, damn.

  Her smile wasn’t too wide, didn’t show too many teeth, that thing should have been worth a lot of money. —But you were right, she said.

  —See, that’s why I talk to only one beautiful woman at a time. More than that I think I’d die. Man wasn’t meant to breathe the thin air at the top of your ego.

  —Yeah, she said, like you don’t have one.

  —But I have the decency to have no apparent reason for it.

  She shook her head. —But you’re a guy, that’s the way it works.

  We stopped at the Benetton shop, brightly lit even during the day. Most Manhattan stores had taken on the character of Manhattan the way little brothers worship the older—in imitation. They were not exactly pretty, most stores, but they were so charming, each in a way. This is not a libel, every date I’d ever had was based on the same principle.

  —So, she said as we moved again. What do you do well?

  —I can do plenty. I smiled. I suppose there was a leer mixed in.

  She rolled her eyes. —You’re not going to start talking about sex are you? I was actually enjoying being with you.

  —Sex? Me? No, I was going to say I keep my apartment really clean.

  She waved off my lies. We passed the skateboard kids in front of and inside McDonald’s doing their thing—ten of them nursing one bag of fries. The funny guard in his deflated uniform stood three feet away, counting down each fry so he’d know when they were gone and start shouting, —Buysomethingorgetout! Buysomethingorgetout!

  —Wouldn’t it be great if this was how it would always be?

  She looked at me. Behind her the NYU buildings were sprawled out all over concrete.

  —What are you talking about? she asked me.

  —I don’t know. I waved my hand. All of this.

  At her apartment that night she was cooking so rough that she cursed at the frying pan and sweat ran across the back of her neck. From the living room I could watch her perspire, that’s how small the place was. Mine was worse; in the paper they listed the kind of apartment I rented under “charming.”

  Her walls were covered with white paint, almost an old egg shell’s tired gray, and little else; I was glad because I was tired of people’s entire interesting lives spread out like a peep show. She took a while to calm down; when she looked at me the smell of her food came like a good comforter—got me warm and sleepy. I walked toward her; outside, a train was making noise; down on the street someone was playing music, the radio balanced on a car hood. I started dancing.

  —At least you dance well. But it looks a little simple.

  I laughed as I worked. —You know how hard it is to make this look easy? You’re witnessing magic here. I turned to her as she sliced at some green peppers; she put her back into it. Deidre laughed while feeding me a piece. As she ate some, her lips chewing looked so good I just had to take that first kiss; she put her hand on my chest. She turned her face. —Let’s eat.

  I sat. She set out the meal. —So you still just out for ass?

  —No doubt, I said. Of course. Why?

  She ate some of the fish. —I’m saying, I see you getting all sweet on me.

  I shook my head deliberately. —I think you’ve got that backward.

  —Okay, she said. Sure.

  Then Deidre was on the goddamn phone with me and I had to watch the digital lines on the clock for sixty seconds, it was really two in the morning—a week since we’d had dinner at her house. I had to touch my face to make sure I was the man saying, —It’s okay, when she apologized for calling in the middle of good sleep. What’s the problem?

  Her voice was achy, like not in a good way. She wasn’t answering my question when she spoke. I told her, as I rested my foot flat against the wall, —I bet you have a sweet singing voice.

  —You don’t have to try and say nice things like that anymore. I already like you.

  I thought, Okay.

  —From my window, she said, I can see New Jersey.

  —I know good people out in Jersey.

  —Women?

  —I know some women in Jersey, I agreed. My room in the dark was someplace different from the spot I lived in when the sun was up. In a way, I hadn’t lied to her that day we met, I was prettier in the dark, or I pretended to be. When you become an adult you accept what makes you wonderful and, if lucky, what falls short. Like my face, I was still very happy with the package, but in the dark the fun is that you can be anything. Why not pretty? That was only sometimes anyway. Other nights, alone or with company, in the shadows I was a crocodile or a ring-tailed lemur. I answered before she needed to ask, No, I have not slept with all of them.

  —Only fucked them, right?

  —No semantics please. Most of those women have never seen me naked.

  —I see, she whispered. So they’re the lucky ones.

  I brought my feet across the wall, left foot close to the pipe that ran bright-hot and could burn your skin quick with just a touch. As I spoke to Deidre I tested myself, seeing how close I could come without getting my toes baked. I said, —I’m a man who lives on the edge of danger.

  She cleared her throat. —You are a man who puts numbers in a computer.

  —Yeah, but they’re big numbers. Really big.

  Deidre blurted out, —My brother got his car stolen. Out in Long Island, you believe that? Long Island is where you go to get away from that shit.

