He’s got nothing to say, he’s watching himself; keeping it stiff is like balancing a tray of dishes on one hand and walking them across a stage, a comedy act. —It’s gone. Rob does not complain, his mouth and body are mostly tired of the taste and shape and force of dicks and the men that own them. Being with a woman is a treat. Rob gets down on knees, prods tongue out with fingers, stays this way for the long hours ahead.
———
In the midmorning they say good-bye. Before she leaves there is a promise: that she will call Andre, ask for him. He nods. —Don’t forget my name.
—Rob, she says and it almost sounds nice.
All the money she’d paid is lodged in his underwear. As he walks away, the stiff bills cut against one leg; he walks with a hitch like some old cowboy. A two-hundred-dollar limp. But it’s all for Andre. When Rob gets back to the apartment that five people share, there will be no negotiation, only Andre’s underfed palm. Maybe if he’s fortunate he’ll be given twenty dollars, or forty, enough to buy some magazines or go to a movie, but only if the whole apartment is in a good mood; there, generosity is an occasion.
You will find ways to save yourself. This is relative: save.
Rob’s been at this long enough to have radar; a crowded hall has its interested and they can find one another. Those who weathered the Holocaust have been known to find a fellow fortunate survivor at the other end of a restaurant.
Because he’s tired, Rob feels bold; he is most ready for a change just before the trip home, the emptying of his coffers. The Port Authority pizza shop, on the subway level, has a court of white plastic seats and tables. Rob has spotted the man from four hundred feet; Rob has come closer to be more sure. Passes by, four times, slowing progressively, thinking: Notice, notice. But the man, he loves his pizza, soda too. So Rob passes by three more times, decreasing his pace more until, with his arms stretched forward, Rob could be Boris Karloff’s mummy chasing Abbott and Costello through a tomb.
—Why don’t you go away or sit down? The man finally asks, leaning back in his chair.
Rob finds speed again, comes around the short railing. Sits. —Nice to see you.
—No it isn’t, says Harrold, who tells the truth. He is much too thin, you can’t hide any secrets in a body like that. And his mustache is long, a U turned over his lips, hanging down. Gray. On his cheeks and neck more hair grows in, enough to unsmooth the skin, but it will never be a beard. His fingers are slim but the tops are fat bulbs. The nails are dirty. I drive a truck, he explains.
—You take a lot of coke? Rob smiles, earnestly asks.
He laughs, and the teeth are bad, dull. —Not so much anymore. I don’t meet boys like this, really.
Rob nods, he loves the liars, leans forward and tries for sultry. —Then how do you meet them, really?
Harrold coughs on some crust causing clutter in his throat. —I didn’t mean it like that.
Behind them are the young women and men, a few years older than Rob, standing in a long and winding cord before they buy their tickets for Greyhound buses; upstairs the same line exists for Short Line tickets and this is the painted pattern many mornings. These young people are on their way back to college, the names stitched across their sweatshirts Rob’s first, best clue; some are with their parents, but most are with the people they call Honey or Sweetheart, then kiss quickly and, with a jumble of sad and happy, watch the bus make concrete the distances between them. Rob turns back to Harrold. —Leaving isn’t always sad. It can be a good thing.
Harrold doesn’t understand he’s being given a hint, a suggestion, but he nods because he is polite enough and Rob is pretty, which always coaxes manners from the worst of men. He asks, —So, how does this work? You want to go to the bathroom or something?
There is an information booth, empty, twenty feet away. The lights are off, glass on all sides, there is no mistaking the vacancy, but people still walk to it, stand there expectantly. As though their need for something is enough to make it appear. As though you don’t have to put in any effort. Rob knows better, you have to work things. —We could do that. If that’s all you want.
—What else? Harrold asks, touching his pocket. You selling vacuum cleaners too?
Anxious. Anxious. Rob does not want another night in the room he shares with three other boys, the way wind seeps through the window frame despite the black tape Rob has put up as insulation. He is desperate. He offers, —I can cook.
