“What are you doing here, Tim?”
“You told me you needed help with an amplifier.”
“I did? . . . I do. Yes. I told you that today, right?”
“Yes, a few hours ago.”
“Right, right. It’s over here.” He pointed to a corner of the room where a hulk of rectangular something was covered in a white sheet. He unveiled it, revealing a gargantuan speaker cabinet and amplifier head. It sat there big and menacing.
“Did you bring a dolly? We’re gonna need a dolly.”
Before I could tell him I didn’t have a dolly, Rachel stood up and started shouting what I figured were Spanish curse words. She didn’t look at either Lou or myself, she just marched away. As she continued her tirade, things started to get smashed inside the bedroom.
Lou chuckled and shook his head. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.” He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder. “Do you have a girlfriend, Tim?”
“I do . . . kind of.”
“Well, here’s the secret to the fairer sex,” he said, unfazed as another crash erupted. “What I’m going to tell you is the law of the jungle and there’s no way around it, so it’s best you learn it now. Okay? . . . In essence it’s very simple . . . here it is . . . You can’t win. That’s it. Get it? . . . When it comes to an argument, a disagreement? Forget it . . . You can’t win . . . It’s impossible. The other thing is, when a problem or an issue arises, a woman wants to be heard, she wants her feeling understood. But a man wants to fix it, he immediately wants to find a solution . . . but that’s not important to the woman in the midst of her emotions and feelings. No! She simply wants to be listened to.”
He paused as something made of glass hit the bedroom door and shattered. He smiled.
“She is so beautiful, man. She is a genius.” His head was turned toward me but his eyes were scouring the room like they were following the path of a mosquito. “So, Tim my man, once you understand the rules, once you accept it as truth, life becomes a whole lot easier . . . Got a cigarette?”
“No. I don’t. Sorry.”
“That’s okay, Tim. That is okay . . .” Lou patted the amplifier. “Now how the fuck we gonna get this thing into a cab?”
There was no way on earth we were getting it into a cab.
“I think we need a van or a truck, Lou.”
“What about a station wagon? Would a station wagon work?” he said as he dashed to his bright red telephone. He picked up the receiver, dialed three numbers, and paused.
“A station wagon would probably be okay,” I said without really being sure.
Loud hammering came from the bedroom. Lou shook his head, smiling again, and said as if to himself: “I tell you, man, she is something else. Just brilliant. Nothing short of a philosopher queen.” He hung up the phone and continued, now directly to me: “Okay . . . where can we get a station wagon today? My van guy broke his driving foot jumping out a window. He’s afraid to get behind the wheel till his cast comes off.”
“I don’t know. Ciro has a van, maybe you can ask him. He always says you’re a good customer. Last week he loaned it to the Egyptian guy who owns the newsstand on the corner.”
“That’s great, Tim. Yes. Good idea. Who’s Zero?”
“Ciro. My boss. The guy who owns the diner.”
“Of course! Zero! I know Zero. That guy’s probably seen more breakfasts than a gynecologist.”
Lou laughed at his own joke. It seemed funny when it came out of his mouth but when I broke it down and tried to understand the logic of it, I was at a loss. Still am.
“Yeah, that would be perfect. Ask Zero if we can borrow it. You can use the Batphone. Would you like a drink?”
The bedroom was quiet as I dialed the diner. Lou started pouring gin into two tall glasses.
“No tonic, Tim. Sorry.” He topped the gin off with Coca-Cola. A god-awful combination but Lou didn’t seem to mind. He drained half his glass before Ciro answered the phone.
I had to think on my feet. I had lied to Lou when I told him that Ciro thought he was a good customer. I don’t know why I said it, it just came out of my mouth. The truth was that Ciro considered Lou and Rachel “a pair of junkie freaks.” His nickname for them was “Dr. Heckle and Mrs. Jekyl.” Ciro wouldn’t give them a dishrag if they weren’t paying for it.
Fortunately, Lou got absorbed in ransacking his kitchen in search of an important phone number he had misplaced. So I told Ciro that my mother needed the van for an hour to pick up a new dining room table.
