by Adam Berlin
When I walked up the ramp Gary was talking and Lou was laughing. They were arguing about which was a better car for the city, a Jaguar or a Porsche. Gary was insisting a Jaguar since it was made in England and the English were experts on traffic congestion. He waited for Lou to ask him how come. He used to do that to my brother and me, direct us to wherever he wanted us to go. Lou said How come on cue. Gary explained it was because the Brit car manufacturers had stick shifts shoved so far up their assholes that they knew about congestion first hand. Gary asked if Lou had ever seen a relaxed Englishman and Lou said he didn’t know whether he’d seen any kind of Englishman. Lou started reciting statistics about horsepower and zero to sixty accelerations and Gary kept shaking his head no and saying Jaguar.
It was cold and Gary’s breath came fast and smoky. He always breathed hard but I usually heard it and didn’t see it. No other cars came in. There was always a lull right after six-thirty and then later there was supposedly a small rush of people coming out from dinner but by that time I was off and the night crew was on. A man walked over with his ticket at the ready. It was Lou’s turn.
“I’ll prove it to you in a minute.”
“You can’t prove anything,” Gary said.
“Jaguars break down all the time, man.”
“No they don’t,” Gary said.
“They’re legendary for breaking down.”
“No they’re not.”
“I’ve seen the numbers.”
“No you haven’t. The numbers say Jaguars ride faster and smoother and quieter. And they’re definitely better looking.”
Gary smiled victorious.
Lou took the man’s ticket and went jogging down the ramp. Berger walked up the ramp and moved off to the side to light another cigarette. Caparello was inside the booth protecting all his money. He was staring at Gary and he didn’t like it that I was talking on his time but he didn’t say anything. Caparello could be a prick, especially in bad weather when people took public transportation to work and his money drawer was a little lighter.
“When did you speak to my parents?” I said.
“I called them yesterday to see how everyone was doing and they said you were still at the garage. They sounded real proud.”
“Their dreams for me have come true.”
“By the way, congratulations on your graduation.”
“Thanks. How are you doing?”
“Great.”
He was ten years older than me. His father was my father’s older brother. Growing up, my brother Derek and I had always been in awe of Cousin Gary. He didn’t take anything seriously and we thought that was a fine trait in an adult. We were entranced by his larger-than-life frame and his larger-than-life stories. He was a fuckup according to all the adults I knew who knew him. He’d dropped out of college with three credits needed to graduate. He’d been arrested for passing bad checks, cuffed in front of his house, the most embarrassing time in my uncle’s life, my uncle said. He’d spent a month in jail for tax evasion, an experience he described enthusiastically since everyone inside played cards.
Gary was a professional gambler. My brother and I begged to stay up past our bedtimes so we could listen to his stories of easy money. Tales of good days at the racetrack, well placed bets on the World Series, running football pools with entry fees of a thousand bucks a head, casino nights in Atlantic City, junket trips to Las Vegas where he put up all his friends in first class hotels with names like Caesars, Circus Circus, the MGM Grand. His success was measured by the meals he treated me and Derek to when he visited our house. Gary would sneak out in the afternoons with us in tow, my brother and I making sure to run out the side door and not the front, keep our heads low in his car until we were out of the driveway. He would buy feasts of food. Five different kinds of pizzas ordered at a time. Family sized buckets of fried chicken at Kentucky Fried. Banana splits at Friendly’s for dessert. Bags of potato chips and popcorn for the five-minute drive home. My brother would squeeze his head between the two front seats, Gary driving and me in the passenger seat. Derek would look at me, puff out his cheeks, and say I’m stuffed. We’d laugh painfully, our guts bursting from all the food we’d eaten, and the good thing about Gary was that he’d laugh too.
By the time I started to wrestle in high school I had to watch what I ate but by then, as he got older and we got older, Gary visited less and less. I told my brother it was because he grew tired of my dad asking him questions that his own parents did not ask him. After each of Gary’s visits my parents would deflate all the myths of gambling while we sat around the dinner table. They told us how Gary’s stories about winning were only the tip of the iceberg, that there were far more stories of losing, we could be sure of that, and just because Gary talked big and drove expensive cars, cars that were being leased and not owned outright by the way, didn’t mean a thing. They told us how Gary’s father, our uncle, had lost half his savings to pay off Gary’s debts. My dad would then ask us why we weren’t eating and my mom would say Gary had taken us out.
Lou got out of the car, pocketed the tip and came over.
“I still say the Porsche is a better city car.”
“Jaguar,” Gary said.
“They have more muscle.”
“Less muscle,” Gary said, shaking his head for my benefit.
They were like two kids.
“I’ll tell you the best city car I ever had,” Gary said. “When I was in high school I had this beat up Chevy Celebrity that I bought for eighty bucks. I remember because the guy wanted two hundred for it and I bargained him down so well that the guy was convinced he was the one making out. The back windows were smashed in and the locks were busted. All the upholstery was cracked and there was more rust than paint on the thing. But it was my first car and it drove great and I never had to worry about smashing into anybody. I used to drive into the city with my friends all the time. If someone parked too close to me on the street, I’d smash my car into theirs before I left the space. If someone cut me off, I’d hit them at the next stoplight and drive away. Sometimes I’d find guys sleeping in the backseat when the car was parked for a while.”
