There’s two pickups a night, Jasmine said. One at midnight, one at four in the morning. How they do it is, a guy comes from the next building. The roofs are all the same height. So he just jumps across—it’s only about three, four feet—makes the pickup, then goes back across into the other building. That way, nobody can rob them.
Jasmine said every pickup is over a hundred thousand dollars. On Friday and Saturday nights, it’s even more.
She said we could rob it. But they would all know it was her, and we’d have to run away together after.
We couldn’t take her car either, ’cause they all knew what it looked like, and the license number and everything.
The night she told me, Jasmine put on a blond wig. She looked so different. She asked me if I liked it. I said I really did. She kept it on all that night. And she told me she’d wear it when we ran away. Nobody would recognize her.
She said the money would be a stepping stone. We could start all over with it, just her and me. In another town, nobody would ever find us.
We went over it a hundred times. Maybe more. What I had to do is start from three buildings away. That part was easy. Jasmine had an apartment there. She rented it a while ago, just in case I would want to move in there, so we’d be close. But she hadn’t told me about it, ’cause she wanted it to be a surprise. So it was even better.
Anyway, all I had to do was step out the back window onto the fire escape and climb up to the roof. Then go across the buildings until I was on top of the right one. When the pickup man came across, I was supposed to wait. When he came out of the shack with the money, that’s when I was supposed to take him.
Jasmine got a gun for me. To show the pickup man and make him hand over the money. But don’t shoot, she said. No matter what. Don’t shoot unless you see cops. If you see cops, honey, you have to start blasting—that’s what she said.
But if I don’t shoot the guy, how am I going to keep him from running downstairs and telling everyone? I asked her.
She told me all the back windows of the building were blacked out. And the whole place was soundproofed. Then she looked at me real hard. I nodded. She looked at me some more. I told her I got it.
She didn’t ask me anything after that. I was proud, ’cause she knew I got it. She trusted me.
When the pickup man came across, I watched him close. He came out with the money, and I stepped out with the gun. He put his hands up. I told him to turn around. Then I took a running start and knocked him off the roof. I went back across the rooftops. It wasn’t hard, even with all the rain.
I left the money in the apartment Jasmine had, just like she said. That way, if I got stopped, I wouldn’t have it on me, and I would be okay.
I kept the pistol, though.
It’s after ten now, but I still don’t see her.
The speaker at the bus station was loud. I looked at the clock. Then I went outside to smoke a cigarette. That’s when I saw the cops. All around the place, a whole bunch of them.
One of them yelled something. I took out the pistol and did what Jasmine said.
for Marty Furman, CPA
FIREMAN
When I first fell in love with Connie, I was ashamed to tell her. But I knew it, right when it happened. She was eleven then, and I was twelve, almost thirteen. We were both in the sixth grade.
The day it happened, it was after school. Raj found a butterfly on the sidewalk. I guess it was hurt or something, ’cause it couldn’t fly away. Raj started to torture it, pulling off the bright-orange wings one by one, holding it up so everybody could see. Connie screamed at him to stop, but he just laughed and kept on doing it.
I said, “Only a faggot would play with bugs like that.” Loud, so Raj would hear. I knew what would happen next. There’s magic words you can say to make people fight you. He had to do it. And he was bigger than me, so maybe he thought he could win. I busted his face all up. He couldn’t take it and he ran.
One of the other guys said, yeah, Raj was a faggot—that proved it. The guy who said it—he never would have tried to fight me himself, no matter what I said to him. I just looked at him until he walked away.
Then only me and Connie was left on the sidewalk. But when she thanked me, for, like, rescuing her, I was so ashamed that I hadn’t done nothing until after she made her move that I just told her to get lost.
Maybe you think that’s stupid. How could a twelve-year-old boy know what love was, right?
Yeah, well, love’s supposed to be the other side of hate, isn’t it? By the time I was twelve, I knew what hate was. For years, I knew. So I figure I should know the opposite when I felt it, too.
