Paint It Yellow

by López, Andrés G.

  Copyright © 2018 Andrés G. López

  Published by Iguana Books

  720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  M5S 2R4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Editor: Paula Chiarcos

  Front cover image: Andre Benz

  Front cover design: Daniella Postavsky

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77180-274-1 (paperback).– 978-1-77180-275-8 (EPUB).–

  ISBN 978-1-77180-276-5 (Kindle)

  This is an original ebook edition of Paint it Yellow.

  To my mother and father, for bringing me to America, encouraging my schooling, and supporting all my creative endeavors.

  And to my children, Andy and Catherine, for being an inspiration in everything I do.

  ‘Go, little book, from this my solitude!

  I cast thee on the waters—go thy ways!

  And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,

  The world will find thee after many days.’

  George Gordon, Lord Byron

  — Don Juan, Canto I, CCXXII

  CHAPTER 1

  October 24, 1981

  Gabriel Brosa sat in his yellow Chevy Impala taxi cab and sipped a hot cup of coffee. He waited in front of the Waldorf Astoria at 6:20 a.m. for an airport run to get his Saturday morning started. He didn’t like working Saturday or Sunday mornings because they were too slow, and it was hard to make money. Most mornings, the line moved quickly in front of this hotel, but you could never predict where your fares were going — you might wait for an hour and wind up with a short trip to some West Village coffee shop. But Gabriel knew that whatever the trip, he would take it. The worst thing was to decline or give the doorman a hard time, because if he did he’d be thrown off the line from then on. Doormen didn’t forget troublesome cabbies. They understood and they expected cabbies to understand that everything in this business depended on luck — whether you got a long or short run, or whether you got tipped the typical dollar, or a ten or twenty.

  Occasionally, Gabriel used this downtime to join fellow cabbies in conversation, but most often he read. He’d just finished Camus’s The Stranger and though he’d found Stuart Gilbert’s translation poetic, the existentialist core of it seemed morbid to a kid who’d been raised Roman Catholic. Its scenes disturbed him, especially the opening one — Meursault’s mother’s funeral. Meursault’s confrontation with the priest while in prison also sat heavily on Gabriel’s mind. It made no sense that someone so close to death would refuse the hope offered by another — especially a priest.

  Today, Gabriel was reading In Cold Blood by Capote. His best friend and fellow cabby, James Salvatore, said it was the best damned book he’d ever read. The line was moving now and Gabriel put his book down, started the Impala and inched up. Several suitcases had been brought to the curb. He checked to make sure his back seat was clean, then tucked his book into the bag beside him, took a few sips of coffee and waited.

  The doorman was a middle-aged Irishman named John Murphy. He was dressed impeccably — white shirt, maroon bowtie and jacket, long black woolen coat, its pockets stuffed with wads of cash. With his conductor-like cap and round spectacles with their thick lenses, Murphy looked like Captain James Joyce sailing out of Dublin for Paris. Murphy was kind to him because Gabriel was polite and took whatever fare was in store with a smile and a thank-you.

  Murphy whistled for his cab and Gabriel saw his fare, an older gentleman dressed in an expensive suit and carrying a brown briefcase. Gabriel welcomed him and waited for the man to announce his destination. From experience, he expected an address in the downtown financial district. But the man didn’t speak. Murphy tapped on the front passenger window and Gabriel lowered it.

  “You know the fastest way to Newark Airport?”

  Gabriel nodded. “Lincoln Tunnel, then the Pike to exit 15.”

  “It’s a quarter to seven,” Murphy said. “Mr. Johnson has a flight at ten. Continental Airlines terminal.”

  “I’ll get him there. Probably before eight. Does he know about—”

  “Yes, I told him you have to come back empty. He knows about the double meter. Go easy.”

  “Thanks. Have a nice morning, Mr. Murphy.”

  “You too, kid.”

  Gabriel couldn’t believe his luck. A trip to Newark would be about forty bucks without the tip and double fare, so if he hustled back to the city he could have eighty bucks minimum before noon. Not a bad way to start the day, Gabriel thought, as he drove toward the West Side.