“What did you do?” Lou said.
“I woke them up. I didn’t care. I wanted to get the full eighty bucks worth of use out of it. Forget Jaguars and Porsches, that was the best city car. It was so beat up it didn’t matter what happened.”
“My first car was a Valiant,” Lou said.
“What year?”
“Seventy-one.”
“The seventy-one Valiant. I just read about those in Consumer Reports. They said the seventy-one Valiant sucked.”
Lou started laughing. Time was up. The two guys for the night shift punched in and I punched out. I cashed in my money for bigger bills, told Mr. Caparello he was my cousin when he asked who the fat guy was, walked down the ramp, washed my hands and face in the bathroom, looked at myself in the broken mirror to make sure there were no grease marks streaking my cheek or forehead, got Gary’s Jaguar, drove it up the ramp. Mr. Caparello let me through without having to pay but he ruined it when he kept his eyes on mine lest I forget his momentous gesture.
I left the keys in the ignition and got out of the car. Lou handed Gary his business card and told him if he ever needed a good mechanic to swing by Bay Ridge, that he’d cut him a deal even if it was a Jaguar. People always wanted to connect with Gary. Lou made sure to shake hands. Berger walked past in his white shirt, thin tie, overcoat and hat, didn’t say good night, never said good night, glanced at Gary, crossed the street in the direction of the bar. Gary tried giving me twenty bucks for getting his car but I told him I didn’t want it. He worked himself into the driver’s seat, no small task, and I got into the passenger’s seat just like old times and we drove uptown through the downtown streets.
“We’ll go to Katz’s,” Gary said. “I’m in the mood for delicatessen.”
He weaved through the traffic, pulled up short of the car in front of him at the red light
, broke loose when the light turned green and caught all the lights all the way to Canal. I sat back and enjoyed the drive, enjoyed the way New York looked from a car window, passing by fast, like the whole city was there for the taking. Gary was a great driver. He didn’t move his head at all, just used the mirrors to full advantage. The car still smelled new. There was a crumpled bag of potato chips and some Snickers and PayDay wrappers on the floor and some Hershey’s Kisses foils with the white line of plastic that said HERSHEY’S.
We found a space a block from Houston and I waited on the sidewalk while Gary worked himself out of the car. He was breathing heavy and the smoke from his breath was exaggerated by the streetlight above. We walked into Katz’s, took the price tickets the guy handed us that looked like movie theater stubs. I followed Gary to the hot dog section.
“Pick me up a pastrami sandwich and a corned beef sandwich and get whatever you want. I’ll get some hot dogs. You want hot dogs or knockwursts?”
“A hot dog’s good,” I said.
“You want two?”
“One’s good.”
“Get the sandwiches and meet me at that table.”
The sandwich line was smaller than the hot dog line and the old man carved me off a slice of pastrami to try. I gave him the buck in my pocket I always kept separate for my afterwork beer. I asked for two pastrami sandwiches and one corned beef. I watched the old man spear the meat with a fork and slice it with quick knife strokes. He put the plates on the counter and circled the price on the ticket. A sign above him read SEND A SALAMI TO YOUR BOY IN THE ARMY. When I got back to the table Gary was already eating, a full plate of hot dogs and another plate with two knockwursts placed between his fat arms.
“Great,” Gary said. “Pick up a couple orders of fries and some sodas. I’ll have a Coke.”
The man circled the price on my ticket, handed over the tray with fries, two glasses of ice, a can of Coke and a can of black cherry soda.
“Best hot dogs in the city,” Gary said.
He finished one in three bites and went to work on a knockwurst.
“You like ketchup on your fries?”
“I do.”
“Put some on.”
He was too busy eating. I put ketchup on the fries and finished my hot dog. People walking by with their plates looking for a table stopped to look at Gary, the fat guy with all that food. I felt invisible next to him until I caught the eye of a girl sitting two tables over and she smiled and I smiled back. She looked familiar but I wasn’t sure which bar I’d seen her in. Maybe Max Fish down the street or the Verkhovyna Tavern or the Holiday Cocktail Lounge or at 2A, the bars I started at on Friday nights to finish the cleansing process of a full week’s work, after the shower, after the usual pasta with garlic and oil I made for myself, after a nap, rest important to keep me strong for the night.
Gary reached for one of the pastrami sandwiches, spread mustard on it, took a bite.
“So how’s it going?”
“It’s going fine,” I said.
“Your dad didn’t sound too happy with you parking cars for a living.”
“He’s not too happy with a lot that I do.”
“I told him not to worry. I told him you’d grow out of it.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s your brother doing?”
“He’s doing the way he always does. He’s at Harvard getting straight A’s.”
“At least your folks have him.”