Connie was always sticking up for other people. When the kids made fun of Peggy because she was so fat, Connie walked home with her, just to show everyone.
She hated bullies, Connie. I figured out later, that’s why she hated Raj. And that’s what made me stop being one, although I never told her she was the reason.
Before Connie, I thought I got it. I mean, I thought I understood the way things worked. The guy who taught me was Sammy, my mother’s boyfriend. He always beat on me, and I could never stop him—he was bigger than me, and a lot stronger. He’s the one who taught me to take it. After a while, I could take a lot. But I knew that one day I’d be stronger than he was—I could feel it happening.
When it happened, then he’d stop.
I didn’t know if I would, though.
In the meantime, I saw how it worked. If you were pushing people around, they weren’t pushing you around. So I did that. Not with my mouth—I mean, I never made fun of anyone, not even William, with his twisted, gimpy leg that dragged behind him when he walked. But I’d fight over a seat in the cafeteria, or a turn on the basketball court. Or anything, I guess. Most of the time, I started it.
I liked to fight.
So I wasn’t afraid of Raj that day, when he was hurting the butterfly. It wasn’t that. I knew I could take him. It’s just that I wasn’t going to do anything about it—I was just going to let him go on doing it. But when Connie tried to stop him, I knew I should have done that myself, first.
I didn’t care about the stupid butterfly. I was afraid Raj was going to hurt Connie. But I didn’t know that. Or, anyway, I guess I didn’t. But when I figured out that I had to keep Raj from hurting her, I knew I loved her.
Because, if my mother had loved me, she would have kept Sammy from hurting me.
A couple of weeks after the day I backed Raj down, Connie stopped me from hurting a kid. Without saying nothing, she did it. I had Bobby against the wall in the schoolyard. I wanted to fight. He didn’t, but he didn’t know how to get out of it—I’d said some of the magic words to him. A crowd of kids was standing around. They always like to watch. I didn’t care. But then I saw Connie. And when I saw the way she was looking at me, I couldn’t stand it. So I just called Bobby a punk and I walked away.
Connie’s father was a very brave guy. A fireman. He went into burning buildings and he pulled people out. He even got his picture in the paper once, after he did that. Connie was so proud of him—she was always bragging about how brave he was.
I thought about how, if Connie’s building was on fire, I could rescue her for real. And then she would love me, too.
It’s easy to burn things. I knew a kid who did it all the time. Lawrence. But Lawrence, he—I don’t know—I couldn’t stand to be around him. I didn’t like the way he laughed when he struck a match. Giggling like a girl. I didn’t care about no building burning down, but Lawrence made me . . . all nervous-like.
So I never rescued Connie. But one day I told her I was going to be a fireman when I grew up.
Oh, man, she was so excited. She made me walk home with her that day. I was fifteen by then, so she couldn’t really make me do nothing, I guess. By then, Sammy knew he couldn’t make me do nothing no more.
I got arrested for that, the thing with Sammy that changed his mind about me. But the cops, I don’t know, they talked to h
im. In another room from where they were holding me. And Sammy dropped the charges. It never went to court. I didn’t have a record.
So I could still be a fireman.
I didn’t know why I had to walk Connie home that day until we got to her stoop. She told me to wait there. In a few minutes, her father came out. He wasn’t as big as I thought he would be, from the way Connie talked about him. He was kind of short and . . . even fat, maybe. But he was real nice. Connie said he was “on nights” that whole month. I guess that meant he was home in the daytime, that’s why she made me come with her. To meet him.
He asked me, was it true that I wanted to be a fireman? I told him, yes, it was. He asked me why. I didn’t know what to tell him—just I liked the idea of rescuing people and all. I never said nothing about Connie to him, and I don’t think he knew.
