Winking at himself, nodding sagely, with the corners of his lips turned down at his reflection in the glass, Riff told himself everything would be all right. The cigarette flicked over his shoulder and continuing to whistle easily, Riff entered Doc’s drugstore with both hands raised to assure Doc—who glared at him suspiciously—that he was here on serious business and not to cop anything off a counter.
“Tony quit?” he asked and looked at the clock. It was five-thirty; damn, he didn’t want to go to Tony’s house.
“Tony’s out back,” Doc said. A slender man of less than medium height, Doc wore thick glasses that were forever slipping down his nose. His white coat was stained with sweat under the arms and the loose slippers he wore made his feet ache because they offered no support to his arches. Breathing deeply as he counted out pills to fill a prescription, Doc kept the number in his head. “What do you want to see him about?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Riff said as he pretended to pull a comb from a display rack on the counter. “I’m not going to steal nothing, Doc. Only your boy and my friend. How much are you paying him anyway?”
“That’s for Tony and me to know and for you to find out. If you’re really interested,” Doc paused, “and sincere, I might be able to find you a job like Tony’s. Then you’d know.”
“Up yours,” Riff said as he moved toward the rear door.
Behind the store was a little paved area enclosed by the walls of three buildings. In one corner were stacked cases of empties of various soft drinks and large glass bottles of distilled water in wooden crates. Against one wall were stacked cardboard display signs and a variety of dusty articles which Tony had cleared from the basement.
“We did it last week,” Tony explained to Riff. “Doc decided that everything had to be saved until he went into the basement and almost broke his neck when he tripped over something. So now, we’ve hauled all this junk out again. You know what?” he asked Riff.
“What?” Riff asked dutifully.
“All of it’s gonna go back,” Tony said.
“Doesn’t sound like important work to me,” Riff observed.
Tony sighed deeply. “I can’t do a hell of a lot more,” he admitted, and was surprised that he could say this without shame. Christ, he wasn’t any older than Riff, so why did he feel like a big brother or something? “I been thinking of going back to night school. What do you think?”
“I think you ought to have your head examined,” Riff said and quickly raised a hand in a gesture of peace, because Tony’s eyes had become dark. “Tony, listen, I’m here on really important business. We’re going to the center tonight to look for Bernardo.”
“Seems to me I heard he’s looking for you.” Tony wiped at his face because the day’s oppressive heat hung heavy in the yard. “How about something cold?”
Riff shook his head. “I’m here for something cool. A man who’s going to be at my side when I challenge Bernardo. Once and for all, we’re going to lay it on the line.”
Tony shook his head. “If you came to count me in, count me out.”
“You’re kidding,” Riff said. “Hold it.” Again he raised a hand to keep Tony from replying. “You’re going to say you’re not—and I’m gonna ask you why. So tell me?”
“Because it’s so stupid, even I can see it,” Tony replied. “Riff, listen…”
“I’m listening,” Riff interrupted him. “But it ain’t easy. Because it’s me asking you, Tony.” He tapped his friend’s chest, then his own. “It’s me, Riff, remember? Tony, for chrissake, stop pushing that garbage around! This is important!”
“Very important,” Tony was ironic. “Planning to get your head broken. On you it won’t be becoming.”
Because he was frankly puzzled, even worried about his friend, Riff took a backward step to see Tony in better perspective. A couple of years ago they had sworn their friendship was womb to tomb, sperm to worm; now he couldn’t reach Tony.
“What’s with you?” Riff asked. “It’s been a long time, man, our knowing each other. A long time, and I thought I knew your character. Boy,” he shook his head slowly, “I thought I knew you like I know myself. I’m real disappointed in finding out different.”
Tony laughed as he gently punched Riff’s right shoulder. “So stop being disappointed. Stop suffering, little man.”
“I’m not a little man!”
“So grow up.” Tony was sharp. “Riff, I’d like to finish up.” He pointed to the cellar doors, thrown wide. “Maybe go to a beach someplace for a swim. You know, I’ve never been to a beach… How about it, Riff?” He was excited. “Let’s go… to Rockaway! We can go swimming at night. How about it?”
