The Second Jam

by Lila Felix

  As soon as I got to the place I wanted kids to call their second home, I went inside and waited. Zuri got in sometime later and claimed that the cleaning service had a cable guy timetable. Meaning they would be here sometime between that morning and the apocalypse—give or take an hour.

  My laptop was open and I was obsessing about the things that had to be done by the end of the month when my phone rang again.

  “Who the hell is Cyrus?” I laughed as she pronounced Cyrus with a Spanish accent, so it came out like See-Rus. And that reminded me of a walrus.

  “It’s Cyrus.” I pronounced it correctly. She flipped me off in response.

  “Hello?”

  “Beatriz. This is Cyrus.” It was all I could do not to say duh. His voice rolled over my spine like a warm caress.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Well, yes and no. I need some help with something—with the paperwork I was given to fill out.”

  As he spoke more and more, the sheer strength in his tone faded. In my experience, when people needed help, their personalities faded with the vulnerability, like the weakness was pulling them under water.

  “I think Peter comes in at lunch. He can help you.”

  I swore I heard him say the F word after putting a hand over his phone.

  “Look, I know you and Peter are close, but the guy gives me the creeps. It will only take you five minutes to set me straight.” When I didn’t answer, I could almost sense the agitation rise in him. “I’ll come to you—whenever you have time and wherever you are. Just—just don’t make me face the suit.”

  I couldn’t help myself. A giggle broke through my façade of seriousness. Peter was the epitome of the suit. One day with my dad and Cyrus had him nailed to the briefcase.

  “Fine. Look, just tell Peter, if he comes today, that you left the papers at home. I’ll meet you at the shop tonight at about six and we’ll figure this out. No sweat.”

  I said no sweat as though I was trying to soothe him. Maybe I was bi-polar. One minute an icicle, the next minute a thumb-sucker.

  “Thank you. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

  “I have to go. See you tonight.”

  He hung up, but before he did I knew he was already at work. My father’s mariachi music could be heard for miles and miles. That’s what he named the shop, Miles and Miles. He claimed that my mother’s cooking could lure people from miles and miles. His music could be heard for miles and miles—and, of course, the reference to the cars.

  When he gave my mom a diamond ring for their anniversary, the inside was engraved with miles and miles.

  Sometimes I was grateful that my mom passed before his mind began to fail. I’d gladly take on that burden so that she didn’t have to witness the man that she’d loved since she was fourteen slowly succumb to a ruthless illness. Her heart would break over and over every time he didn’t remember her.

  I barely remembered that Zuri was right next to me when I came out of my thoughts.

  “Why are your mejias red?” One day Zuri would either speak Spanish or English. But when she was with me, she spoke Spanglish. She mashed words together and added an era or os to the end. Like Lunchamos—what she meant was let’s go to lunch. The thing was, there was no such verb as lunchar in the Spanish language. If an outsider heard us speaking, they probably wouldn’t be able to pinpoint a single language we spoke.

  I pressed the back of my hand to my cheeks and found they were hot to the touch.

  “My cheeks are red because I was on the phone. You know how I am on the phone.”

  She swirled a finger into her cup of coffee. “Your cheeks don’t get red when you talk to your dad…” Goading—that’s what she was doing to me. She was the only one that was allowed to do that.

  “He’s hot, okay? Doesn’t mean anything. I don’t have time for anything else.”

  She shrugged and both of us got up at the knock at the door. “Maybe,” She was taking her time on purpose so that I couldn’t retaliate in front of anyone. “Maybe you need to make time.”

  When Zuri said she’d hired a crew, she meant an entire crew. Fifteen men and women, all dressed as though they were going into an industrial waste site, filed in and immediately got to work.

  “Why don’t you go help, Cyrus? I’ve paid them to disinfect and clean the entire building, top to bottom.”

  I gasped. It was too much to receive, even from my dearest friend. “You can’t afford that.”