But he listened to me, anyway. He told me about the tests and all. How you had to be in good shape. I told him I was in good shape. He said there was a bunch of tests besides the stuff you had to be in good shape for. Mental tests, like. Anyway, he said I had to wait until I graduated from high school before I could take the tests.
After you passed the tests, they put you on a list. In the same order that you scored. So, like, if you was number twenty-five, then after the first twenty-four guys got appointed you got called.
I told him that was fair, and he said, yes, it was. He had to wait to get appointed himself, he told me, but his turn came. He said my turn would come too.
It wasn’t until late that night, when I couldn’t sleep, that I realized what he was saying. He knew I was going to pass the tests. Like it was a sure thing.
But I never graduated from high school. When I was seventeen, I enlisted in the Marines. Your parents have to sign for you when you’re that age. My mother did it. She said it would be best. I couldn’t live in that apartment with her and Sammy anymore—and she wasn’t going to make Sammy leave.
I went over to Connie’s house to say goodbye. We sat at the kitchen table. I told her I was going in. But I was going to get a GED in there, and I could still be a fireman when I got out. Connie was mad. She wanted me to stay in school, so we could graduate together.
Her father came into the kitchen. He said a lot of guys got their GED in the service, and they got to be firemen just the same as if they’d stayed in school. I could still take the tests, he said. And you got extra points if you had been in, too. Veteran’s points. He shook my hand.
Connie was mad at him, I could tell. I could always tell when she was mad, but that time, I wasn’t sure why.
I didn’t say nothing to her then, but it was like she knew. When I got out, I was going to marry her and be a fireman. She said she’d write to me, and I knew it was true when she said it.
So I went in the Marines. The basic training was nothing—I was in good shape from practicing to be a fireman all those years.
I didn’t even know there was a war going on until I was in it.
It changed everything.
Connie wrote, just like she promised. At first, I wrote back. After a while, I just stopped. I didn’t know how to tell her I finally got to be a fireman. In those crazy, scary tunnels. But I wasn’t there to rescue nobody. That’s not what we did.
She must have known I was in country, because she just kept on writing, figuring I would read everything when I got back across the line.
But as soon as I got back across that line, I went over some others.
It was almost nine months by the time I wrote to Connie. I knew it was too late. I tried to explain it to her, but I know I didn’t do a good job.
I know that because she kept on writing.
So I told her what was really happening over there. What had happened to me. What people did over there. What I did.
Then she stopped.
I went back into the tunnels. Stoned most of the time, like everyone else. It was the only way to do that.
I was in a lot of stuff, but I never got hit. Never took a bullet. Never hit a tripwire. Never fell into one of those punji-stick traps Charlie had everywhere either.
Some of the guys started to call me Lucky. They always wanted to go out with me. They said I was charmed. But some of the other guys, they never wanted to go out with me—they said my number hadn’t come up yet, and they didn’t want to be around me when it did.
I just kept doing it, walking through the tunnels, carrying the fire. One day they told me I was done. I was so wrecked on H and ganja I didn’t even understand them for a while. They shipped me out.
When I came home, nothing was the same.
I didn’t want to be a fireman anymore. I didn’t want to be anything. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw dead people. Broken, burned, torn to pieces.
I got high a lot. I stole too—the dope was expensive, not like over there.
My head hurt. I went to the VA. The shrink there said I was having flashbacks. He said they’d go away after a while.
He was a liar. But that didn’t surprise me—he was just another officer, right?
I heard Connie had gone away. To college, I guess. She was already gone by the time I got back.
Her building was still there. The stoop, anyway—I never looked inside. I walked past it a few times, but I never saw nobody sitting there. Nobody that I knew, anyway.
All I think about now is being a fireman. The kind I wanted to be, and the kind I got to be.
And the kind I know I’m going to be someday.
for Teddie Szinai Sante
DOPE FIEND
1
This all started when Charlene asked me to kill her.
