by Luke Loaghan
“I play the guitar and sing,” I said.
“But are you talented?”
I took a deep breath, puffed my chest out, and said, “I’m talented.”
“So why not a career in music?” Vincent asked.
“Because I need college to fall back on, in case I don’t make it.”
“Sounds like you already plan to fail. Look, even if you don’t make it big as a guitar player, I’m sure you can find work.”
“I don’t want to end up poor and starving.”
“You won’t if you really are talented.”
At school on Monday, everyone was asking about the SATs. I gave the obligatory answer, “I aced it.” Sam said he didn’t see me taking the exam, but thought he saw me in the boys’ bathroom. Sam wondered if I saw anything in the bathroom.
“I didn’t see anything.” I said stonefaced. He remarked that he did not see anything either.
Sam and Doreen were mailing their Harvard applications together. Carlos perked up; he seemed to be on high alert. Dogs sometimes did the same thing with their ears when something caught their attention.
Delancey wore a tee-shirt with a picture of a large crow on it. Delancey explained that the tee-shirt was for a new rock band. We talked about the SATs. She said she did pretty well on the verbal but she wasn’t sure about the math.
“I used to be really good at math. But not anymore. Even my science grades are not what they used to be,” she said. She was applying to five colleges. All of them had two things in common; they were all private schools, and they were all very expensive.
It must be nice not to have financial worries, I thought. Natalie walked by, and I waved hello. Delancey noticed that I was checking out Natalie, though I was unaware of my wandering eyes.
“I used to be the girl that all the guys checked out,” she said.
I put my hand on her shoulder, and said, “You still are, and always will be.” We laughed and went to our classes.
At the end of the day, John and I were walking to the subway together. Smoke was coming out of a nearby mail box. The mail box was on fire and a fire truck quickly arrived to put out the flames. Burning a mail box was a federal crime. When the fire was out, firemen emptied the burnt contents.
“Do you think it was the Deceptors?” I asked.
“Probably not. They’re into beating people up, not burning a mailbox,” John said. “Besides, there’s no money to gain by burning a mailbox.”
At the subway station, Carlos stood waiting for a train. The three of us began the long ride home. Carlos hardly spoke. John and I discussed college applications.
The next two days I stayed home with the flu. John called and said that Sam and Doreen were over. Sam had broken up with her during lunch in the cafeteria. I wasn’t surprised. I surmised Sam was able to get what he wanted out of the relationship.
Thanksgiving arrived and I felt completely better and healthy enough to go out. My father was driving a cab until three p.m. Harry and I spontaneously decided to go to the Thanksgiving Day parade. We had not been to the parade since our mother had passed. It was still early enough that we may see the end, but late enough that we’d be far away.
We took the subway to the west side of Manhattan and had to push and shove our way out the crowded exit of the station. A million people lined the streets to see the parade. A colossal Superman balloon towered above our heads. One block down, thirty people were barely hanging on to a Garfield balloon. The balloons were twice the size of our house. The wind blew the balloons forward, and the balloon holders struggled to hang on. Harry and I walked north, hoping there were fewer people in that direction. On Columbus Avenue, the frigid winds picked up velocity.
A two-story Snoopy balloon was making its way toward the crowd. It must have been more than forty feet high. In the distance, we could see the last float, Santa Claus in a sleigh. The crowd cheered loudly as Snoopy slammed into a street light, smashing it to pieces. Harry wore a big smile on his face; his eyes lit up brightly, more than I could ever remember. It was overwhelming to see my brother so happy.
After the Santa Claus float went past us, I bought us hot dogs and hot chocolate. It was good to have money from my job at the café.
Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned around, elated to find Delancey behind me. Her cheeks were red from the cold, as were her nose and ears.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” she yelled out.
“You too!” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“I live nearby, and came down to see the end of the parade.” Delancey asked the vendor for a hot chocolate as well. “What about you?”
“We also came for the parade. This is my brother, Harry.” Harry shook Delancey’s hand, and commented on how warm her hand was, despite the cold weather.
A large crow flew very close to us, trying to swipe the final small bite of hot dog out of my hands. Delancey was petrified. The bird flew away.
We talked about her holiday plans, and I discovered that she was heading out to Long Island to spend Thanksgiving with her mother and stepfather. After she left, Harry noticed that I couldn’t stop smiling.
“She’s really pretty, David. How well do you know her?” Harry asked.
“She is, isn’t she? I know her from school.”
“You should ask her out; I can tell that she likes you. Girls are never that happy to see just anyone,” Harry remarked.
“She’s always full of exuberance,” I said.
Harry looked at me confused. “Is she exuberant around you or everyone else as well?”
“I’m not sure…but she’s definitely not that exuberant around Sam.” We both laughed; Harry was familiar with Sam. “Besides, Harry, she’s out of my league.”
Harry chuckled. “What? She’s on the Mets? And you’re on the Yankees? Don’t be ridiculous…there are no leagues…” He sounded a lot like Christine.