  “Please, chica. You don’t know what’s in my bolsas.”

  She was right. I had no idea what was in her pockets. “Okay, I give up. How long before I can come back?”

  She tapped a pointer finger on her chin in fake pensiveness. “How about all day? I will see you tomorrow and not a minute sooner.”

  My entire body relaxed at hearing her say that. She knew exactly what I needed and had the timing of a clock.

  “Are you sure? I won’t even know what to do with myself.”

  She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth and started toward the door, probably to force me out. “I’m sure Cyrus can help you figure that out.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Get out of here. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day.”

  Finally, after mentally freaking out, I relented. “Thank you.” I said, throwing my arms around her shoulders.

  “You’re welcome. You owe me, big time. Save me from Nellie and those drills.”

  “Anything for you.”

  I drove through a coffee shop and picked up four coffees before heading to the shop. There was always coffee in the shop, but it tasted and looked like the used oil they drained out of cars. Walking into the shop was like entering the house on a Sunday morning. One morning I’d gone to check on him, on a whim and he’d lost his keys and never gone home. After that, I had to make sure that Pedro left after him.

  The keys were in the pocket of his coveralls.

  I could tell by the clanking that this was a good morning. My father not only had the music cranked up, but he was singing along with a crescent wrench as his microphone. I knew that Pedro got irritated by the volume of the music, but being an unemployed cousin had quickly remedied him of his aversion. I stuck my head around the corner and looked for Cyrus. He was already chest-deep in a car and couldn’t look more comfortable. A slight smile grew as my dad belted out a lament of times gone in his native language. If you asked him where he was from, he’d say Texas. If you asked him who he was, he resounded a loud Mexicano.

  Then my dad took to serenading me when the next song came on. Here I thought I was so smooth sneaking in.

  If Zuri thought my face was red before, it was a blaring apple red as my dad sang to me and made me dance, coffees in hand. But I wouldn’t deny him—it may be one thing that he remembers of me. This may be a chance to drill a memory into his brain. It wasn’t a chance I would take.

  “Tu cara es como mi Josepha.” My dad’s rough and shaking hand touched my chin. These moments, the ones that came less and less over time were the ones that I now lived for. These were the things I would remember. And today? Him telling me that I had the face of my mother? That was definitely a keeper.

  “I brought coffee.” The only reason I chose to break the moment was because of Cyrus’ presence.

  “You’re the best, Beatriz.” I hoped Cyrus didn’t notice the correlation between my dad using my whole name and him doing the same. I didn’t want him to think that it was an automatic in.

  There were no automatic ins with me.

  “Cyrus? I got you one too, when you have a minute. And I brought the extra key to the apartment. I can show you around, if you’d like.”

  He nodded. As he did, the color drained from his face. Whatever was bothering him ran a lot deeper than paperwork. I just knew it.

  “Go now. He needs coffee anyway. I asked him to dance and he refused!” My dad declared, acting appalled at the idea of someone not wanting to dance with him.

&nbs
p; “Come on,” I motioned to the apartment above the garage. “We’ll see what I need to get rid of before you move in.”

  The stairs to get into the apartment were outside of the garage. My parents had lived there before they could afford a home and for my dad to offer it to Cyrus said a lot.

  “I really need to know the rent before I commit to living here.” Halfway up the stairs, he decided to ask.

  “Look. This place has been a refuge for our family. There’s no mortgage on it. Consider it payback. I was really worried about my dad being here alone. This way I don’t have to worry and you can keep an eye on the place at night.”

  What I really wanted to say was that maybe it would help him get on his feet again. I didn’t know his financial situation, but if he’d been unemployed and concerned about a place to live, it couldn’t be good.

  “I can’t stay here for free. I’d feel like a mooch.”

  “Then consider it part of your pay. Whatever makes you able to stay here and keep your jaws shut about the damned rent. When I say there’s no rent, there’s no rent.”

  “Wow. You make doing something nice sound like work.”