Ciro was happy to do my mother a favor. I think he had a little crush on her. He was overly kind and a little flirty whenever she was in the diner and always gave her a free black-and-white cookie for dessert. And I don’t think it was out of respect for me.
I got off the phone victorious and told Lou we had a van. I would go to the diner, pick up the keys, and Lou could meet me and the van in the parking lot on Second Avenue.
“Fantastic.” He swallowed the rest of his gin in a single swig. “Just pull it up in front of the building. I’ll ask Rogelio if he has a dolly,” he said as he poured himself a fresh one.
Wait. Did I hear him correctly? Pull it up in front of the building? How was I supposed to do that? I didn’t have a driver’s license nor had I ever driven a car on an actual road. The little driving experience I had outside of the bumper cars in Adventureland was with my dad in the huge, empty parking lot of Shea Stadium about two years ago. That’s it. The idea of me navigating a van through the streets of rush-hour Manhattan was ridiculous.
I worked up a bit of courage and said: “Uhhhhm, maybe it’s better if you do the driving, Lou. I don’t have a license.”
“Nonsense, Tim. I have complete faith in your ability to handle a vehicle. Besides, if you don’t do it, we’re stuck. I never, ever drive. Too many near-death calls. You’re a smart kid, you’ll do fine. And we’re not going very far at all. Just a few blocks. Piece of cake.” He said this while still looking for the number he so desperately needed. His limbs and torso seemed to be running on separate motors all working independently of each other. As their RPMs increased, he scratched, jerked, and twitched through the kitchen, his search becoming more hopeless by the second.
twenty-four
Smitty lived on the far Upper West Side of Manhattan. Washington Heights or Inwood, I think, maybe near Dyckman Street. He spent about half an hour trying to squeeze into a parking space that was impossible to accommodate his shitty little white car. This led to another half hour or so of cruising his neighborhood until he finally came upon a Puerto Rican family who were loading into a gray Ford. They must have been going to the airport because they put three huge suitcases and four smaller bags into the trunk. The grandma had to be helped by two younger women and the walk from the entrance to their building to the car took an eternity.
Neither Veronica nor myself spoke at all during the whole parking ordeal. Smitty took all the waiting in patient stride; it must have been a daily routine of sorts for him. All he said was, “Easy does it, abuelita,” over and over until grandma was securely stowed in the backseat and her door was closed and locked.
Finally, the gray four-door Ford with passengers bound for Ponce, PR, mercifully pulled out and onto Broadway, allowing Smitty to slide his slimy Civic into the void. I couldn’t figure out how to push the seat up so we could free ourselves from the tiny rear of the Honda and was forced to suffer the indignity of waiting for Smitty to pull the latch and move the seat forward, his head almost touching mine but his eyes fixed on Veronica.
When we were standing on the sidewalk Smitty cleared his throat, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and said: “You guys want pretzels or peanuts? I got chips. Barbecue.”
“I’m good,” Veronica said as she ran her fingers through her hair. I didn’t say a word. Smitty just nodded and started to walk up Broadway. We followed.
His apartment was on the third floor. The elevator was not working or was stuck on some other floor
so we walked up the stone steps in a counterclockwise-winding ascent, our footsteps loud and echoing in the stairwell. There was a strong, wet smell of mold during the climb but as we stepped through the door into the third-floor hallway, the stench was eclipsed by the noxious combo of boiling animal innards and piss. This foul scent seemed to lessen as we approached Smitty’s door at the far end of the hallway. He put the key in the hole and invited us into apartment 3NW.
There was nothing at all masculine about Smitty’s one-room flat. If he had told me that it was an old lady’s apartment, I would have believed it. It was very spare, neat, and orderly, but dusty and stuffy as well. The windows, which were filthy, looked like they hadn’t been opened in decades. The rugs and furniture were old and worn and there was nothing personal anywhere. No books, no photos, no diploma. No posters, paintings, or religious objects. It was slightly more homey than a hotel room, mostly thanks to a colorful knit-wool blanket folded in half on top of the bed.