Again, Harrold’s coughing. He’s a shy one, it won’t work to be dirty or prurient, that will not coax charity, affection. Women are used to this, the way they sometimes have to set it all up before their date will reach out and hold hands. It can be playful, it can be infuriating: leaning close, smiling often, brushing near, grabbing elbows. But it can be done. Rob says, —My biscuits are nice. My mother taught me how to make them. Or cinnamon French toast, I know how to do that too.
Harrold’s legs are long and, while his upper half leans back, far, they reach forward. He is conscious of it, but not in control. They would not listen if they could. He touches the insides of his boots to the out-sides of Rob’s sneakers. Harrold says, —I live alone. But he had not meant that to come out; internal monologue, not for Rob. Harrold, embarrassed, sits up quick, pulling his feet back from their foreplay. Someone younger, less experienced, would have jumped on the admission, but Rob pretends he hears nothing. He says, —I want to get some soda.
—I’m not paying for it, Harrold burps, quickly, like he’s caught Rob at something.
Rob laughs easy. —I don’t want you to. I have money, I just want to know if you’ll stay here.
—And if I won’t?
—Then I’m not moving.
Harrold dips his head. —Sorry, I didn’t mean anything. I’ll wait.
Rob walks, careful not to wiggle or strut, so when Harrold looks, and he will look, he’ll see a boy, with a gentle limp. Rob does not romanticize it with emphasis.
—I’m not gay, Harrold explains when Rob returns.
He nods. —Me neither. Rob reads; in other places they will eat bugs for food, the will to survive so strong; Rob understands them.
—I’m Harrold, with two r’s.
—That’s weird.
—Telling me? Two of anything in your name and people think you’re strange. Just your name can make people call you a monster, low.
—My name’s simple: Rob. Want some? He lifts the drink and gestures like it’s a gift or a secret to share.
Harrold stands, walks away. Nothing said. He creeps off to the newsstand, goes around to the far end so Rob will think he’s left altogether. Rob has spent some of the two hundred for the drink, just a dollar, but accounting is Andre’s passion. Rob looks around, agitated, for a purse, a man not watching his pants pockets, a way to replenish that one bill. The fluorescent lights live on, unaware of what and whom they illuminate; they are just a mechanism. Rob begins to weep. He’s exhausted, had really thought Harrold was it. At least momentarily, someone who’d take him in. He should have at least gone for the blowjob, that’s twenty all for yourself, off the books. He gulps his soda but there is too much ice, the drink cold enough to awaken the nerves of his teeth, too easily roused. They flare, grouchy yawns. Rob eats soft things because he’s brittle. He loves ice cream despite the temperature; the occasional pint of vanilla-chocolate-cookie-dough is an exercise in gratification and self-flagellation.
Harrold then returns like he wants to be: a hero. —Why the tears? I just went to get a pack of gum.
—Oh. Rob grins. Can I have a piece?
Harrold has lied, has bought nothing. He feels stupid in front of this kid.
Rob asks, —Are you going to sit back down? He shifts in his seat as the older man comes back around. He touches his face, rubs the skin and pats down his hair because when he gets tired age grows in like a beard. What does this guy like? Young and stupid? Young and mean? All the variations, they go through Rob’s computer; how to convince this man to take him along, it do
esn’t matter where. It begins to confuse Rob and when confused he taps his legs with his hands but knows that annoys others so he tries to stop but then only taps more. In a panic he blurts out, I can be really beautiful.
—Huh?
—You could put me in a dress. Or anything. Whatever you like. I’ll make you dinner or lunch like that, dressed up. I wore makeup before, I know how to make it look real nice. I could be your pretty young wife. Rob is sobbing, biting his lip, but not yelling, it is ingrained that, in this world, you keep things quiet. I don’t care, whatever you like.
Harrold finds his courage. Evaluates the boy: small shoulders, little hips, nice mouth, he will be gorgeous; and look at him, he’s terrified. Abject fear can breed a kind of loyalty. And it can be arousing.
They walk near each other but not together; like the old idealized wife Rob trails back five feet, out of deference, gratitude. Upstairs they leave the Port Authority, walk until they reach the garage where Harrold hands a short man a ticket, when the car comes, a tip. Rob walks ten feet of sidewalk, then waits for the blue Chevy Corsica. When he gets in, Harrold’s pants are already mostly down. Rob goes to touch him but is brushed away. —Not yet, Harrold says. Tell me something. He begins a self-caress. Tell me something bad.
