“Stems?” Josie asked while taking a seat on the opposite end of the bench. “What’s that about?”
“Your legs, baby girl. They go on for days. Your stems,” she answered, shrugging as though it was the most logical explanation in the world.
“Well, I guess that’s better than the last one.”
“What? You didn’t like Perdy?”
Josie made a face, squishing up her features and shaking her head. “No! That sounds like some redneck in overalls who butchers people.”
Gavin laughed, a full belly chuckle that momentarily hid her sharpness and made her appear young again.
“Well, when you put it that way.”
“I got a new piece up downtown. On Fifth. Took me two hours.”
“I’ll have to check it out. I know you got mad skills.”
“You hungry?” Josie asked, holding out a granola bar.
“Thanks,” Gavin said, ripping open the paper and humming in delight at the taste of chocolate.
“Here’s the rest,” Josie said, handing over the four bags filled with food. “You’ll give it to the kids down in the plaza?”
“I always do.”
“Good. Keep what you want, but make sure Sarah gets the gummy worms. She loves those.”
“Yeah.”
“Anything new? Those asshole cops still bothering you?” Josie asked.
“Nah. Shorty was arrested for bathing in the fountain again. Gregory sends his love, as always. Kim and Kim moved down by the 163. And Logan…”
“Out with it, Gavin.”
“Logan’s gone. Haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Josie blew out a breath, frustrated she couldn’t keep up with the kids better. Since her time on the streets, she’d become attached to them. They represented the only family she’d ever known.
“Well, if you see him, let me know. How’s your girl?”
“Who knows, Stems. I heard she’s headed up to L.A. with her new boyfriend.”
“Sorry. I thought you two were going to make it.”
“Sure felt like it. That’s what I get for messing with a bi girl. They never know what the hell they want.” Gavin sighed. “Maybe she didn’t like her nickname.”
“Well, I like Stems,” Josie said. “Maybe I’ll have to give you one too.”
“What’s wrong with Gavin?”
“I’ve never met a chick named Gavin before.”
Gavin closed her eyes and tilted her face away from Josie, her shoulders tense.
“It’s just a way to stay anonymous on the streets, you know? It was my brother’s name,” she admitted.
Josie didn’t press her for more information. She knew what it was like to have a past that you’d rather not relive or retell. Both had been discarded by society. The difference was Josie had felt empowered by the freedom of unregulated days and nights. They had shared a common ground, a common sleeping hole, and a common need to burn their pain away. An easy silence fell between them as they waited for their miracle man, the deliverer of coping aids and pharmaceutical highs.
4. Ejecta
The material thrown out of an impact crater by the shock pressures generated.
“Hello, hello. What can I get for you this evening?”
Josie eyed the greasy man suspiciously.
“Where’s Nigel?” she asked.
“He’s busy tonight, but didn’t want to leave you fine ladies hangin’. He sent me to take care of you.”
“How do we know you’re not a cop?” Gavin asked.
The man laughed and tugged on the brim of his hat.
“Shit, I ain’t no cop. Hate them bastards. Just got out of lockup a few weeks ago.”
“Likely story,” Gavin said.
“Show your tits,” Josie demanded.
“What?” he asked.
“You heard her.”
The man shook his head but followed instructions. He lifted his shirt up under his armpits. Josie made a twirling motion with her index finger and he turned in a circle. The girls eyed him skeptically, but each nodded, confirming she was satisfied.
“See? No wire. No cop.”
Gavin reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope of money, counting out a stack for him. She folded the envelope and shoved it deep into the bottom of her bag. The man watched her carefully, averting his eyes just in time.
Josie pulled out her fold of ready bills and handed it over in exchange for a new bag of pills. She smiled at the comfort they represented.
When Gavin finished her purchase, the man stood there, lingering. Josie didn’t like the hunger in his eyes. He seemed to be wavering, waiting for something. Suddenly, he reached down, grabbed Gavin’s bag and took off running.
“Hey!” Gavin screamed.
Josie jumped from the bench and took off after him. She caught up in no time. When she reached him, she threw herself onto his back. They both tumbled to the ground, rolling down a small hill. On the way, Josie took an elbow to the eye. When they stopped, she was on top with the bag firmly in her grip.
“Drop it!” she yelled.
“Make me,” he spat.
She shrugged and stood up, feigning defeat.
“Ha. That’s right.” He gloated.
Josie swung around, raised her foot, and slammed it down between his legs. He let out an awful howl and rolled onto his side, releasing the bag. Josie put it over her shoulder and walked away.
“You bitch!”
“They call me Bundy!” Josie yelled victoriously.
* * *
Tristan took a seat in a corner booth at City Deli. The waitress, in standard uniform and orthopedic shoes, smacked her gum and asked for his order.
“I’ll just have coffee for now. I’m waiting for someone.”
“Sure,” she answered, rolling her eyes before shuffling off to fetch his brew.
