JOEY magazine

I'll Take It

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 20:06:00 -0500

God, this is embarrassing. I’m so sorry about this. I guess I’ve always shown this place during the day—it gets such great natural light. I didn’t even notice about the light bulbs. Or maybe the power’s off. No, why would it be off? God, I don’t know. This sucks.

I don’t know man, I feel bad. I guess I can at least describe it to you. And, you know what, brilliant, we have our cell phones for some light.

What do you say? Are you up for it?

Alright, here we go: this room that we’re standing in is the living room slash dining room. It’s a good size—very good size. There are two windows down there at the end. Like I said, great light. These hardwood floors are going to be re-finished by the time you move in. The super’s patching up the walls too—not sure if he’s done yet. And there are two really good closets here. Damnit, where are they? They were here last time. Okay, here’s one. You can take a peek inside and I’ll shine my phone in there. Nice, right?

Okay, so if we walk in on our left is the kitchen. A little cozy, I’ll admit. Here in the kitchen I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to bullshit you, because I hate that, but the stove and fridge are pretty old. They’re not shiny brand new, but you’re not paying for shiny brand new for this price. But everything works, and that’s what counts, right? So across the way we have the bathroom. Again, not shiny brand new, but it works. You know what, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to double check that. If you’ll just excuse me for a minute—I had to rush over here from another showing. You’ll notice the door is a little hard to close—again, not shiny brand new—but it just takes a little force. Wow, that is really hard to close. Goddamnit! I’ll mention this to the super. Wait, wait, everyone stay calm, I think I got it. You just have to lift the knob up a bit and pull hard. Okay, well, I’ll just be a second in here. Make yourself at home out there.

Hey again. Sorry—took a little longer than expected. But you’ll be happy to know the old plumbing works. Toilet too. Kidding! Okay, if you’ll just follow me well continue. So here’s what’s really so great about the apartment. This is priced really for a one bedroom, but wham! What is this? Two bedrooms. That’s right, for the price of one bedroom, you get two. You could use this as an office, or if you’re a painter it could be a little studio, or a music room, an arts and crafts room, an S&M dungeon—whatever the hell you want.

And this baby over here is anything but a baby. And by baby I mean tiny. Which is not what this room is. This is the master bedroom, which I guess is appropriate if you are into S&M. Are you? No? Okay, man, I get you. That’s cool. There are a lot of misconceptions and prejudice about it, but I understand. Not everyone’s strong enough—mentally, I mean. Anyways, what the hell am I talking about? The master bedroom. Like I said, huge. There are two windows down at that end. Again, like I said, great light. If you could only see it, trust me, you’d be very impressed. You know what, here’s what we should do: we should feel around the room. Just follow the wall around with your hands so you can quote unquote see how big the room is. Here, follow me. I’ll go first. Whooaah, a little dusty, but as I said, the super’s still doing some cosmetic touch up work. This is great, right? I think you’re getting a real feel for how big the room is. Jesus Christ! Fuck! Watch out for the radiator. Goddmanit, that hurt. But you got to love these old rads—so warm in the winter. Well, that’s the room. Little noisy upstairs, but I’m sure that dies down later. So what do you think? It’s pretty awesome, right? This baby is going to go fast, so what do you say?

Confession

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 21:19:00 -0500

He said he once had sex in the confessional. Not when the priest was there, of course, but off hours, so to speak. I wasn’t sure how this had come up in the conversation. I was just at their table to get their order. But he was managing to tell me and the giggling older woman with him everything terrible he’d ever done.

“Mother, weren’t you so upset?” he said to the woman. “When you found out? Weren’t you so angry with me, mother? Can you believe this woman is my mother? Can you believe it? How old do you think she is? You don’t know? Oh, c’mon buddy, don’t worry, I’m leaving the tip. She doesn’t have any money. I’ve got all the money in this relationship, pal, don’t you worry about that.”

They laughed.

“Oh, mother, it’s so good to see you after all these years.” He reached for her hand. “She kicked me out, you know? Oh, I’ve been pretty bad, haven’t I?”

***

“Are you a Catholic?” he said to me. “I certainly don’t want to offend.” He said to the woman, “I want to be sensitive to our young friend’s feelings.”

“I’m a Christian,” I said. “Not Catholic.”

