Rob decides that whoever exits first, Harrold or the cop, he will go with him. He does not love Harrold and the police can also take him someplace different from the apartment he shares with Andre and the others. A group home. He has been in them before, briefly, repetitively. Eight months ago he was in one and contacted by his family, an aunt, who told him that his mother and father were all cleaned up. At any time, he could return. She gave him their new address. At the place, his counselors gathered before him once a week with notepads, an audience, wanting to hear his whole life explained. Harrold was like this. The cop would be too, he would need to hear of Rob’s days for his reports: juvenile crimes, those kinds of records. They can’t get too many stories, most people, and always they demand: worse, worse. As though the more fucked-up meant the more authentic. They are slaves to this idea.
In the only letter he wrote home, Rob told himself to dispense with lying. Why make anything up? If being honest, life in New York is as mundane as anyplace else. The strangeness, the terror and joy of selling your ass, subsides. Eventually you can’t remember which of the things you do would be called wrong by your mother and father now and inadvertently you’ll mention that when you first started working your butt bled again and again. The only correspondence you’ll receive will be from your father, saying you’re an awful son for making up stories to hurt your mother. Still, he will have put forty dollars in with his harsh words. It will be a sign of his renewed goodness and love when this happens. But you, if you’re Rob, will no longer be sure of those realities and will instead wonder if the money is your father’s way of hinting that he wants you to come home, so he can try you out.
ancient history
1
Horse’s girl was a socialist and not too pretty. They had had a kid. She was taking all his time. Me and him hardly knew each other anymore. We were months out of high school.
She learned to avoid us—when she visited we gave Horse hell and her silence. It was purely a mistake when she pulled up to Horse’s crib and we were on the stoop. She had their baby wrapped tight in a gray blanket, saying good-bye to some friend who was driving; she was smiling, but when she turned her face fell. Melissa watched the four of us: Horse, Asia, Mel and me. Except for Horse, we began laughing. I did, then Asia and Mel followed. This had become so regular it was a kind of greeting. Horse walked to her and his arm went out like a kid grabbing the side of the pool to get steadied. He dipped his head to see his son. Asia went inside to use the phone. —I thought you were going to be alone, she tried to whisper.
He said, —They just showed up. That’s how I knew he was still, a little, my boy Horse: he had lied, we had been around forever.
At the stairs she trudged between me and Mel; he looked up, was going to nod because Mel was polite, his dad raised him that way. Mel was fat and dumb, but the two had no connection; Asia was fast and dumb, but no one ever tried to blame one on the other. But Mel was going to nod so I reached out and mushed his cheek to move his gaze. Even though he got mad at me, it was like I’d shaken it loose—how we wanted to act toward her—so Mel looked down as she passed.
Melissa had given a plastic bag to Horse, who carried it as tender as she did that kid. When he got to where I was on the stairs I snatched it from his hands, looked inside. She had brought a loaf of banana bread, fresh enough it was warm through the bag. I loved the smell but wouldn’t inhale in front of them, it would be like approving of something. There were sheets of paper too, flyers, black ink on yellow paper, printouts stating that next Wednesday was the seventy-first anniversary of the founding of the East Side Chamber of Commerce; listed all the wrongs they’d done to the poor, the struggling. There would be a rally. This was the stuff that did it, she was a little older, a college student; quick to teach, quick to lecture. Horse would try to preach to me her thirdhand theories when all I wanted was to watch a movie. I ripped the ten identical sheets and handed them back to my boy.
Melissa asked, —Do you ever go home?
Horse laughed a little, straining to get out a sound. I looked at them. I wasn’t going to hit her. I was. I said, —Horse, take this bitch back to Kent State.
He shook bad enough for both of them and I waited for him to do something. To swing on me. Imagine, if he had thrown blows over a woman, that would’ve been it, even stupid-ass Mel would have spit on him. I mean, I’d heard of men dying over that shit and once you’re dead, what do you think, the girl mourns you for the rest of her life? Please, sooner than is fair she’s fucking again. Men and women aren’t that different. But Horse didn’t have to decide, Melissa touched his neck and whispered, —Let’s go inside. So they did.