  His passenger became absorbed in his newspaper as soon as they left the Waldorf. Gabriel didn’t mind the silence, though he enjoyed talking to his fares. Today he would content himself with the empty city streets (which sure beat the ordinary weekday traffic) and the sunshine, which made city buildings look majestic. While waiting at red lights, Gabriel could study the older structures, the window reliefs and impressive entrances almost everywhere he looked. But soon he contended with the sickly tunnel light in the Lincoln and the stale air and diesel fumes permeated in the once-white tiles.

  Gabriel raced down the Jersey Turnpike mouthing Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” When he pulled up to the curb of Continental Airlines at 7:50, his passenger read $38.40 on the trip meter and handed Gabriel four twenties and a ten, then stepped out of his life forever.

  Once back in Manhattan, Gabriel maneuvered his cab toward 23rd Street, one of his favorites because he loved the Flatiron Building on the corner of Broadway and Fifth. On this day, with its lucrative start, he slowed as he passed, looked up at its amazing narrow windows with old curved glass and appreciated how the sunlight played on the clear surfaces. The bright light reflected so purely off those high windows that Gabriel imagined it was the entrance to a heavenly city and that somewhere behind the resplendent glass, God’s face stared down at the wayward actions of humans. It didn’t take long for this fantasy to disappear as Gabriel spotted a possible fare on the far corner of Madison and 23rd and he moved toward the middle-aged couple waiting there. But no sooner had he sped up than a Checker cab cut him off and took his ride uptown. This day had started out too well for Gabriel to get angry, so he shrugged it off and continued on, expecting other fares a few blocks ahead.

  But no passengers materialized and for the next seventeen blocks, an eerie quiet pervaded the avenue. Ordinarily, there would be more people, even close to Midtown. And then as he approached 40th Street, he saw flashing police and ambulance lights in the distance — on the southern corner of Madison and 42nd. A police officer gestured for Gabriel to slow down, then waved him on. For the next two very long blocks, both his taxicab and his brain moved in slow motion and got slower the closer he got to the flashing lights.

  Gabriel didn’t immediately understand what was unfolding before him. But then he saw it — a white sheet covering a body on the street. It lay behind a police cruiser parked horizontally near the corner of 42nd, on the southwest side. Then Gabriel saw an older man in a white apron being led toward the body. He couldn’t take his eyes off of him as the man kneeled and the officer lifted the sheet to reveal the bloodied chest of a boy. As the man’s hands reached for the sky, Gabriel heard his agonized scream.

  Gabriel shook off the paralysis that seized him — and had almost brought his cab to a halt — to obey the police officer wa
ving him across 42nd Street. In his rearview mirror, Gabriel saw the bereaved man struggle to rise and then fall to his knees, his fingers knotted atop his head and his hands pressed down on his skull.

  Gabriel drove on aimlessly but then found his way to 51st and Fifth Avenue where he parked outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Then he closed his eyes and began to pray: “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee …”

  An hour and a half later, Gabriel still sat in his cab. When he looked at his watch, it was almost eleven. He pulled into traffic, took a few fares, but could not work much after that so he drove downtown with his “Off Duty” light on, turned in his cab and went home.

  On Sunday, while waiting in line at the Regency, Gabriel read an article in The New York Times that explained the crime scene. Witnesses stated that a gunman had gone on a fifteen-minute, two-block rampage down Madison Avenue, shooting indiscriminately at cars and pedestrians. The gunman was still at large. A seventeen-year-old boy delivering donuts for his father’s shop was hit by two or three bullets and killed — the man Gabriel had seen was the boy’s father. The young man’s life had ended twenty yards from his father’s shop.

  Gabriel thought of Camus’s universe, devoid of meaning, and how unlucky that boy had been and how close he’d come himself to being on that corner at precisely the moment the gunman had opened fire.

  He had a poor, forgettable day moneywise — not even clearing thirty dollars after twelve hours. Instead of returning to his apartment in Bayside, he stayed at his father’s place in Astoria and spent most of the evening talking to his father and brother about what he’d seen. Before going to sleep, Gabriel did something he’d never done — he kissed his father, Daniel, on the forehead and thanked him for being good to him.