When Rob started, working, was on his own, before Andre had pulled him over in Washington Square Park, asking, —You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, do you? Before Kim had him posing for pictures for men in apartments and homes; before the five of them had come together, four to work (Rob, Kim, Caps and Monty) and one to manage (Andre), prior to all that Rob made money where he could, a freelance man—most often in the lovely public bathroom or pacing through Central Park in the areas under bridges, dark tunnels that hid men needy and willing to pay someone so young.
After he had made his money (however) Rob rode subways for long hours, a stretch to last days, only sometimes getting off (pick a station, any station) to find a storefront, bought ten or twenty candy bars that he would then carry in a sock he never wore (wouldn’t even wipe up with it). While reriding the trains, after booty was bought, the lights above your head were hypnotic if you laid back and watched; eventually you saw the way they dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened (you’re getting sleepy) and before this brought him into a trance, Rob would dig into his sock, that sock, and bring forth one candy bar, eat it in two bites, the sugar dancing in his system, and watch the lights some more. For a year.
The Verrazano Narrows Bridge is impressive. It costs seven dollars. The thing is all fogged up so that when they cross into Staten Island it seems like one of those enshrouded areas in movies. A crush of cars returning home like the two of them. Harrold touches the rearview mirror and twists it until he can see himself.
—You look nice, Rob assures, but the man has grown beyond some vanities. The land is green and gray, white paint divides the lanes. They take the third exit, ride along a minor curve as they merge with the traffic on Clove Road. Now Rob sees buildings: the stores in strips that could be the signs of a civilization gearing up or winding down. They pass homes in rows sitting on very slight hills, many tilted in odd directions, as though something has set them out quickly, in a rush to leave. Some children are more careful with their toys.
Harrold asks, —You want to see where the ferry comes in? He says it like this will be impressive.
Rob doesn’t think he’ll care but soon he’s excited. Down by the ferry is the closest this island comes to being a city. Rob doesn’t think this borough is dying to industrialize and overpopulate. While Manhattan often seems to cry, Colonize me! along its overcrowded pores, this whole land shrugs at the idea. At times it even turns its back.
Rob fidgets and opens the glove compartment. Various papers and empty packs of gum are crushed by a clear plastic bag of egg yolks, twenty or thirty. He pulls them into his lap. They are greenish along with the more customary yellow. They have not gone bad. Rob opens the Ziplocked top and inhales the strong smell. He takes one out, it is flaky in his hands and weak, the ball crumbles. Rob chucks it all in his mouth and chews. He licks his palm.
—That’s mostly all I eat, Harrold explains.
—You ate pizza.
—I said mostly.
Rob shakes the bag. —I could make you better things than this.
Harrold grins. —I’d like that. But those are still good. The yolk is the brain of the egg. He taps the steering wheel with the index finger of the hand that steers.
—I would have said the heart, Rob says.
Harrold shakes his head. —Eggs have no heart. Just the shell, the whites and those. You peel away and finally get down to the real life of the whole thing. I think it’s amazing really, how they planned it out so well.
—Who?
—Who? God. Don’t you know that?
Rob nods along, but doesn’t get it. He is pretty sure this whole egg metaphor is being taken much too seriously.
—Secession? Rob points to the visor on his side that he’s pulled down to check his face, but instead of a mirror there is a sticker: silver background, black letters and a little boat at the right end.
—Secession, Harrold agrees, twists in his seat.
—I know that word, but not what it means.
—These days? Harrold spits. Nothing. Not one damn thing.
Rob shakes his head. —No, come on. What, really?
Harrold gestures with his hands for an effect, but what kind even he can’t say. —It means when someone decides they want to be on their own. That they want to live on their own, in peace.
They wait at a light. Rob grins to Harrold and announces, —Then I’m in secession!
Harrold laughs loud and hops in his seat as much as he can and still drive. —That sounds good to me, Rob, real good. I don’t have much food in the house. You eat a lot?