  I laughed, made a bad joke.

  She was on the other end of the line saying nothing; I was being funny and she was taking her brother’s loss to heart. She said, —So I just heard about it and then, it’s pretty stupid, but I got nervous. I wanted to hear that you were okay.

  —I’m fine, I assured her. I caressed the phone with my fingertip like that would calm her down. You know, from my window, I can only see three stars.

  She asked, —How many did you think you would see? This is Manhattan.

  I shrugged. —I figured at least one constellation.

  —Okay Copernicus, she sighed.

  We were slow to hang up, but in that time we didn’t say more.

  ———
>
  Wednesday and she had no classes, no work. I left early to meet her for lunch. The last thing I was doing when she told me she was free was filing report number DS-1771 from the Federal Communications Commission, it was exactly a year old, the information, that’s how far behind our office was. But I left anyway and in twenty-five minutes Deidre and I were walking to a pizza shop in El Barrio; that seemed like a shame so I dragged her to Cuchifritos instead. I watched her face and the people around us; everyone looked great, even the ugly people. It’s the truth, I was comparing myself to some of the worst mugs on the block and coming up short. This fact wasn’t destroying me. Any man who could be unhappy walking with Deidre deserved a stoning. I was not winning that lottery.

  She stopped walking and turned to me. Her thick braids were long, swinging into her eyes; the whole thing could have been a movie poster. Whatever she was about to say, I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want any of this cool shit between us now, no mood for humor. I opened my arms and pulled her close to me, held her tight enough that she might remember the grip for a long time.

  When we walked into the restaurant I ordered some chicken and pork; yeah, that’s right, some motherfucking pork. I sat at the counter while she slid right to get some drinks; when she sat back down we were still quiet. Finally she said, —I like watching people walk by.

  I nodded. —Me too.

  It was the middle of the afternoon; so many people rushed past outside that it was hard to make one person solid, turn our attention to him. Across from the restaurant a storefront was being redone, blue canvas flaps hung down over the windows, they were still open for business. I pointed. —What kind of store do you think that is?

  She was eating, but talked with her mouth full, that’s how great she was. —I don’t know, she said. A stationery store? Magazines?

  I smiled. —Maybe, but look, it’s only men going in and out of there.

  —Oh, you’re right. And ugly ones.

  I laughed happily. —I bet you could picture me coming out of somewhere like that.

  She looked at me.

  —No, she said. I couldn’t.

  slave

  Rob eats pussy like a champ.

  He’s on awful knees that should have been turned in months ago; they are now numb. He should be getting ready for school; tenth grade is usually the age of football teams and part-time work.

  She says, —Don’t stop, through those teeth so white Rob was sure they were caps when he met her in front of the Disney store in Times Square and Andre was across the street in his jacket blue like veins, gesturing to her, Rob’s customer. There’s a lamp on the nightstand, weak and sputtering light.

  Outside the sun is a rumor; maybe in one hour it’ll be up and they have been on that bed together for much longer. He has been doing the same thing continuously, except for breaks when it’s understandable that muscles tire and freeze; then he drinks handfuls of cold, cold water from the sink in the bathroom.

  —Don’t you fucking stop.

  She has soft skin everywhere and does nothing he might call work. This woman doesn’t have rough fingers like secretaries who must type and dial phones all their lives or lawyers who look tired and must win every argument; not even models who are so pretty, or pretend to be, that they would never have to pay for an ugly little kid to eat their pussies. Her legs and thighs are draped over his shoulders, her ass somewhere in that space between him and the bed; he wants to tell her that his shoulders hurt, but will he?

  No.

  In front of Disney, Rob had moved to touch her face, but the collar of her jacket was pulled up and flopping like mud flaps. She had to speak to him through them, saying, —It’s so windy out. She stepped away. —Sure, Rob said.

  Then on the train they were moving fast, it was nighttime. When he asked, —So how’d you meet Andre? she pulled something invisible up between them.

  After the Columbia University stop their car and all the ones trailing and leading were just mobile testaments to the lingering effects of miscegenation.

  Eventually, the train rumbled and stopped and jerked forward; he touched her arm. —Let’s go. In the air Spanish was being spoken. Rob took her to the same motel as his men, walked the same path; he could see his footprints in the concrete.

  On the bed, backed against the headboard, her thighs ache; she rubs them, tells Rob they hurt, but he wants to laugh because he’s still on his knees, afraid to stand; his body is assuring him it will not work. His mouth is a wound that should be left to heal, but there is her purse next to the bed, pregnant with bills rolled into a rock. He has four twenties, a ten and a five in his coat that she’d peeled off earlier and even in the way she tossed them to him there was the promise of much more.