Asia came along in a minute. Across the street and half a block right was the small space quarantined behind a tall gate. It was a grassy yard; in the center a light green metal dome popped out of the ground. Kids said it was a reservoir, but I wasn’t sure. Horse would have known, but I didn’t ask him too many questions anymore. Plenty times, Horse asked my opinion about some female he was spending time with, if I thought this one would cheat, if another seemed like good ass. But with this one, Melissa, she had just appeared. I couldn’t even imagine where they’d met. Horse never explained.
The three of us left together; we made no noise, not even feet hitting heavy on the pavement; there was just the sound of Horse locking his front door.
2
I went with him, went in, but it was a mistake. I was out shopping for Melissa when I came around the corner and Ahab was opening the door to the recruiter’s office. Marines. He was more than surprised, seeing me; he hadn’t gone to the office near us. He had traveled. —Oh shit, Ahab cried when I touched his shoulder. What the fuck you doing way out here, Horse?
I pointed to the door. —I wasn’t going in there. What about you?
There was no excuse coming, just his big mouth, open. You’d think I’d caught him kissing a man, he was so shocked. Ahab couldn’t even move when two guys tried to get in; I had to push him back. They passed between us. I looked inside—the whole front of the place was glass; the Marines watched us greedily. I was sure that already their hands were on the sign-up contracts, ready to flash pens like knives. He explained, —I need to do something.
—Do something else, I said.
—Like what? He laughed. You know another girl with an apartment in Manhattan?
I held the door and shoved him inside; the place was spare: posters of healthy-looking guys carrying guns or swords, their hats bright as the white of a boiled egg were the only decorations; there were three desks, and behind each a smiling serviceman, one black, one white, one Latino. I was surprised by the efficiency. They had the major constituencies covered. A couch sat to the right, in front of it a small table with magazines neatly stacked. The white guy started pitching, —Well hello, gentlemen.
The black Marine looked at me. —You two here to join us?
I thought, Not me, pawn; I said, —Not me. My friend. The four of them smiled like this fact alone deserved praise. The white Marine said, —Call me Dan, to Ahab. It’s good to see a young man like you ready to make some money, have some fun. Do something.
—Yeah, Ahab said. One of my boys is a Marine.
Sanford was the Marine we all knew. Each time he had leave he’d come see his family, then all the fellas. Every visit he was displaying something new. The last time had been a gray Suzuki Samurai. Everyone’s parents owned cars, but it’s one thing to borrow your mother’s Accord and another to have one. This is not a small prize. Just Sanford had done much to make the Army, Marines, Air Force, whatever, more appealing.
—Good pussy in Germany, Dan said. Ahab nodded at this fact brought out from nowhere. Dan had a funny smile, he moved it around his face so he always looked a little stupid. It was ingenious. He wasn’t intimidating that way, it made his jokes seem funnier. I wondered if that was part of recruiter’s training. Dan asked my boy his name.
—Ahab, he said. He was used to the quizzical look all three Marines
wore. My parents liked books.
Dan smiled. —Well, Ahab, let me tell you what fun is. Fun is running up in some pretty little Filipino girl and leaving the next day.
The Latino Marine said, from his desk, —Filipino girls. Those women are strictly fine. His nose was twisted to the left, he’d broken it a few too many times. It sat there on his face, his only medal.
The room wasn’t small, so when I asked a question I had to shout. —So we spend billions just to get American boys foreign pussy?
Even Ahab, they all watched me like they were waiting to hear what was so hard to believe. Ahab was angry with me, he shook his head with Dan the way two doctors might over a patient long past saving. I shrugged. The one with the busted nose said to Ahab, —I think your friend needs a little …, then he punched the air twice.
Standing and smiling, I said, —That’s perfect! Don’t say anything else, please.