  I stopped right there, perched on the top step and glared at him. It didn’t last long. He was smiling as bright as could be and it broke me.

  “Do I?”

  I asked even though it wasn’t the first time I’d been hinted at that I was less than hospitable.

  “You’re a little harsh.”

  Somehow, him telling me that I was harsh softened me.

  “I’m sorry.” Scaling the rest of the stairs, I unlocked the door and welcomed him inside. The place was sparse, but it was meant to be. It still held the bed and dresser that I’d slept on when I lived there. It was musty with a film of the cheap perfume I used to wear in college. One whiff and I was reminded of a carefree time.

  “So, this is it. I’m not sure what you have already. I can leave it all, or take it all out and put it in storage. Whatever you need.”

  Even though I’d deny it to the hills, I was forcing my voice to sound kind. It probably sounded pervy.

  “I actually have been sleeping on a blow up bed. A real bed would be a nice change.”

  “Sure. Now, while we are up here, what’s the deal with the forms? There’s something you don’t understand?”

  He cleared his throat and pulled the folded up forms from his pocket along with a pencil. It struck me as strange. I couldn’t name a single adult who still used a pencil.

  “I got the first one fine. I think. But this one, it says taxes, right?”

  A rock settled in the pit of my stomach when he asked me the question. As soon as it dropped, I began refuting the assumption. This was a smart guy who could obviously fix cars like no one’s business.

  He needed glasses. That must be it. It has to be.

  “Yes. Taxes.” I took the forms from him and inspected what he’d filled out so far. His handwriting wasn’t very much advanced from an elementary student. Then again, neither was any man’s that I knew. Hell, Zuri’s handwriting took an archaeologist to interpret—the girl wrote in straight up hieroglyphics.

  His last name was Black, like Scout’s. It had to be a coincidence. There were tons of people named Black in a city as big as New Orleans.

  “Okay, so this is just asking if you are single or married.”

  He canted his head at me, holding up his left hand, absent of a ring.

  “Single. This is where it gets hairy. Do you want any extra taxes taken out of your check?”

  “No. Don’t they take enough?”

  I laughed and proceeded. The rest of the form required zeroes and A’s and B’s to fit the appropriate situation. A question loomed in my mind, but I was too afraid to face the answer.

  “Don’t make that face.” He whispered and took the completed forms from my grasp.

  “I’m not making a face.”

  “Come on, you’re an open book.” I gasped at his audacity. I was an open book to no one. In fact, I considered it my life’s mission to be the opposite of an open book. An open bitch, sure, but there was no way he knew me that well already.

  “Really?” I stood, resting my fist on my hip. “What’s this face say?” I pushed my glasses up my nose in an act of defiance. It didn’t come off half as bad ass as I wanted it to.

  He met my gaze and held it before finally relenting. I almost hoped I didn’t win.

  “Let’s just get this over with. I can’t read well, okay? I know the basics and I’ve memorized most of the words I need to get by in life. But other than that, I’m screwed. But it doesn’t stop me from working on cars or actually anything that’s considered a machine. So wipe the pity off your face.”

  “There’s no pity here. So, here’s your key. Make sure Peter gets those forms or else you don’t get paid. Let me know if you need anything else. How—how do you text?”

  “The chick in the phone.”

  He meant voice texting.

  There was so much pity that I was nearly swallowed up by it. A guy like that? He was built like he could pick up my car with one hand and my dad didn’t allow just anyone to work with him. He had to know his shit. So how did he manage to survive all this time without knowing how to read?

  I darted out of the apartment and down the stairs before I could let any more of my damned feelings show. For someone who was supposed to be well versed in helping people, I’d just committed a social worker felony—letting the shit affect me.

  After a rushed goodbye to my dad, I jumped into my car and headed to the one place where it didn’t matter who I was or what mistakes I’d made. On that rink, I was Beatz ‘Em Down. A girl who didn’t have any cares in the world except stopping the girl with the star on her head from getting past me. It was easy—that’s why I loved it. I had one goal—stop that girl.