  He rises but his body has forgotten how to stand; he falls back against the wall and is lying there beside the door with his legs finally straight; blood is pumping and life is returning; his feet twitch as though they’re being resurrected. —Come here, she says, but his hand’s up, begging for some rest. Her face, for a few moments, betrays her, there is some warmth and sympathy, she does not wish Rob any pain. She does not have children. Waiting, she tries to imagine what she’d have served a baby for breakfast that morning, how she would have spoken to convey her love. You ever have a girl? she asks. That you liked, I mean.

  —Why?

  She shrugs. —Just wanted to know. Wanted to hear about it.

  On the walk to the motel she had finally looked at him. —You are young, aren’t you?

  He smiled. —As young as you want. Then he ran his hands across his chin and neck and all the places where he had, just that morning, run the razor and swept away all signs that he had aged past thirteen. Later, in the room, he moved his hands down his slight neck, over his stomach, under his balls, looked at her, saying, —Smooth.

  —Like a little, little boy. She said this while touching her tummy.

  She sat in that room alone with him and didn’t check the closet or push open the bathroom door (just in case) because she had trust packed tight in her purse next to the money and a .38. The first thing she said to him was, —I’ll give you ten dollars if you let me do this. Rob took the money, then she emptied the gun, slid the barrel into his mouth. For five more dollars he let her pull the trigger twice. The hollow clicks made him giggle.

  Rob had had a girlfriend, two years before; he was fourteen and she was twelve. But when he and Inca got together he lost fascination quick because already her pussy was all used up. That was how he felt and when he asked her about it she laughed, said, —You’ll find out how when that asshole’s all fucked up.

  And she was right.

  Soon she had to leave because Rob was always trying to put fire to things—like her. She broke out finally when he set his own right foot to burning, just to make his friends laugh. She was saying, —If you’ll do that shit to yourself, I don’t know what the fuck you’ll do to me.

  Healing was tough and peeling skin is ugly, but Rob’s girlfriend looked worse, had that face like she and a train had gone at it, does it really matter who won? He was dumb and thought he could do better so he drove her away on purpose, but who knew after that that nights and days would just be business, business, business?

  Inca knew that even from a distance her young skin looked withered and loose on her bones and still she expected you to treat her nice. She demanded it. If not, she was gone, no question.

  What he missed most, she could talk this talk, knew this language that was from somewhere before Spain landed ships and Spanish cut out more natural tongues; it was hard to hear her speak like that, Rob was jealous; when she spoke, it seemed as though she had her own good and wonderful time machine.

  —Do you want to make more money? she asks Rob.

  —Of course. What do you want to do?

  She pulls the covers up around her like a robe. He wonders what her sheets look like at home. —Let me see your dick.

  Everything is quiet while he pulls down his unde
rwear, then quiet for longer. He looks down. —What’s wrong?

  —Nothing. Nothing.

  —Is there something wrong with it?

  —No, it’s not that. I just haven’t seen many up close but my husband’s.

  —He make his different?

  —No. She scratches her stomach. No, no.

  —Forty to fuck. Rob touches his legs, still not quite alive.

  —Forty?

  —Yeah.

  —Forty?

  —Come on. Do you want to or not?

  —Hey! she snaps. Don’t forget who’s got the money.

  He can’t. He says, —Sorry.

  She is smiles again. —You remind me of a boy I used to like. He had a body like yours. Do you play sports?

  —Yeah, he says, moves closer. I fuck.

  —Okay, she sighs. Enough talk.

  —Money first. Rob exposes his palm to her face. The four tens are smooth and new like the others had been; he can picture her at the ATM right before she got on the Long Island Rail Road, the honey-sweet sound of the money flipping out in bundles.

  —I have to use a condom, he says and even her blood is glad he brought it up.

  He wraps one around his dick. But what about the times when there was nothing latex available and he used cellophane bags and then Scotch tape and then—most often—nothing? It has been sore for weeks or maybe months and could it be longer than that?

  When he gets to the bed he bumps the nightstand, moves the whole thing. It seems to her that lamp will spill over and singe; she moves her hands to catch it, but he does nothing because it’s nailed down, wouldn’t move if something divine came in and tried to displace it. His hands are around the base of his dick, trying to strangle it so the blood can’t escape. But it does.

  —How long have you been doing this?

  He wants to do something to her with his fists. —Long time, he promises. Wait, there it is. He comes toward her, but with each step air leaks out like an old balloon.

  She says, —So is this like a cab? Even the time we’re sitting still the meter’s running?