“Oh splendid! Are you a Pentecostal? Can you speak in tongues? I’ve always wanted to speak in tongues. I once went to a revival meeting—oh, don’t laugh, mother, Abby made me go—I was feeling awful sorry for my sins, awful sorry, mother. And I went down to the altar call. I told the man—they had people meet you when you went down—I told him I was a sinner, probably the greatest sinner who ever lived, at lease in Central Pennsylvania. He asked if I wanted to accept Jesus Christ as my Lord and Personal Savior. I said yes, and I wanted to speak in tongues. I’ve never been very good with foreign languages, so if the Holy Spirit could help with a new language, I was all for that. So we prayed. And I went back to Abby, and I said, I’ve been saved. Saved by the blood of the Lamb. She looked at me and said, I’ll see it when I believe it. She used to get her words mixed up like that, but I knew what she meant. For a week every morning I got up and tried speaking in tongues. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I mean, was that too much to ask, just to speak in tongues? So I got down on my knees—I wanted to give God a fair chance—I said, God, if you want me to be a good person, I just have one simple thing to ask of you: let me speak in tongues. Nothing, absolutely nothing. I thought it was a simple request. So I got a drink. What else was there to do? When Abby came home from work she found me drinking. That was it. She didn’t say anything, just took her cat and moved in with her mother.”

***

“Tell me about yourself. What’s your name again? Julian? What a lovely name! Julian! Delightful! How old are you? So you’re in high school—where? You’re homeschooled? Wonderful! I was homeschooled for six months. No school would take me, right mother? After St. Mary’s I went to Highspire, and well, my English teacher took a very special interest in my education—very special, right mother? She used to tutor me outside class. She tutored me so well she got pregnant. That didn’t end well, did it mother? But I was actually kicked out for selling weed. I had to be homeschooled. And by homeschooled I mean I slept until noon, watched “The Price is Right,” and drank my father’s beer. He had a rule: for every beer I took he was allowed to hit me. A six pack: six hits. This scar: his wedding ring. Divorced ten years, still wore his ring. He said he got laid more that way. But that’s enough about my father, I don’t want to upset mother.”

***

They were my last table for the night so I let them talk. They were the only table in the smoking section. After they finished their meal, they sat and chain smoked.

***

“Do you think I can still be saved, Julian? I can? Haven’t I told you enough stories? I could tell you a few more. Some good ones. I know you’re not Catholic, but I do want to be a priest. That would be lovely. I like candles, incense, robes. He held up a biscuit. “Hoc est corpus meum.” He took a bite out of it. “See, I haven’t forgotten all my Latin. Oh, I would love to forgive sins. I would forgive so many sins. You wouldn’t have to beg. I wouldn’t judge. I’d understand. I’d say, You know, I did that too once, in another lifetime. I absolve you from your sins. Julian, your sins are forgiven. Let me bless you.” He made the sign of the cross. “I would make a lovely priest, wouldn’t I mother? But I’m like St. Augustine: Lord, make me chaste, but not yet.”

***

The hostess found them having sex in the women’s bathroom. The manager almost called the cops. “Fuck it,” he said. That was his response to a lot of things. As they were being thrown out, the man shouted, “Pray for me, Julian!” He was laughing as they shoved him out. “Pray for me!”

Boys in Blue

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 21:20:00 -0400

Tell the boys in blue I won’t go easy. I’m just gonna have one more drink, and then, bam! I’m gonna take care of some shit.

You listening to me? Joshy, stop coloring for one goddamn second. You’re outta the lines. No, I’m not gonna buy you any more crayons. Not until you stop eating them. Be quiet for one second. Joshy. Joshy. I’m trying to tell you something here—something important.

I got some wisdom that I’m giving you here. Give me one of your crayons: the blue one. No, that’s red. Are you color blind? The blue one. Yes, that’s blue. I’m gonna write this on the wall for you, so you won’t forget. There, can you read this? Yeah, it’s okay to write on the wall. That’s at your mother’s house, where you can’t do that. This is my house. We can do whatever the hell we want here. It just washes off, anyways, right? Your mother is so uptight about these things.