“Knock it off,” Riff said.
“I see,” Tony replied. “You’d rather go play with the Jets. Okay, little man.” He repeated this with emphasis. “Give my regards to the juveniles.”
“The Jets are the greatest!” Riff shouted and kicked out the wood slats of a box to prove it. “The greatest!” He raised his voice even higher and looked up at the buildings to see if anyone dared challenge this boast.
“They were,” Tony replied quietly.
“Are,” Riff insisted. “You found something better?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what the hell are you looking for?”
Tony thought for a moment. “I don’t think you’d dig it.”
Riff tapped his chest. “Try me, man. I’m very sharp. Go ahead.”
It had come to Tony one night, alone, on the subway. It was a feeling of discontent at the nagging sense of inferiority that even leading the Jets couldn’t erase. He was ignorant, knew nothing, and all the big-man-in-the-world talk wasn’t going to change it. Sure he was cool, but so was a cake of ice, and what did it know? Nothing. He was ignorant. And the way he was going he’d always be ignorant. There had to be something more than this.
Many hours later that night, because he had ridden trains from Brooklyn to the Bronx, from the Bronx to Queens, and from Queens into Manhattan, he had returned to his block off Columbus Avenue and walked up the dark steps that smelled of every meal ever cooked in the house, every bottle of booze drunk there, every drop of sweat brought on by the summer, the salt of every tear wept in rage or despair, and sat on the roof until dawn.
That was his last night as a Jet, his last night as a leader. The next morning he had looked for a job and Doc had given him one in the drugstore. Frankly, he didn’t know whether Doc had given him a job because it would be cheaper to have him on the payroll than to have God-knows-what done to the store; but he had been working now for four months and if the Jets were upset about it, his mother wasn’t. And it was time, Tony thought with shame—also a new feeling—that he did something to make her happy.
Or was that too square? He dared not tell the Jets, he dared not admit to anyone to what emotional confusion his thinking had led him and the easiest way out was to brush off Riff, Ice, and Action, who had taken over the Jets.
“I’m speaking to you in confidence,” Tony said.
Riff felt heartened. “Which means that we’re still friends?”
“Right down the line.” Tony smiled, then became serious. “I’ve been doing an awful lot of dreaming,” he began. “I’m always standing someplace and reaching out for something.”
“What’re you reaching for?” Riff asked with a diplomatic show of interest.
“That’s hard to say,” Tony continued. “At first I thought it was going somewhere. Not a mile away or a hundred miles but thousands of miles. To places on the map.”
“So join the navy,” Riff scoffed, “if you want to get screwed and tattooed in every port. What’s the production? You can get the same thing here and make believe it’s a thousand miles away. You wanna see Chinks, go to Chinatown. You wanna see Africa, it’s two-three subway stations up. You wanna see Italy, how the hell far is Mulberry Street? But if you want to see Puerto Rico, go to Puerto Rico. That’s one thing I don’t want to s
ee around here.”
Tony waved his hand to dismiss the narrowness of Riff’s logic. “I don’t have to go a thousand miles to find what I’m looking for—maybe. It could be right around the corner, outside the door.” He pointed at one of the dark windows in the building that loomed overhead. “It could be right there.”
Riff leaned back “What’s up there?”
Tony’s tongue felt swollen as it did when he dreamed. “I don’t know.” It was an effort to speak. “Some kind of kick, I guess. More than a kick,” he continued, “but I don’t know how to say it any other way.”
“Are you becoming an addict?” Riff was horrified. “You listen to me!” he pointed at Tony. “If I ever find out that you…”
“Forget it,” Tony reassured him. “I’m looking for something that will give me the same kick I used to get… out of being a Jet!”
Riff thought for a moment. “I get my kicks out of thinking that we’re still buddies.”