He pulled a paperback book from his back pocket and opened it to the dog-eared page. He read the words, but by the end of the page he had no idea what they were. It was an odd feeling for him. So he reread them, this time absorbing each one permanently. Every time the door opened, Tristan craned his neck to look for Josie. Each time it wasn’t her, he would return his attention to the book, concentrating on Amis’s words about John Self’s wild and glutinous life. Soon he was wondering if she’d even show up.
His coffee appeared in front of him as if mentally summoned, and the waitress took off to her next table. He poured copious amounts of sugar into the black drink, stirring until the clinking of the spoon against ceramic annoyed him.
Josie threw herself through the door of the diner like she was being chased. The sight of Tristan tucked into her favorite corner booth filled her with relief she hadn’t even known she needed. She brushed off her clothes, as if it would somehow help her disheveled appearance. Slowly, she passed each booth, labeling patrons as she went. He’s a prick, she thought, as a fat, balding man wiggled his eyebrows in her direction. Josie flipped him off and continued past the others. They’re having an affair, he’s in the closet, that one’s an alcoholic, she might be a he. Gold digger, prostitute, and cabdriver rounded out her assessment.
Tossing her bag into the booth, she slid in after it. The sound of metal cans and ball-bearing mixers announced her arrival. Tristan’s shoulders jumped in surprise and he wondered when he’d stopped checking the door. Their eyes met across one steaming cup of coffee and a Formica tabletop.
“What the hell happened to you?” Tristan asked, his face screwed up in worry.
Josie reached up and smoothed down her knotted hair. She knew she should have gone to the bathroom to check herself before sitting.
“What?” she asked casually.
“You have a huge red mark on your cheek and your eye is bruising.”
“Oh, that. I got into a fight.”
“What the fuck?” he replied loudly, garnering the attention of every guest in the quiet establishment.
“Calm down,” she said, shushing him. “What do you hav
e, ’roid rage or something? I’m fine. I met a friend at Balboa and this asshole tried to steal her bag. I didn’t let him.”
“He hit you?”
“Yeah, but I hit him back,” she answered, smirking.
“What were you doing in the park at this time of night?”
“Buying drugs.”
Tristan went quiet at her admission, not sure how he should react to such honesty. He thought her frankness could either mean that she was fearless or that she had indeed found the drugs.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Not really. Maybe a little something,” she mumbled, her voice trailing off as her eyes scanned the menu.
The waitress reappeared, her pen ready to jot down their order as she smiled her practiced smile.
“I’ll have the huevos rancheros,” he said.
“I want a strawberry milk shake, order of bacon, and coffee,” Josie said, closing her menu and not looking up as the waitress left.
“This Canadian food company did a survey and found out that forty-three percent of people would rather have bacon than sex.”
“Canadian bacon or regular bacon?” she asked.
“It didn’t say.”
“Well,” Josie said, “it would really make a difference.”
Tristan took a cautious sip of his coffee while they waited for the waitress to return with hers.
“Are you saying that standard breakfast bacon may be better than sex, but Canadian bacon is lacking?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Josie answered.
“Would you equate it with any kind of sexual act, or is it just not that good?”
“I might have Canadian bacon instead of giving a hand job.”
“But you get no pleasure from that,” he said.
“Exactly.” Josie gave a shrug of her shoulders.
“Maybe the Canadians don’t know what they’re doing,” Tristan said.
“Hardly. Their bacon-making skills are, as you put it, lacking.”
Tristan nodded in agreement. When the waitress returned, Josie dumped sugar into her coffee, stirring counterclockwise. She turned to the wall and traced an outline of intricate text permanently etched there.
“More of your work?” Tristan asked.
“I’ll never tell. You might report me.”
“So…” Tristan started, for once having no plan to finish his sentence.
“So?”
“I haven’t seen you in almost nine years. Why don’t you remember me? Why were you reported dead? How did you end up here?”
Josie looked around at the air above his head, as if the questions hung there and she was deciding which one to pluck down and begin with.
“You’re from New Orleans?” she asked.
“Yes,” Tristan answered.
“Look, I’m not really supposed to talk about it. Legal issues, blah blah blah. My safety, blah blah blah. What the hell do I care? I can’t even give you details, because I don’t have them.”
He gestured for her to continue, letting his eyes roam over her face, traveling from her sepia eyes down the gentle slope of her nose and finally resting on her lips. When she began to speak, Tristan found himself captivated by her story.
“My father and I left Louisiana when he took a new job in Brooklyn. We moved into an apartment. We only lived there for about six weeks. No one knows what went down, but it was a few days before the landlady noticed we were missing. Three days later, my father’s body turned up in the harbor. A few days after that, a witness saw me stumble into a subway station, where I collapsed. I woke up in a hospital two days later, surrounded by FBI agents, with no memory of who I was or where I’d been.”
Tristan noticed that she wasn’t telling a story; she was simply reciting the words. They were void of emotion, as if she’d memorized an official report of the happenings.
“You had amnesia.”
The waitress appeared, refilling their coffee cups and moving on, clearly uninterested in the conversation.