“She’s rich, Harry, and we’re poor. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“You’re nuts. Girls are girls, and guys are guys. Who cares who’s rich and who’s poor? One date isn’t going to lead to marriage or a life time of anything. Just ask her out already. She’s practically crazy about you.” Harry hit me on the chest. He could be right, maybe Delancey liked me too. I didn’t bother telling Harry that Delancey had already turned me down, sort of.
That night, we went to my grandmother’s home for Thanksgiving dinner. I saw all my relatives, aunts, uncles, and cousins. It was the first of many holidays without my Grandfather.
One of my uncles offered me a beer, and I drank it fast, hoping my father wouldn’t notice. “When parents say no, uncles say yes!” he boasted. I was still smiling from bumping into Delancey earlier.
My grandmother distributed some of my grandfather’s personal items. Harry received my grandfather’s U.S. Citizenship documents from when he became a naturalized citizen. The name read “David Arfayus.” My father received my grandfather’s army uniform. My grandfather’s college education was on a battlefield in Korea. “He had arrived in New York at a young age, and was drafted for war soon thereafter,” my grandmother explained.
At the very end, my grandmother handed me my grandfather’s high school diploma from British Guyana. His last name was spelled with an O, and the other letters were different as well.
“That was the original spelling, but when he came to Ellis Island, because of his accent, they changed the spelling of his name to the way he pronounced it.” My grandmother was an emotional wreck, everyone tried to console her.
I suggested that we should change our last name to the correct spelling. My father said that he was okay with his last name, but advised me to contact the government to change my name. He joked that even if I changed my name, I still had to obey his rules.
The next day at City Hall, I filled out the application and changed the spelling of my last name, and never looked back. They gave me a copy of the paperwork, which I was to submit to my school. I think my grandfather w
ould have approved.
Chapter 8
Sometimes a new month begins, and nothing in the air indicates the change. Some months just feel like other months. This is never the case with December. Whenever November ends and December begins, every kid in school can tell the difference without looking at a calendar. There is a countdown that begins for the holidays.
The café was busy that weekend. Business was booming, largely because New York City, more than any other city in the world, draws lots of tourists for the holidays. I filled the muffin trays with each type of batter. My job entailed baking 200 muffins every morning, which was enough for the tour buses of people that came in for breakfast. Last month, we threw out 150 muffins a day. But lately, tour buses have been arriving on the weekends, and there weren’t any muffins to throw out. I also had to bake 400 cookies. The batter was rock hard since it had been refrigerated all night. I learned that by using an ice cream scooper, a little elbow grease, and my hands, the cookies came out perfectly round. I baked chocolate chip cookies, oatmeal raisin cookies, macadamia nut cookies, almond cookies, vanilla cookies, and double chocolate cookies.
The smell of freshly baked muffins and cookies filled the World Financial Center, and even though the building was enormous, and had 35 floors, the smell permeated every nook and cranny of the building.
Music is similar to aroma. Music moves people, whether they are old or young, warm hearted, or with a heart of stone. Music, especially the way I played the guitar, penetrated souls. When I played guitar, it brought joy, and sometimes sorrow to listeners.
The morning crew arrived a half hour late. It’s not like Mike would notice, as he was still snoring in the back. The crew looked like hell. Christine explained that they all had a rough night. They drank all the coffee I had brewed. I asked Christine about her night and she said, “You don’t want to know,” but agreed to tell me later.
Mike the manager eventually woke up, and decided to show me how to make a cappuccino. I took it step by step, loading the espresso, steaming the milk, and learning how to make foam. He drank it and said not bad. I made another one; this time I drank it, and thought it was the best drink I ever had. Mike explained that the cappuccino was a lot like the “people in this godforsaken world.” He said that the grinds sink to the bottom, and that the middle part is just for the caffeine and taste, but the part that everyone likes is the foam, and the foam needs to be perfected if it is to rise to the top and stay there. “Foam is like the top 1% of people, there is nothing of substance in foam.”
I was prepared for more anecdotes from Mike, but I had grown skeptical of his advice, since he seemed like a big loser. But Mike was particularly loquacious that day.
“So have you given any more thought to your future?” he asked. I told him that I didn’t have any answers, but was working on a school project that would hopefully map out what I should do.
“The problem with school is that they always ask the wrong question. The question should not be ‘what do you want to be when you grow up,’ but rather, ‘who do you want to be like when you grow up?’ They should ask what source of income you plan on having, rather than what kind of job you are planning on having,” Mike said.
I was hoping to avoid Mike having another mental meltdown at my expense. I mostly nodded and agreed, while I continued to work, cleaning counter tops, baking, cleaning the oven, and making more coffee. Still, I gave way to an involuntary grin at the thought of a guy who sleeps on park benches giving me career advice.
Mike continued. “It makes more sense to emulate people that you know, rather than to figure out a career path. Don’t make the mistake that the rest of society makes. How you make your living does not define who you are. How much money you make is not who you are. First find out who you are, and then worry about everything else. A job is temporary, but self identity is for a lifetime.” Mike seemed pleased with himself.