“We are,” Tony said and reached for Riff’s hand to shake it hard. For a moment they Indian-wrestled, then with a quick flick, Tony jerked Riff off balance. “Beat’cha again.”
“And glad to be beaten, so long as it’s by you. The kick comes from people, Tony,” Riff explained.
“Yeah,” Tony agreed. “I got a lift out of seeing you. But if you’d come here with A-Rab, Diesel, any of the other guys”—he shook his head—“I don’t know. I’m thinking, right now, Riff, about being a Jet.” Again he shook his head. “Sorry, no kick.”
“Boy, you sort of forgot the facts of life.” In his disgust Riff stove in the side of another crate. “Kick or no kick, without a gang to call your own, boy, you’re an orphan. Around here you need a gang more than you need your old man and old lady. I’m not saying anything about your mother,” Riff added hastily, “not after the way she’s treated me. But Tony, facts is facts. If you don’t belong, you’re nowhere, and belonging to the Jets puts you on top of everywhere.”
It was impossible for Tony to deny the sincerity of Riff’s appeal, impossible to erase the history of years together, back to back. In bright, clear, and focused tableaux, scene after scene crowded into the first rank of Tony’s memory, kicked there by his conscience. Still, he did not want to give in.
“Riff, I’ve had it.” He wished that he had spoken more emphatically, but his throat felt clogged. “All the way.”
“The trouble is large, Tony,” Riff replied, for he had noticed the weakness of his friend’s reply. It was an effort not to appear exhilarated, but he made it successfully. “The Sharks bite hard, Tony. We gotta stop them now or get out of here.” He paused for Tony to appreciate how desperate the situation was before stretching a hand to plead for help. “I never asked the time of day from a clock, but I’m asking you. It’s help I need, Tony. All in capital letters. We want to see you at the center tonight. They’re having a dance.”
Tony turned away. “I can’t make it.”
“I already told the boys you’d be there,” Riff replied.
Angry at being committed without being asked, Tony was tempted to throw a hard left at his friend. Then he realized why Riff had done it. Because Riff still thought of Tony as his friend, his best friend. Maybe he didn’t feel the same way about Riff, but that didn’t excuse his letting Riff down. Not only Riff, but all the Jets, the whole neighborhood.
He didn’t like Bernardo and the Sharks. No one had invited them to come here and if the battle was on, there was no point in asking who was responsible. It was on, that’s what mattered, and Riff had appealed to him not as a Jet, but as a friend.
The night he had walked away from the Jets he had told them that he wanted Riff to take over. He had put Riff out front. Now it was his responsibility, no getting around that, to keep Riff walking ahead of everyone else.
Tony grinned. “I didn’t want to buy what you’re selling, but I didn’t know what kind of a pitchman I was up against.”
“Ten o’clock?” Riff asked.
“Ten it is,” Tony replied. “You know something? I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna live to regret this.”
Throwing jabs, Riff shadow-boxed. “Who knows? Maybe what you’re waitin’ for’ll be twitchin’ at the dance! Man, when was the last time you had it?” he roared. “See you!”
* * *
A bank of clouds moved overhead, shutting out the sun. Tony felt trapped in the hot, narrow yard as dismal as the walls and dark windows above him. He cursed himself for not having been firmer, for not having turned Riff down. Once and for all he should have made it clear for even the stupidest to see.
He should have carried through on his plan to go to the beach. And as he sat on the shore, the taste of salt on his lips, his fingers digging into the sand and his eyes on the stars, something might have happened. The magic thing that he was groping for might have cannonballed right out of the sky.
What would it be? Another beach? A waterfall? Thousands of birds flying in formation? Jet trails in the sky? A trapeze slung from the moon? Might it be a girl? Why not?
The clouds had passed across the sky, darker blue now because the hot, weary day was surrendering to the dusk. He could hear Doc calling, telling him it was quitting time for hired help but not for bosses, and that whatever hadn’t been done could wait until the morning. Only he should be sure to lock the cellar doors, then come in for a cold drink.