You’d have to know her to understand what that means. It didn’t come easy to her, to say those words. Not because she’s afraid of dying—it would be a comfort for her, I know that. She just don’t want to leave me alone.
It’s the pain. Cancer’s been eating her bones like a pack of winter-starved wolves. Gnawing right into the marrow. Charlene, she’s no stranger to the pain. She was never a big woman. But she was strong. Always did her share, and more. I met her in the tobacco fields, and she was pulling a full load, even though she wasn’t but sixteen, and skinny too.
When we left the fields together, we was looking for something better than seasonal. That never seemed to work out, not for a long time. I mean, I’d get work, and Charlene wouldn’t be able to find none. Or she’d have to waitress or something while I got that Unemployment. Neither of us never took the Welfare. We wasn’t raised like that.
There was chances, but Charlene never would let me take them. A couple of boys where I was raised up, they wanted me to run shine into some dry counties. Real good money if you could drive, and they knowed I could.
Charlene told me I couldn’t do it. I told her, I was the man in the house, if I wanted to do something I would. Being against the law don’t make something wrong, and we needed the money. She didn’t say nothing, just walked off and left me sitting there.
I had a beer and a couple of cigarettes, thinking about how I was going to handle this. Then Charlene came back into the room. She was all dressed up, like we was going to a dance. Except that she didn’t look right. Her face was all painted, real heavy, not like she does it. And her blouse wasn’t buttoned up. I asked her what she was . . . But before I could even finish, she told me she was going down to Front Street and make her some money. With men. I got so mad I . . . It was the only time I ever raised my hand to Charlene. She didn’t even move, just stood there, hands on her hips. And I never did hit her. I couldn’t. And she knew it.
Charlene didn’t turn no tricks and I didn’t haul no shine. We just kept trying.
When I got on at the plant regular, we thought that was it. I mean, it was a union job, with benefits and everything.
We wanted some babies. We’d waited long enough. Charlene said she wasn’t going to put no kids of hers in the fields, and I agreed with her. Complete. So, when I got on regular, got my union card and all, then we figured it was t
ime.
But Charlene couldn’t get pregnant. One of the benefits I got was this health insurance. So we went to this place they said to go to—a clinic, like. They told Charlene her . . . insides was all rotted out. She had this cancer.
They tried to cut it out. She went into the hospital. The health insurance paid for it. And she had the operation. But the doctor told us later that it was too late. It was into her bones. Nothing they could do.
So Charlene is dying right in our trailer. She can bear that. I mean, she can bear it for herself, dying. Like I said, there ain’t but one reason she don’t want to go, as much pain as she’s got now.
The pain is the thing. Charlene can’t take it no more. But the doctors from that health-insurance thing, they said they can’t give her no more of the drugs. It’s against the law or something. They could lose their license.
I told the doctor plain, I didn’t believe him. He showed it to me. On a piece of paper. I couldn’t make no sense of it. So I told him even plainer: If it was him in all that pain, they’d give him all the drugs he needed. He didn’t say nothing to me about that.
What they give Charlene, it comes in special little bottles. The top is rubber, like. So you can stick the needle right into it and draw out what you need.
Only Charlene don’t have what she needs. Every time the nurses comes, Charlene asks her for more. And the nurse just says, “Doctor hasn’t prescribed any.”
“Doctor.” Like he don’t have no name. Don’t need one. Might as well say “King.” Or even “God.”
They leave three, four of them bottles at a time. They showed me how to give the injections. It ain’t even into Charlene herself. I mean, the needle’s already in her, all taped down. I fill the syringe, then I push the plunger into the little spot they showed me.
What hurts her so is between the shots. When she starts to run out of strength to fight. One time, I gave her another shot before the time the nurse said had to pass. And it made her feel better. I could see it right away. She even smiled a little. But when the nurse came and she saw I only had half of one bottle left instead of the two I should have, she said she couldn’t do nothing. We had to take the drug when they said so. Not more than they said. Not ever.
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