  CHAPTER 2

  In the weeks that followed, Gabriel thought of the dead boy often, prayed for his soul daily as he’d been taught to and did his best to believe that God was there and heard him. The murder did not leave his mind. While waiting on hotel lines, he read In Cold Blood, the story of the brutal murders of the Clutter family twenty-two years earlier; Gabriel wondered how Capote could stomach researching the story’s details, befriending Perry Smith while trying to make sense of his senseless crime. When he’d finished the novel, Gabriel knew it was a book that would endure, but just like The Stranger, its starkness deflated his spirit and sunk him further. Like Camus, Capote had carved a slice from Gabriel’s hopeful heart and thrust human misery’s weight upon him like the crushing stone punishment at a Puritan witch trial.

  On Monday, Gabriel found himself in Elmhurst, Queens at 11:00 a.m. At that hour, he would usually drive to a delicatessen in the West Village, order the special of the day and eat in his cab while watching people move to their mysterious destinations. But not today. The sun was behaving strangely; it kept trying to hide behind clouds that continued to elude it. Before entering the Midtown Tunnel, Gabriel sensed that the sky would darken and the rain would come. But when he exited and dashed away from the delivery trucks and their black smoke plumes, the sun was still there, imposing itself on a pale blue sky. Gabriel let his passenger off at the Queens mall, drove his cab down Queens Boulevard, made a left onto Grand Avenue, and headed into Maspeth. He didn’t look for a fare back to the city. He felt like taking a break, getting a cup of coffee, seeing if he could get rid of the sick feeling in his stomach.

  He parked his cab on the avenue and as he strolled toward the corner deli, he recognized a worker climbing down a telephone pole. Mr. Jones was his old friend Matt’s dad; he had regularly driven Gabriel and Matt to their softball games. Thrilled to see this figure from his past, Gabriel quickened his pace and called to him.

  Mr. Jones was now close to fifty but he looked much younger — his clean-shaven face was devoid of wrinkles and his wavy blonde hair was full but neatly cut. He wore the standard blue-gray phone company uniform with a heavy tool belt loose on his hips.

  “Can I help you?”

  Gabriel had changed a great deal since middle school; he was still thin, but now more muscular and athletic. He had grown to six feet tall — half a foot taller than the last time Mr. Jones had seen him, and his wavy black hair was shorter now and pushed away from his broad forehead. His hazel eyes, warm and catlike beneath full black eyebrows, possessed an indelible sadness that hid some faraway pain. But it was his thick moustache curling over his upper lip like Jim Croce’s (his favorite songwriter) that made Gabriel look older than his twenty-two years.

  It took Mr. Jones a few moments but then his eyes brightened.

  “The shortstop on Finn’s Pub, right? Brosa?”

  “Yes sir,” responded Gabriel. “Can’t believe you remember me.”

  “How can I forget you or those great games? Made everything I did for you boys worthwhile.”

  Mr. Jones’s words opened a door to a time when Gabriel had felt loved, when life was meaningful and he was happy. Somehow he’d forgotten those childhood friends, those glorious afternoons.

  Gabriel shook Mr. Jones’s hand and then embraced him. Memories rushed through his mind like trains emerging from darkness into a tranquil, well-lit station. He remembered Matt and his girlfriend, Mandy, sharing a loving kiss on the playground.

  “How’s Matthew?”

  “Oh, he’s doing fine. Six months ago he started working with me at the phone company. Since then, he’s moved into his own apartment in Astoria with his girlfriend. His mother’s disappointed. Wanted him to stay with us, save money — for his wedding, a house, furniture … well, you know, she wants the best for him.”

  “Of course. How’s Mandy?”

  Mr. Jones hesitated, and in that instant, Gabriel’s heart raced with fear.