The black Marine was a clod; he was scowling at me as though I was embarrassing him. I walked outside, down the block to the store I’d come for, a Lechter’s that sold better wares than the cheap imitations on Jamaica Avenue. I wanted to surprise Melissa with something, even as simple as a cutting board, just to show her I was serious about making a home. Inside the store I looked at bread baskets and salad forks. In one aisle I passed two guys, my age, unpacking boxes. One was promising that kids from Hollis were going to take care of some people in Queens Village. How many times had I been around this nonsense? Brothers from Laurelton fighting ones out of Rosedale, the same between South Jamaica and Rochdale. The fights were all the same. Queens is huge. Of all the boroughs, it is the only city to stand on its own. Manhattan pretends at self-reliance. You hear of one borough battling another, Brooklyn vs. the Bronx, like that, but here, Queens has enough of its own. We don’t need to import enemies. Among ourselves we’ve got all the fights we can handle.
3
Horse dragged me out to Rockaway Beach. We took a bus. He looked stupid because he carried a red T-shirt the whole time, some shit balled up inside. He said it was for me. The whole way I was bugging him to let me see, a peek. But he’d always been stubborn, it’s the one damn thing I’d have been happy to see change. I looked at the shirt again. —Now?
—Will you shut up?
It was daytime, a Wednesday. To get to the beach we crossed a parking lot that was empty. There were streetlamps every twenty feet, for night, but one was on anyway, burning so hard you could hear it. Horse led me to the boardwalk and up the steps. I’d heard of rides and games somewhere out here, but Horse, like usual now, corrected me, told me I was thinking of Coney Island. He stopped at a bench, sat. The sun was mild, not that bright shit to make you put up your hands before you go fucking blind. Then Horse spoke:
—You know this is about to be it, I said, enough gravity in my voice that Ahab leaned left, pulled closer. A few hundred yards down, someone drove his truck onto the sand. A couple appeared. They started walking away. They didn’t hold hands; she trailed after him but was in no hurry to catch up. Another couple, in the Jeep, were going at it. I turned to Ahab, said, I’m going to marry Melissa.
He nodded. —Sometimes I think everyone’s fucking but me.
The way Ahab answered me, I understood what he thought I was into Melissa for, that in important ways, he didn’t know me. The ocean was a terrible color but its noise was soothing. It made only one sound: the constancy of the shore coming back again and once more, always trying (maybe this time) to stay. You had to admire that kind of tenacity. I said, —How long was that contract you signed? Three years?
Ahab laughed and spat. —Yeah, you know, I’m just using those bitches for that paycheck. It don’t mean nothing.
I shook my head. How could I explain it to him? All our lives I knew where we’d be hanging out, what girls were coming to a party. Despite the Marines or maybe because of, I was pretty sure all those stupid distractions of our childhood would keep Ahab happy for another six decades. Really, even joining the military was just his way to get anonymous sex and a regular paycheck for mindless work. Since last week at the recruiter’s office, I’d been trying to convince him he could get both those silly goals fulfilled staying right where he was. Why add the slim chance you might lose your life? I asked often. Stay where you are. I said, —That sounds like a great way to live, for a paycheck.
I wanted to smack Horse. I was getting tired of sitting next to him, but then he unwrapped that old shirt and inside: a miniature of a giant warship—guns pointed forward, waiting to spit shells at the enemy, fuck up their towns.
He said, —For you, A, like when you’re on board and that ship seems so huge, you can look at this and remember what the whole thing looks like. So it doesn’t seem so immense. Horse passed it to me. The thing was heavy for the size. I tossed it from hand right to hand left.
Horse punched me in the arm. —It was this or buy you a copy of “In the Navy,” but that might get you in trouble with your shipmates.
I watched him some more. The Marines had been filling my face with this talk of honor and power. Pride. It was swimming in my eyelids as I held this insult. Then I cocked my arm and gave one good toss. It almost reached the water. I said, —I’m in the fucking Marines. You even remember who I am?