“It’s going to be hotter tonight,” Doc said from the doorway where he fanned himself with an old issue of a pharmaceutical magazine. “And hotter tomorrow.”
“I guess so,” Tony agreed.
“I’m going to an air-conditioned movie after I close up early, about nine,” Doc said. “If you’d like to have a sandwich with me, a bottle of beer, you could be my guest. Or if there’s a girl you’d like to take along, I could give you the pass and buy a ticket…”
“I’d like to, Doc,” Tony said. “But I gotta date.”
“Riff and you and two girls?”
“Not exactly,” Tony said. “I’m meeting him at the center. There’s a dance.”
“So, I can’t blame you for turning me down,” Doc said after a shrug. “But how can you dance on a hot night? So you won’t be alone, that answers my question. I’ll see you in the morning?”
“In the morning.” Tony knelt to snap the lock on the cellar door. “Take it easy, Doc. I’ll pass by about nine and help you close the shutters over the windows.”
“Thanks,” Doc said. “Some world, when you gotta have iron shutters over store windows.”
“It’s the PR’s,” Tony said.
“And not your friend Riff—and the other raff?” Doc was ironic. “All right, Tony, I’ll see you tomorrow and don’t worry about the shutters. I’ll manage. But take care of yourself tonight.”
CHAPTER THREE
The bridal shop was just large enough to accommodate three sewing machines, three dress dummies, a small table for cutting fabric, and a little dressing booth. A sign had been lettered on the window announcing to passers-by that English was spoken within. Señora Mantanios, the middle-aged widow who owned the shop, had thought that the sign might attract trade that was not Puerto Rican. But during the one week the sign had been there, neatly lettered in gold and large enough for anyone to read, she had not been called upon to use one word of English.
Disgusted that people could be so intolerant, the Señora had left early to bathe and change her clothes. Two friends—amateur matchmakers—were bringing a man to call, a gentleman who had been widowed a respectable number of years. The night offered no promise of relief from the heat and she wanted to have pitchers of tea, coffee, and lemonade in her refrigerator; also some wine and beer.
For several anguished moments she had hesitated to leave the shop in the hands of Anita Palacio. Anita was a good enough seamstress and well trained in Puerto Rico, but she was running wild in New York. Anita had explained that she wanted to remain behind only to help Maria Nunez alter a dress she was going to wear to a dance that night.
The dance was in the center that had once been a church, and it all sounded respectable enough.
After many admonitions that the girls were to make certain both doors were securely locked, and the iron shutter drawn and secured across the front window—to keep the Anglos from stealing the dress on the dummy in the window—the Señora departed.
She hurried toward the tenement in which she lived, not because she was late, but to minimize the amount of time she had to spend on the streets. Much too often the Señora had been a target for the mouths of dirty, filthy boys. They were blondes, redheads, some with freckles, all of them Irish, Polish, God-knew-what-else, and why He had created these countries and their people was a mystery she would never understand.
Both doors of the store locked securely, blinds drawn, Maria came out of the dressing booth in her white dress. “Do you think you can make the alterations by tonight?” she asked Anita.
Anita nodded because she had several pins in her mouth. Almost eighteen, with dark, savage eyes that became brighter in the dark, Anita was an inch or two taller than Maria and several inches fuller across the breasts, hips, and seat. Bernardo swore that his girl had to be melted down and poured into the dresses she wore, that they fitted her like a second skin—molded, man, molded.
Anita wore her hair long, loose, and wild, and used eye-liner even during the day. Her lips were heavily lipsticked and enlarged, so that they always appeared to be full blown with passion. During the day she worked in flat-heeled slippers, but wisps of plastic shoes with three-and-a-half-inch heels stood beside the sewing machine.
“Now will you please hold still?” Anita cautioned in Spanish.
“Talk with me in English,” Maria replied.
“If you want to speak English, you have to think in English. But I like to think in Spanish,” she rolled her eyes expressively, “because that’s the nicest language for thinking about love. But please, right now, I want you to stand still.”
West Side Story Page 4