  “Matt and Mandy stopped going together over three years ago. He’s been dating Susan about a year now. She’s a nice girl. Studying to be a nurse. Kate thinks she’ll take good care of Matt. Susan loves their new place, supports Matt’s decision to quit college and work for the phone company. Good benefits, medical, retirement plan …”

  The older man rambled but Gabriel’s mind held onto one line: Matt and Mandy stopped going together over three years ago. The words echoed deep within him. Mandy, beautiful Mandy, whom he had adored, worshipped and was convinced would be with his friend Matthew forever, was no longer with him. Right then, Gabriel’s urge was to run and find her. He stopped Mr. Jones in midsentence.

  “Where’s Mandy now? Why’d they break it off?”

  Not a day had gone by in middle school and high school when Mandy had not been on his mind. And he’d worshipped Matt as a brother. But that was so long ago.

  On that Maspeth street corner, amid the roar of passing trucks and hum of cars from the nearby expressway, Gabriel concentrated on this unexpected messenger’s words as if they were those of a visitor from beyond the grave.

  “Mandy vanished. In the spring of ‘78. No one’s heard from her since.”

  “What?” This was a hammer blow to his heart and his grief surfaced like a balloon released underwater.

  Mr. Jones hugged him, placing a hand on Gabriel’s head and held him for well over a minute. “Sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  “I needed to know,” Gabriel replied, tears running down his cheeks like raindrops on glass panes.

  “Not much in the papers about it. Do you want to hear?”

  Gabriel wiped away his tears and nodded.

  Mr. Jones lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and held the smoke, then exhaled. “Matt and Mandy were at the park with friends. She walked home alone. Matt stayed later — he doesn’t remember anything unusual about their conversation or her behavior.”

  Mr. Jones coughed. “That was the last time Matt saw her. Her father told the police she came home and went straight to her room. She came down for dinner but left the table — said she was depressed and might as well go jump off a bridge. Then she just walked out the door and hasn’t been seen since. The detectives have nothing. Just that she was last seen near Queensboro Pl
aza.”

  Mr. Jones paused a few seconds, took a last long drag before tossing his cig to the curb and then spoke on as smoke poured from his mouth and nostrils. “Matt blamed himself for not realizing how fragile Mandy was. Took it hard. Wasn’t till he met Susan last year that he began to accept she was gone. But my poor boy’s had a tough time. He adored Mandy.”

  “I know he did,” Gabriel said. We all did.

  Gabriel was in shock and thirsting for other details but he realized Mr. Jones did not know more and that their chance encounter had come to an end. They each had workdays to finish. Eight years separated them and kept them from pursuing further intimacy. They said goodbye with another embrace. “I’m sorry, son,” Mr. Jones whispered. “Wish things had turned out differently. Good luck in the future. You have the talent to do anything you want.”

  With these words, they parted. Mr. Jones jumped in his van, made a U-turn on the corner and drove toward Elmhurst. Gabriel walked to the deli, got his coffee and returned to his cab. He wondered whether Mr. Jones’s parting line reflected his disappointment at finding him driving a cab. Gabriel slipped behind the wheel. He felt an instant of gnawing self-pity but the real tears welled up as his thoughts returned to Mandy. What path had fate shown her?

  Gabriel drank his coffee, not in any particular hurry to get back to work. An hour slipped by him. With Mandy on his mind, he switched on his “Off Duty” light and drove toward St. Pat’s. On Queens Boulevard, he passed up several passengers headed for the city. When he reached Queensboro Plaza, where Mandy had last been seen, the traffic pried him from his thoughts. Horns pounded his ears and bus fumes coming in through his heater vents made him nauseous. He locked his doors, fearing that a passenger might jump in and change the course of his afternoon. He was preoccupied with one thought — he had never said goodbye to Mandy.

  Dark clouds hid the sun finally and it started raining. From the Plaza, Gabriel turned up 29th Street, circled St. Patrick’s school and came back down 28th. He peered at the familiar brick structure, at the upper windows he used to stare out of in eighth grade on mornings when Mandy had not come to school. He saw the cozy corners in the playground where he’d confessed his secret crush to his best friend Joe Palatino. Some afternoons, Gabriel would daydream during class because Mandy had smiled at him at recess. Sister Beatrice, who’d cared for Gabriel like a mother and seen great potential in the boy despite his reading struggles, would bring him back to class with a light tap on the back.