Do you know who the boys in blue are? The police. They’re called that because they wear blue uniforms—blue is supposed to be a calming color. But do you know what it means? I’ll tell you what it means. Remember the black guy who came into my bar a while go? The crazy guy. He came in with a bottle of kerosene and a gun. He said, White people are gonna burn tonight. That’s what he said to all of us. He was goddamn crazy. He shot a girl in the leg. He poured kerosene on some women. I mean, he was gone. He was wearing elbow pads and a goddamn catheter. He was gone. But after the whole thing I read an article about him. He’d been abused by his parents as a child and his wife was real sick and had died. He had a son to take care of and he couldn’t find a job, because he was sick himself. And he just couldn’t take it anymore. He thought white people were the cause of his problems—which I think is bullshit—but anyways, Joshy, he decided to do something about it. So one night he says goodbye to his son and writes on the wall, Tell the boys in blue I won’t go easy. And I thought, okay, this guy is crazy and coming into my bar with a gun and kerosene is just not cool, dude, not cool at all, but God, you gotta admire his guts. He didn’t just lie down and take it. I mean, he had the right idea.

Tell the boys in blue I won’t go easy.

This is what it means: don’t let them take you without a goddamn fight. It means: go out swinging. It means: don’t let them screw you over. And I’m not just talking about cops here. This is bigger than that. This is almost like a life philosophy almost. It’s all encompassing. It’s a lot of things—one thing I know for sure, it’s about the Man—sticking it to the Man. Do you know who the Man is? Joshy?

No, I’m not the Man. Ha, ha, you’re funny. No, the man is the bad guy. He’s the guy with all the money and power who’s always screwing you over. I’m the good guy.

***

What do you want for dinner? No, I’m not making grilled cheese again. I can’t have any more cheese. I’m lactose intolerant. You will be too, probably, when you’re older. Everything gets worse when you get older. Trust me on this. This is the highlight of your life. You’re gonna look back on these nights when you’re coloring and eating grilled cheese as the best time of your goddamn life.

Do you want to see the gun I bought? Maybe later. I’ll make your dinner first. But God, it’s a beauty: .44 Magnum. Just like Dirty Harry, only the barrel on mine’s a little shorter.

Okay, I’ll make you a grilled cheese but I’m not having any. I can’t be all bloated and gassy tonight. I gotta get shit done.

Where’s your mother? Jesus Christ, am I the only responsible one in this family? Am I the only one who gives a shit? What time’s she picking you up? Didn’t she say six? She’s always late. Always. How can you trust a person if they’re always late? How do I know she’s taking good care of you if she can’t be here at a time she herself specified? I’m gonna send her a text. But it won’t be an honest straight-forward text. It’s gonna be passive-aggressive, like the shit she’s always pulling on me.

***

Here’s your grilled cheese.

Let me tell you, it’s gonna feel good to take care of things tonight. You wanna hear the plan? I’ll tell you but you gotta promise not to tell your mother. I know you’ve made that promise before, and you haven’t always kept it—that twenty I took from her purse was mine, she owed me that money—but I’m gonna try to overlook that. This time it’s for real. And if you tell her I’m just gonna deny the whole thing and say you’re lying again. I don’t care. So don’t even try telling her.

You know what this is? It’s a stethoscope. The doctor uses this to listen to your heart, to hear if it’s working right. You’re probably wondering why I have one, since I’m not a doctor. Well, besides being used to listen to people’s hearts you can use it to listen to other things, like, for example, safes. Do you know what a safe is? It’s a metal box where you put valuable things you don’t want stolen. The stethoscope doesn’t work on newer safes but if you’ve got a real old one you can put it up against the locking mechanism and just listen and hear when the tumbler falls into place. Then, bam, you’re in. I don’t know how to do it myself. That’s where my friend Stan comes in. He’s a bartender too. He works with me. He used to have a different profession, though, one where he learned how to use this thing. And he wasn’t a doctor either. Bam.

That’s all I’m gonna say. Except, well, let’s just say my boss doesn’t like banks. So guess where he keeps all his money instead? In a safe—an old, old safe. At the place where Stan and me work. Late at night. When he’s not there. Are things starting to make sense now? Do you get where I’m coming from? No, you’re just gonna keep on coloring and ignoring me? Okay, I don’t mind. I’m just talking to myself here. I’m just gonna make myself another drink. Time to buy some more Jack. I wonder how I’ll afford that. Bam.