  The rink was equal ground for all those who sought her comfort.

  Zuri had told me to relax, and yet, two hours later, I was making my hundredth round around the track. My calves burned and my knees were numb. I zeroed in on the turn low and slow, like I’d done a million times, but distracted by my own thoughts, I ended up with my hip and the rink having an intimate fight that the rink won by a landslide.

  “Shit!” I screamed at the empty place, looking under my shorts, surveying the damage.

  Instead of getting up and finishing the workout, I bitched out, right there in the middle of the turn, unlacing my skates and walking to the outside in my socks like a wuss.

  I hung my torso over the railing, exhausted and refusing to let myself be forgiven for how I’d handled the situation with Cyrus. Here I was, working on opening a place where kids could be taught skills to handle life situations and I couldn’t even have an adult conversation with a guy about something that was probably an anchor constantly pulling him down in life.

  If I couldn’t even handle the people in my life, how in the hell was I supposed to handle a group of kids from my neighborhood?

  Kids like Cyrus were the reason I’d begun the place. Kids that had lost themselves in the fray. Yet, there I was, in front of an opportunity to help someone and I’d choked.

  Looking around the place, the exposed steel beams and the smell of used skates, I felt like home. Maybe home was the problem. Not skating, but consistently placing myself in the comfort zone. I kicked the partition between the rink and the spectators thinking that I still had my skates on, only to remember that I’d taken them off in a fury. Toe pain is like no other.

  Someone give me strength. I can’t even hold my own.

  I slumped down, cradling my foot in a cloud of curse words. I thumped the back of my head against the same offender of my toe and trying to tamp down the idea brewing in my head. Cyrus didn’t bullshit me. I knew that much. Maybe he could be my guinea pig of sorts. I could help him with reading and he could tell me how to be nice.

  I mean, I knew how to be nice. It’s just that my tone of voice and facial expressions never showed it.

>   Damned face.

  The thing was, he was so touchy about the whole thing. I couldn’t blame him. It must’ve been tough to go through life not being able to decipher words.

  I didn’t have time for anything else in my life.

  Said the worst social worker ever.

  Crawling on my hands and knees, I reached for my bag and dug out my phone. I rolled my eyes at my hesitation. It was his own fault. It was his eyes. There was a kindness in them that curled around me and squeezed, no matter how much I wiggled. It was also my curiosity about such a kind person.

  Peter had been the opposite of Cyrus. He watched my every move. He asked where I was going, who would be there and when I would be back. If I did go out with Zuri, he’d text me every fifteen minutes under the disguise of checking on me. He made fun of my clothes. He’d demanded I never cut my hair while pseudo-lovingly stroking it.

  And I’d fallen for it.

  Biting down on my lip, I sent the message.

  I just hoped his kindness extended to me clearly not minding my own business.

  Chapter Eight

  Cyrus

  I didn’t bother looking around the place much before heading back down to the garage. Jacob was under the car he was working on and talking to someone. It wasn’t a rare thing for a mechanic to make conversation with whatever he was working with—bitching it out for not working well. It wasn’t him bitching. He was talking to someone with an endearing tone—in Spanish.

  It struck me as strange, but I shrugged it off. It was none of my business and whoever he was talking to didn’t inhibit his work or mine.

  The rest of the day was spent finishing up the rebuild of an engine with Jacob’s help. Peter never showed up for the paperwork that he seemed to have held in such high regard which was fine by me. I didn’t care for the prick. Something about his demeanor just rubbed me the wrong way.

  After the shift was over, I asked Jacob if it was okay that I went ahead and moved my stuff into the apartment. He agreed, and I was grateful. This way, I avoided the run in with the landlord. I would leave the key in an envelope on his door. It was a chicken shit move, but all I had in my bag of tricks seemed to be chicken shit moves.