“Make yourselves at home.”
Smitty went into the alcove that was his kitchen. There was a big, green, stuffed armchair next to a dark wooden coffee table but there were no other chairs in the room. Veronica sat on the edge of the bed right on top of the wool blanket. I sat next to her and it felt like there was a stiff board underneath the bedcovers. I shifted around and glanced at Veronica but she didn’t seem bothered by whatever the hardness was.
“Gin and OJ okay, Matt?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“What about the little lady?”
I looked at Veronica and she shook her head. I told Smitty no. A shift had occurred. Veronica not speaking for herself was a new development. I was speaking on her behalf and had never held that position before. It made me feel manly and important and mature. My love for her multiplied.
Smitty approached with my drink, his drink, and a bottle of pills. He told us they were quaaludes and recommended taking only one if we weren’t too familiar with the effects. Veronica reached for one and swallowed it, washing it down with my drink. I did the same.
Veronica squeezed my hand. “Do you have any weed, Smitty?” They would be the only words she said the whole time we were there.
“Affirmative,” he said with a smirk. Then he went into a kitchen drawer and took out a bag of the dirtiest weed I’d ever seen. He tossed it on Veronica’s lap. “It’s Hawaiian.”
He was full of shit. Veronica pulled a small pack of Bambú papers out of the bag and started to roll a joint.
“Thought we could check out a few movies if you guys are into it.” Neither Veronica nor I responded. “It’ll take me awhile to set up the projector. I wanted to do it this morning but I was afraid my car would get towed.”
Still no response from us but Smitty wasn’t waiting for any cues. He started to set up a movie projector on a small table that he moved to the foot of the bed. It looked like a relic from the birth of cinema. Its electrical cord was covered in an antiquated, probably heatproof fabric that was fraying along its whole length. It felt like there was a good chance he would set the apartment ablaze once that cord was plugged into the wall.
Smitty seemed distracted by something. He abandoned the projector and left it sitting on the bed in several pieces. He went to a small cabinet between the kitchen and sleeping areas and searched through a stack of records. I couldn’t make out most of them from where I sat but I did see the Doctor Zhivago soundtrack and Revolver by the Beatles. He chose something recent by Electric Light Orchestra. I didn’t care for them very much and would have preferred the Beatles. But Smitty wasn’t asking for anyone’s musical opinions. He shuffled over to a shitty record player that was in a small plastic blue-and-white-striped suitcase. It looked like something a little kid would own.
I turned my head to face Veronica and took her in, trying to see her apart from the context of the setting. She looked dynamite that day. Put together perfectly, like a French film star. A gray skirt that was sexy but not too short, with simple gray stockings underneath. A black sweater over a white button-down shirt. She had already taken off the purple scarf, her black beret, and the big black sunglasses she wore “because it feels like too much exposure to have people staring into my eyes all day.” I wouldn’t blame anyone from staring into her eyes. They were intelligent eyes full of mystery and intensity. But real and honest, nothing fake. No deception.
Seeing her so composed and beautiful made me proud. And it made me want to get the fuck out of this place and take her somewhere special. The Conservatory Garden in Central Park, or the benches we liked that overlooked the East River. I wanted to stand up and tell her, Let’s go, I want to take you somewhere nice. But I just sat there.
Veronica lit the joint. ELO started spinning on the turntable; the record scratched and skipped and then settled into a song I didn’t like. Smitty went back to work on the projector. His hands were shaky and sweaty and it took him a long time to assemble the ancient machine. He had to keep wiping his hands on his pants and then he’d pause and take a few deep, wheezy breaths. There was a little bubble of white foam in one corner of his mouth. If he didn’t disgust me so much, I might have felt sorry for him.
twenty-five
I didn’t have the heart to disappoint Lou. I went to the diner and got the keys. I was hoping Ciro would be suspicious and catch on to what was happening but he didn’t question me at all. I had the keys in my hand and walked to the parking lot. I kept telling myself that if I just went slow it would all be okay. I mean, even little old ladies drove cars, and if they could do it, how hard could it be?