“Have. I have amnesia. Retrograde dissociative amnesia,” she clarified, repeating the clinical term she’d heard so many times before. “I have no idea what happened in New York or anything before that. Doctors say I probably never will.”
Tristan dissected the words in his head, working out her diagnosis.
“So ‘retrograde’ meaning all preexisting memories are lost, but you’re able to remember everything since.” Josie nodded. “‘Dissociative’ means it was likely caused by psychological events, as opposed to injury.”
She shrugged, suddenly avoiding his gaze. They both reached for the sugar, their fingers intertwining around the glass container. Tristan pulled back, gesturing for her to go first. Josie poured her sugar before sliding it over to him.
“Are you some kind of doctor pretending to be a bartender?” Josie asked.
“No. I read a lot,” he answered, realizing that statement explained nothing. “I happen to remember everything I read. I have a really good memory.”
“Huh,” she said, shrugging. “We’re like opposites.”
He nodded, saddened by the defeated nature of her statement. Tristan had a feeling that the amnesia was her mind’s way of dealing with something terrible, some kind of horrific event that refused to be processed. She had no memories from their shared childhood. She couldn’t recall the happiest time of her life, her family, her friends, not even him. Meanwhile, he remembered everything, with agonizing clarity.
“‘August 25,’” Tristan began. Josie’s eyes snapped up to his when he spoke the words as if they were right in front of him. “‘A body found in the Hudson River near Weehawken, New Jersey, has been identified as Earl Delaune, 41, a recent transplant from New Orleans to Brooklyn. Delaune was reported missing three days ago by his landlord. State Police say a fisherman found the body in the river, but the location of Delaune’s death has yet to be determined. The victim’s daughter, McKenzi Delaune, 14, remains missing.
“‘August 31, New York City Police identified the body of a fourteen-year-old girl found dead in Central Park yesterday morning. Authorities are withholding the identity of the Brooklyn girl, but it is suspected to be McKenzi Delaune, a teen reported missing nine days ago. NYPD said they were having difficulty locating any of the girl’s remaining family. There were no obvious signs of trauma and, for now, police aren’t commenting on suspects or motive.’”
Josie blinked rapidly, suddenly realizing that she’d been holding her breath, her attention seized by Tristan’s words.
“The local paper reported both of you had been murdered but didn’t give any details. You didn’t have family there, so the school held a memorial service. We took turns telling stories about you and had your picture hung in the hall,” Tristan finished.
Josie spied the waitress coming and was relieved by the distraction. Unfolding her napkin, she scrubbed at the black on her stained fingers, silently cursing the charcoal and lead. No matter how hard she tried, the dark dust clung to the beds and underneath each nail, making her look like she’d been playing in dirt. Never mind the slash of green paint across her forearm that would have to be removed later. The plates slid in front of them before the waitress disappeared again, promptly returning with Josie’s milk shake.
“I hated that fucking picture,” Tristan said.
“Why?”
“They used your freshman yearbook photo.”
“And?” she asked, frustrated.
“We got into a fight right before photos that day. You weren’t even smiling. It was like having this sad ghost haunting me every time I walked past the office.”
Josie bit into the bacon and moaned in delight. She may have been a little overenthusiastic as a result of their earlier conversation.
“What were we fighting about?” she asked.
Tristan smiled at her, a smile so genuine she wanted to return it. He set his fork back down and sipped his coffee.
“I was mad because I found a drawing in yo
ur room of another guy.”
“So, you were jealous?”
Tristan nodded.
“I ripped it up,” he said.
“Oh, I bet I got pissed.”
“Yeah. That’s an understatement. You didn’t talk to me for three days, a record for us.”
“Damn, guess I cut you off too?” she asked.
“We weren’t having sex at fourteen, Josie.”
“Nothing?” she asked.
“Nothing past second base.”
Josie shook her head and wondered if she had been a prude or if he had been the one trying to protect their virtue. Tristan, with all his memories, made her nervous. He looked at her as if trying to crack a code, break her down and understand her. She’d never wanted someone the way she wanted him. Josie couldn’t risk his finding out how damaged she was.
Trying to fool herself into thinking that it was a purely physical desire, she closed her eyes, imagining him crushed in a grip between her thighs. Quickly, her mind was lost to a fantasy of touching and tasting his flesh.
Tristan cleared his throat, startling Josie and reminding her that there was a conversation taking place. Feeling as though she’d been caught with those visions in her head, Josie dropped her eyes down to her plate. She scrambled to divert his attention.
“The FBI changed my name. Shipped me cross-country. They said it was for my own protection,” Josie finished, rolling her eyes at the thought of being protected.
A broad silence stretched between them. Josie busied herself with eating as Tristan sat dumbfounded.
“Then?” Tristan asked.
“Then what?”
“That was eight years ago,” he said.
“I won’t bore you with the tales of living in foster homes, Tristan. Imagine the worst, multiply that by ten. It’s nothing a few decades of drugs and alcohol won’t cure.”
Beautiful Addictions Page 4