Here’s the main thing, Joshy. My boss is the Man. God, it’s so classic. I mean, he just…he is the Man. I can’t explain to you how bad he is, but let’s just say men come into the bar and he sets them up with company for the night. And if that’s your thing, fine, whatever. What I’m trying to say is that the guy is no good. And I’m gonna do some good with this money. I’m not gonna piss it way. First thing I’m gonna do is donate ten, maybe five percent to charity. That’s a guarantee. First thing I do. Then we’re gonna take a real vacation—you and me. Maybe Florida, maybe the Bahamas. Wait, you know what, screw that. We’re gonna buy our own island, just like Johnny Depp. I wonder how much that is. Our own fucking island. No, no, that’s one word you can’t say. That’s a grown up word. What, you don’t ever pay attention to anything I say except for that one word? If I ever hear you say that word again I’m gonna beat your ass. Or I’m gonna get Johnny Depp to beat your ass. I swear I will. I don’t care how much it costs.

***

Your mother is here. Finally. Forty minutes late. Typical.

Hi Rhonda. Oh, really, I hadn’t noticed the time. It’s no problem. No problem at all. We were just having some dinner.

It’ll wash off. Really. It’s just a crayon. Really, it’s not a big deal. Alright, Josh, see you next week. High five. See you later, kid. I’m just gonna have one more drink.

Sweethearts

Sun, 29 May 2011 17:35:00 -0400

If he was pleased I came over and bandaged him up and listened to him moan, he didn’t show it. He was lucky I got off work early that night and felt good enough to come see him, because if I was tired or if it was real late I was going home to get in bed and watch TV. But instead I came over to his place and found him on the ground outside his trailer, all bloodied and passed out.

“Ron, Ron,” I said. When he looked up I saw blood coming down his face. I got some tissues from my purse and put them to his head. “Can you get up?” I said, but he just blinked at me and moaned. “Can you get up?” I said again. Somehow I got him to his feet and inside the trailer to his couch. He was still moaning and looking at me like he wasn’t sure if he should be afraid of me. “I didn’t hit you,” I said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.” He reached up and tried to touch the cut. I was trying to hold the tissues to his head, since he was bleeding so much, and when the tissues were soaked through I bunched up my work apron and pressed it to his head. I brought up his hand and said, “Hold this, Ron, put pressure to it,” and went to look for any bandages and ointment. When I came back he’d let the apron fall and blood was getting all over the couch.

“Were you knocked out?” I said.

“What?” he said.

“Were you knocked out?”

He just looked at me confused, like he didn’t know who I was, and that’s when I knew he must have got a concussion. That happened to our son Bobby once when he was playing football in high school. His helmet came off during a play and another player rammed him in the head. He didn’t recognize me or Ron until a few hours later.

I took off the apron to look at the cut and, God, it was a big gash. I didn’t even try to clean it—it was bleeding so bad. I knew he was going to need stitches. I taped the bandages best I could and got a towel for him in case the blood soaked through. I told Ron we had to go to the ER. He said he didn’t want to go anywhere, he was tired.

“You need stitches,” I said, “and you probably got a concussion.”

He sat on the couch, quiet, looking around.

“Let’s go,” I said, and took his hand. He got up. I drove him to the hospital in Hershey near my restaurant. We had to wait about an hour before the doctor could examine him and stitch him up. I was right, he had a concussion. The doctor told me he should take it easy for the next couple days and to watch to see if he got a bad headache or if he was real irritable.

“That’s going to be hard to tell,” I said.

~~~

The next day I called off work for him. I spoke to Sam. I knew he was wondering if were back together, but I didn’t say anything and he knew enough not to ask.

I let Ron sleep in. By the time he was up I’d been to the grocery store and made him a big breakfast. There were eggs and sausage patties and home fries and blueberry pancakes. When I’d come back from shopping I’d seen the rocks and bricks sticking up on the walkway.

“You know,” I said, when he was pouring syrup on his pancakes, “it could’ve been me out there.”

“What?” he said.

“It could’ve been me out there tripping on those bricks and busting my head open.

How’d you feel then?”

“I’m going to take care of them. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Well, I’d put that on top of your list.”

After he finished his pancakes he pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. When I smelled it I couldn’t take it anymore and got out my Parliaments.

“How’s the quitting going?” he said, and laughed.

I knew he was going to say something.

“What’d you last?” he said. “A week? You owe me some money, missy. It was twenty, right? You didn’t think I’d win, did you? You were so damn sure you could make it this time.” He laughed and starting coughing. “You were so damn sure.”