I found the van to be a lot more sensitive than I’d expected. I lurched forward in little bursts and jolts as I rode the brake and pulled out of the lot. It reminded me of the way Lou had been moving while he rummaged through his kitchen.
I was very nervous . . . terrified, really; mouth dry and heart racing, white-knuckling the steering wheel. I was grateful the gin and Coke was disgusting because I couldn’t imagine doing this buzzed or drunk, though if I had a few more sips maybe I would have been more calm and confident.
At the first traffic light I came quite close to rear-ending a screaming-yellow VW Bug that hesitated when the light changed quick from yellow to red. I stomped the brakes and my chest slammed into the wheel. It hurt and I would have a big bruise.
I kept fiddling with the mirrors and wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be seeing when I looked into them. I couldn’t get the viewing angles to make proper sense and the concept of making life-and-death decisions based on reflections in a mirror was way too risky for me. I chose not to use the mirrors at all and instead kept glancing over my shoulders every few seconds to see what was going on behind me.
The two blocks from the parking lot to my building stretched out in front of me like the Trans-Siberian Railway. It was overwhelming. Convinced that a collision was imminent, I obeyed my instincts and drove very slowly. So slowly that every driver who wound up behind me honked their horn without mercy, shouting and cursing as they passed. An old man puffing a cigar slapped the front of the van because I blocked half the crosswalk. I didn’t take it personal; I just didn’t want to kill anyone.
It took awhile but miraculously I arrived in front of our building without major injury or calamity. I exercised the utmost care as I shifted the transmission from D into P, stepped on the emergency brake, and turned off the ignition. I climbed out of the van and vowed not to get back behind the wheel. Lou would have to break his no-driving rule or he’d have to pay Rogelio or maybe even get Rachel out of the bedroom and have her do it. Any of the above was fine with me. I was done with driving.
I was hoping Lou would be waiting in the lobby with Rogelio and the amp sitting on a dolly, ready to go. Then the four of us, including Freddy the doorman, would hoist the thing up into the van. Freddy rushed outside to tell the driver of the van to move it and was surprised to find it was me holding the keys. I didn’t see Lou anywhere so I had to explain our plan to Freddy. He said he’d be happy to
help but that the van could only stay out front for ten minutes max and I should hurry.
I went up to Lou’s apartment hoping to god I wouldn’t run into my mother. Rachel was sitting on a cushion on the floor and Lou was laying prone with his head in her lap. Rachel’s Adam’s apple was protruding from her throat. I had never noticed it before. Lou had an unplugged red electric guitar cradled in his arms. He strummed some chords as Rachel stroked his head. The obscenely huge amplifier hadn’t moved an inch.
Rachel looked happy. Lou wasn’t singing but the tune he played was a serenade to his lady. She was the first to see me.
“Hi, Tim,” she said quietly, then looked back down at her lover.
Lou kept playing and didn’t turn my way. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I was intruding on something private and intimate. I just stood there in the doorway waiting for him to finish but his song went on and on. I had no choice but to interrupt.
“Lou?” He kept on strumming so I spoke up a little louder. “Hey, Lou.” Still nothing. I shouted: “LOU!”
That got his attention. He stopped playing but didn’t move. His eyes were peering up at the ceiling as he spoke: “I know you’re there, Tim, but, as I assume you can see, I’m in the middle of something very important and I don’t take kindly to being interrupted at times like this.”
Rachel was looking down at him, stroking his hair.
“I’m sorry, Lou . . . it’s just that . . . I have the van out front and I can only keep it there for a few minutes.”
“Okay, there’s the amp, did you get a dolly?”
“No, you said you would get the dolly.”
“No, Tim, I told you Rogelio has a dolly. Christ, he probably has several, being that he is the superintendent of a large Manhattan apartment building. I said you should ask him if we can borrow one and if he could give us a hand getting the amp out of my house and into the van. That’s what I said, Tim.” Then he turned his head and looked right at me. “So unless one of us is fucking Hercules in disguise, you’re gonna need a dolly to get the thing downstairs.”
The Perfume Burned His Eyes Page 8