Horse stood. —See, he said, now we have to go and get it. And he was right, of course. Even as it had been flying I knew I’d want it forever, a gift from my only true friend. Horse started walking to the steps.
We should have taken the stairs but Ahab was climbing the rails. To the top (there were three) and from there he, then me, plunked forward and down. Fifteen feet. When he landed he rolled into it like he’d already started practicing these things. Like he was having fantasies of bravery. When I landed I caught all those stinging kisses in my ankles. But one hop and we were on our feet, running quickly in the sand so greedy for our sneakers. Ahab and I reached the shore; there was the boat, beached; the sea came close, brushed against the bow. But our sudden movements hadn’t put energy in Ahab alone, I was feeling something. I reached down and held the model, raised my arm and sent it out to the green, green water. When it landed it had gone so far you didn’t even hear it splash. I looked at him and smiled with the challenge.
—That’s how you want it? I asked Horse. In all our clothes, with the boardwalk watching, we ran into the sea. My legs were so strong I was jumping waves like fucking hurdles. The horizon didn’t even seem that far, two big hops and we’d be there. Then the sea floor fell away and we were treading. Kept going, didn’t stop until my lungs were thunder in my ribs.
I said, —Didn’t think you’d keep up.
Horse laughed, but not happily. —Are you joking? We could keep going G.I. Joe. Right now. And all you could do is follow the trail of me kicking up water.
You would have thought Horse’d stopped sucking his thumb when he was ten, even twelve. Like normal motherfuckers. But when he was fifteen he was still doing it, in front of others, running his other hand over his ears, shutting his eyes. We had a plan so he would never need braces. Once a week, on his front steps, I’d lean my palms into his top teeth as hard as they could take; then I’d stop; he’d bite down on something, tell me about the pain in his fucking mouth, but that was a good sign, that they were shifted closer into place. We did it like that every week for years. When we were sixteen I was getting tired of his stupid plan and getting stronger, pushing hard even after he was tapping my elbow, then punching me.
—It’s not so bad now, I said, laughing, after Ahab had reminded me of that scheme. I’d never tell him, but Melissa liked it when I whispered in her ear; the way my teeth bent in, the words came out with that little whistle and it tickled her ear. I did it every chance I got. She grabs my hand and squeezes it hard like she’s angry, but when I look, man, she’s always smiling. That stupid look on Ahab’s face, I knew he couldn’t understand anything more than what his crotch wanted. Dogs look like that, old ones: dumb.
Ahab asked, —Now how are we going
to find that shit?
I said, —You’ve got better eyes than me, dip your head under. Like it was an order, Ahab went that fast. As though he’d been practicing obedience too. I admit, I watched him with contempt.
———
I dove in quick to get away from Horse. It was impossible to see, stupid to try. When my air ran out I went up, sucked deep and went in one more time. The second try, Horse grabbed the side of my head. Held me there. That was funny at first, true, but his arm was stiff and he gripped my hairs so tight I thought a few would come out. He was saying some shit, vibrations bounced around underwater, but I couldn’t make it out. My eyes were burning. I tried to kick or push, but there was no leverage.
Horse pulled me back. I’d only been a foot under; my eyes went wide letting in that sunlight, so much it hurt, but I didn’t have time to thank him as I inhaled. Inhaled. Now I could understand him, Horse was saying, —I’m leaving. I’m getting out. He was repeating this.
Eventually, I stopped. I floated there after Ahab came up. The far brown boardwalk, from the water, seemed like a fence put up around the farthest ends of this country. The way it ran in both directions I could believe it went three thousand miles, thirty. More. A perimeter. A guardrail. And who would be defending it? Ahab? This moron I’d grown up with? Who’d be at his post with nothing greater on his mind than the new rims he wanted on his car and in his hands a loaded gun? This was all funny, so I laughed at him.
Slapboxing with Jesus (Vintage Contemporaries Original) Page 6