Mike’s voice grew louder and louder, and his face was turning red. A few seconds later he was shouting. “I had a friend who was the smartest guy I knew. He had a full scholarship to Harvard Medical School. You know what happened? He met a girl, fell in love, and decided he wanted to be photographer. He took hundreds of pictures of his girlfriend. Then dropped out of medical school to spend more time with her, and a year later they broke up. His became depressed, turned to pills, and wound up in an institution. You know what the problem was? He never wanted to be a doctor to begin with. The girl he dated was his catalyst to pursue happiness. Today he is an amateur photographer, and he is happy. Imagine that…he could have been a miserable doctor or a happy photographer. It’s about choices.”
Mike ranted and his sentences became less connected until there was no coherency to the flow of his words. He jumped from thought to thought, starting a new sentence before finishing an existing one. This went on for five minutes. Christine stared at both of us with her arms crossed and left foot thumping the floor.
Mike looked at her and said, “What?”
Christine said, “Mike, are you from Manhattan? Because that would explain a lot.”
Mike laughed and said that he was in fact from Manhattan. I didn’t get it. This was an inside joke. Mike explained that his mannerisms and tendency to yell, his neurosis and short temper, and ability to get all worked up was part of his Manhattan upbringing. “All the crazies live in Manhattan…we’re the norm here…you’ll see.”
Mike drank another cup of coffee and calmed down.
“I know what you’re thinking; that I’m some loser living on a park bench, and here I am, the one giving you advice. But I have learned more from my failures than most people will learn from success. And I still have a lot of life ahead of me, enough time to turn things around. Hemingway was right when he said ‘A man can be destroyed but not defeated.’” Mike walked back into the café.
Christine was too tired to have Sushi after work. She described the events of the previous night. Her gang was at a birthday party at a dance club in the city when a fight broke out with a rival gang. Some shots were fired but no one was hurt. She was up the entire night. I thought to myself that my life was so boring compared to hers. I didn’t go to night clubs. I couldn’t get in even if I wanted to. I was underage, just like Christine, but did not have her connections or a fake ID. My social scene consisted of going to the movies and having pizza with the guys. I felt like a child when I heard about her experiences. I felt deprived of the excitement that Christine had in her life. I really needed to get out more. I really needed to live more. I was seventeen and months away from becoming a legal adult without a social life.
At school, a flyer was circulating about an upcoming ski trip for Stanton high school seniors only. I was determined to go. Listening to Christine’s stories about her wild nights at clubs in the city made me want to get out more. The cost was significant, but I could pay for it with my next two paychecks. This would be my chance to get out, even if I had never skied before. All I needed was my father to sign the permission slip.
John couldn’t go on the ski trip. His life was pretty cut and dry. John worked every day after school, except for every other Friday afternoon, and was in church every Sunday. There was no way he could get the money. John and I both worked, but I always received a paycheck, and John never did. “Two things in life don’t pay,” John would say. “Crime, and working for family.”
Sam couldn’t go either. He had a family trip planned during winter break, and couldn’t get out of it. I was relieved to hear that Sam was not going on the ski trip. He was my friend, but he required too much work, and I could have a better time without him.
Carlos wanted to go, but couldn’t come up with the money. That’s more or less Carlos; he can never come up with the money. My friends were the kids that never went anywhere. They weren’t bad kids, just not the kind of kids that went anywhere or did anything. My lack of a social life was related to the company I kept. I had developed socially, accordingly. They were apathetic by default. Delancey and a
lot of her friends were also going. I was happy to hear this.
I was nervous about getting the permission slip signed. There was a part of me that knew this was going to be another argument, another battle.
My father initially didn’t want me to go. He felt that three nights away from home was a lot, and that since I did not know how to ski, it was dangerous. But he said he would think about it. The next morning, my father shocked me by leaving the signed permission slip on the table with a note. He had written that as long I paid for it myself, I had earned it. “It’s your money,” he wrote.
At school that day, I told Sam, John, and Carlos that I was going on the ski trip. Sam called it a waste of time. Carlos wished he could go. John said the lodgings were three per room. It would be like college, having a roommate and a shared bathroom. I felt a little awkward about having two roommates. It might give me a sense of what going away to college would be like.
I told Delancey that I was going on the trip. She hoped we could ski together. Delancey had been skiing for ten years, and could not wait to do helicopters. I said, “I’ll race you down the mountain.”
What was a helicopter? Was I really going to race her down a mountain? I really put my foot in my mouth that time. Nonetheless, I thought it would be great to see some people, especially Delancey, outside school for once. After speaking with other students, I realized that there were a lot of people going, but no one I knew well. I sighed, and wondered if I had made a mistake, and would be alone for three days. Either I would force myself to meet new people and have a good time, or I would stay aloof and alone. I was never good at meeting new people.
A voice in my head started to talk me out of the trip. This voice was powerful, and had talked me out of many opportunities in high school. I stared at the permission slip in my hand, and the money I had in my pocket, and ran to the school secretary’s office. Immediately, I handed in my money and permission slip. I needed to do this before the voice talked me out of it. Now it was too late, and there was no turning back. The day wore on, and I felt more comfortable with the idea of going on the trip. I was less nervous about rooming with two other guys, and meeting new people.