—At least a little.
—Yeah. Okay then. Harrold pulls his Corsica in front of a convenience store. The only move he makes is to pull his pants down again. It is daytime. You can do better than that last one. I don’t care about you riding on trains. You want some food, give me something worse. The street, tell me about that kind of stuff. He holds himself in anticipation.
—You could save it, Rob had been told before they got in the car.
This was so long ago. He doesn’t really remember their faces, he’s not good with those, not names either, but give him maps to decode, addresses—anything with numbers. If he knows to memorize it, then he can say it to himself four times and the information will never be forgotten.
—You could save it, Rob had been told before the three of them got in the car. You keep the atlas.
He held the map, got the front seat. Next to him the driver was his father, checking to see if they’d packed properly. It was as if they’d been evicted, all Rob’s things were in two boxes. A day later they found a small blue lake, tossed in Rob’s pants, shirts, socks and books; his dad promised, —Forget all those old things. We’re going to get you better stuff. In the back, his mother had brought sandwiches.
In the navigator’s seat, Rob was Direction Man, calling out the proper interstate numbers, the right exits. They had said to him, over a dinner of thin chicken, bread, in a rest-stop McDonald’s, —Okay then, you choose where we go. And Rob had, for two nights, surveyed the atlas of the entire country with painful delicacy. He’d traced the red lines leading from home to everywhere; finally he came to his parents and said, —Let’s go to New York, they make Sno-Kones there.
To pass time they played a game: after eating, his father and mother climbed in the car, that old thing, and told him to stand there and count to one hundred. When he began, the car got going, off, away, gone. By forty-five, the first time, Rob was quivering, at eighty-two he was in tears, but they were back by ninety-seven, hugging him, caressing his little head. Laughing. Telling him that he looked silly. —Stop making a big deal. We were just playing. Each next place they made him count higher, one hundred twenty-five, one-f
ifty, three hundred.
It did get fun to wait and see how close to the number they could come. At four hundred fifty they were late and Rob kept counting, he got to five hundred before they were back. His dad told him, —We were seeing if you were going to cry! and pointing at him and grinning. And Rob said, —Nah, I wasn’t scared.
—You could save it. She pointed to the map again, before only two of them got back in the car. Rob stood on a block he’d know as years went by, in Manhattan, with buildings that go up and up, then more. They had pressed the atlas in his hand, they had started the car, they’d said, —Okay, count to one thousand. He stopped at one thousand four hundred ninety-one. He waited.
Harrold gets out. Rob has cleaned a mess with his shirt, which was off and is now on again. He flaps it with two fingers, the window open, so the cool air can come in and dry things. Harrold returns, opens the car door and takes his keys out of the ignition. Rob feels lightheaded and when he feels like that he is the prettiest thing on two feet, including all those agile birds. He is giddy. In his back pocket, folded into a thick square, is the cover of the atlas he’d been given, the rest ripped in a rage by Andre one afternoon. He takes it out, holds it over his mouth like a CB radio and speaks into it like there’s a direct connection to his family. He believes they want to hear from him. He assures them, —Harrold seems nice.
Harrold is back at the car door, two plastic bags in one hand as a cop car pulls in two spaces away. There are no vehicles between them. Harrold pops the unlock button, then opens the back door. He doesn’t notice the officer. Rob looks over to the fat young man in his uniform sitting with his head back, hat off, engine still on, both idling; the rims are filthy and the bottom four inches of both doors he can see. Harrold gets in the car but has forgotten his keys. Finally he notices Rob intently staring and runs back to the store, but slow enough to avoid suspicion.
Eventually the officer looks left, to Rob, who still watches. The young man nods and smiles but Rob sits cold-faced and unwavering, long enough for the cop to shrug, open his car door and walk inside. He and Harrold do not pass each other on the way out, they are in the store together. The place has a fruit stand but displays only tomatoes and bananas. The bananas are divided evenly between too green and too brown. The tomatoes are smallish but not meant to be; they look hard, even from the car, and it is doubtful those things have a swallow of cool pulp in them. They are sour.
Slapboxing with Jesus (Vintage Contemporaries Original) Page 5