Gary smiled, just joking, but I wasn’t in the mood. Every time I spoke to my parents I heard about my brother’s successes at school. My dad would force himself to ask me about work at the garage and then he’d tell me about Derek at Harvard like that would make me rethink my own life. When I called home, I called before I worked out. It was better than stretching. After the phone call, my muscles were filled with blood.
“We’re a lot alike, me and you,” Gary said. “I’ve always felt that way.”
“Why is that?”
“We do what we want. We’re free spirits. I respect you for not taking the first good job offer that came your way right out of college.”
“I didn’t have any job offers.”
There had been sign-up sheets at the Career Development Office during my senior year. I went to some interviews but I saw the faces change when they looked over my résumé and asked about my academic achievements. At first I tried to explain how time-consuming the wrestling season was. Then I stopped bothering. Then I showed up at an interview wearing my wrestling uniform so the recruiter would see where my effort had gone. My shoulders were more square, my arms were more defined, my stomach was flatter and my hands were stronger than the soft body asking me questions. That was my last interview.
“There’s nothing wrong with taking time off,” Gary said. “Don’t worry what anybody else says. Fuck them. You see me worrying?”
“I don’t see enough of you to know.”
“I’m not worried what people think. They look at me like I’m a fat pig. I don’t care. Some people look at me like I’m not stable, like I’m doing something wrong, leading the wrong kind of life. I don’t care about that either. I don’t worry about it. That’s real strength.”
Gary took time out from his sandwich to wash the big statements down with his Coke.
“Look at me,” he said. “Everyone I know loves to hear about what I do for a living even if they don’t approve. They love all my stories and try to match me with their own low stakes escapades. It’s baby shit, but it’s their way of bucking the system. They all want to sound like they’re rebels, but they’re full of shit. They’d never trade their lives for mine. Never. They don’t have the balls to take a big chance and see what comes along.”
“I don’t gamble either.”
There had been sports betting all over campus but the coach warned us against gambling. He didn’t so much care that it was against school policy but that it cut into the integrity of sports. Sports were pure. Wrestling was the purest.
“I’m not just saying money gambling,” Gary said. “You’re taking your own chances, I’m taking mine. How long have you been at your job?”
“A little over a year.”
“Are you sick of it yet?”
“I’ll give myself to the summer and see what I’m feeling then.”
“How does your boss treat you?”
“He pays me.”
“He looked like he really values your work. You want some of this sandwich?”
“No thanks. I’m full.”
Gary opened the corned beef sandwich, spread mustard on it.
“They have great corned beef here. Not as good as the Carnegie, but I was in the mood for hot dogs.”
I drank some black cherry soda. I didn’t have to puff out my cheeks and pretend. I was stuffed. Gary’s eating slowed. He finished the sandwich, ate the other knockwurst, asked if I was done with my side of fries and finished those. He looked at the table and I followed his eyes to see what he saw and it was like surveying the damage at a car wreck, plates all over the place, drops of mustard and ketchup, a stray sliver of french fry, crisped beyond gold. There was no room for Gary to lean back in the small chair but if there had been he would have. He looked content.
“You want anything else?”
He meant it too. From my aunt, I’d heard about the meals he bought his friends, how there would be three delivery trucks at a time running food to the house while the guys sat around the living room and watched sports.
“No thanks.”
“You sure? Another hot dog?”
“I can hardly walk,” I said.
“You don’t need to. I’ve got a car.”
Gary smiled. He found the piece of french fry on the table, mostly grease really, picked it up in his small fingers and ate it.
“What would you say to quitting your job?” Gary said.
“What for?”
“What would you say to it?”
“Did my dad put you up to that que
stion?”
“No. I’m on your side.”
“Why should I quit?”
“I can give you a couple of reasons. Exhaust fumes are very bad for your health. Your boss sits in a glass booth like some war criminal. You have to deal with annoying customers the whole day. I’m sure you want to punch them. Or pin them. You still working out? You look in shape.”
“I work out.”
“I’m sorry I never saw you wrestle.”
“Not many people did.”
“You should have gone to college in Russia. Then you would have had crowds.”
“I wish I had seen Grandpa wrestle. He must have been good.”
“I bet he was,” Gary said. “Good enough where your dad had to jump on his back to keep him from throwing the landlord down the incinerator.”
“I know that story. My dad was still a kid.”
“Grandpa was always looking out for the family.”
“He was.”
I could hear my grandfather’s voice. For the family. Family is first. I had to work for the family. I did it for the family. My grandfather’s clipped sentences as firm as his beliefs.
“He would have loved watching you wrestle.”
Gary spun the empty soda can around on the table. He was always doing something with his hands if he wasn’t eating. I remembered he used to bring a ball with him when he visited us, a pink rubber ball, and he’d toss it in the air and catch it between his middle and index fingers. As soon as he left, Derek and I practiced until we could do it too. The Coke logo spun and came to a standstill, the red side facing me.
“I’m taking a trip to Vegas,” Gary said. “Why don’t you join me?”
“What am I going to do in Las Vegas?”
“I’ll give you some spending money.”
“I have spending money.”
“It’s great there. Great food. Beautiful women. There’s no place like it.”