~~~

“You know what I’m feeling like,” he said.

We were watching Maury. A girl was trying to figure out who the father of her son was. They’d already done four paternity tests.

“I could go for a Frosty,” he said.

Maury asked the man they were testing if he’d take care of the boy if he was the father.

“I’m not the father,” the man said. “That bitch is crazy. There ain’t no way I’m the father. I can guarantee you that.”

“But you had sex with her?” Maury said.

“Yeah.”

“The thing is,” Ron said, “my head is hurting a little and I think the Frosty would help. The cold always helps my headaches.”

Maury opened the envelope. The man wasn’t the father. He started jumping up and down and pumping his fists and went up to the girl and said, “In your face, in your face.” The girl was crying and she ran backstage.

“That goddamn slut,” I said.

“Nancy—”

“Who does she think she is?”

“Nancy—”

“Okay, okay, I’m going. I just can’t believe that woman.”

I went to his bedroom and took a twenty from his wallet and drove to Wendy’s and got two Frosties. I ate mine driving back, since along with quitting smoking I was supposed to be on a diet. Ron took two spoonfuls of his and grabbed his jaw.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“The cold. It’s hurting my teeth.”

“I thought you said the cold helped.”

“It helps my headaches but it’s hurting my teeth.”

He ate a few more spoonfuls, each time grabbing his jaw, and handed it to me. “I can’t do it,” he said. “You want it? I know you’re on a diet but it’s about half-empty anyways.”

“I better not,” I said. “I’ve been getting pretty strict about what I eat.” I took the Frosty to the kitchen and I’ve tried freezing them before but they don’t come out right so I threw it away. Ron was calling for me to turn off the TV since he said it was making his head hurt.

“Where’s the remote?” I said. He didn’t know. I went to turn the TV off and saw he had two movies on top—Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Striptease. “These any good?” I said.

He looked over. “I only got those since Andrea said her favorite actresses are Audrey Hepburn and Demi Moore.”

Ron was sweet on this waitress Andrea. The week before he told me he was helping her with her lines for this play she was in. Ron said she was even limping at work because her character in the play has a limp.

“What’s it called again, the play?”

“What?”

“The play—the one you’re helping Andrea with?”

“The Glass Menagerie.”

“The Glass what?”

“Menagerie—it means a collection of animals.”

“Who do you play—when you help her?”

“Most of her lines are with the mother and gentleman caller.”

“Gentleman caller?” I laughed.

“It’s a good play.”

“Okay, okay, I believe you.”

“I’m just helping her out—she’s a good kid.”

“I’m glad you’re helping someone out. It’s touching.”

He sat up. “You know what? I’m getting sick of your sarcasm. Just sick of it.”

Jesus, I was just teasing him a little.

~~~

The rest of the day from here didn’t go too good. He asked for a glass of water and when I brought it out I accidentally spilled it on him, but I knew he was thinking I did it on purpose. Then when I brought out my knitting since I was making a blanket for our grandson Justin, I don’t remember exactly what I said, I mentioned my lease was coming up and maybe us moving back in together—since we were seeing each other so much—and he looked at me and asked if I was serious.

“What if I am?” I said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

“What, is your girlfriend Andrea moving in?” I said.

“You don’t know anything about her so you can just shut the hell up.”

I stood up.

“Where’re you going?” he said.

“It’s really none of your goddamn business but I’m going to work.”

Before I left he asked me to get some Advil but I told him the doctor said no painkillers.

“What the hell am I supposed to do about my headache?” he said.

~~~

I felt bad leaving him like that, so after I got off work that night I drove back to his place. His truck wasn’t there. First I thought maybe he’d gone to the hospital again. Then I knew. I drove to the diner and saw his truck parked out front. I saw him sitting at the counter talking to her. She was leaning over the counter touching his bandage. She limped over to the coffee machine and poured him a cup. I could see what he was looking at when her back was turned. When she gave him his coffee Ron pointed to some papers he was holding and they laughed.

~~~

“I’m not feeling good,” Ron said. I’d come out from his trailer when I heard his truck pull up. He was leaning his head forward on the steering wheel.

“You should be in bed,” I said. “Where were you?”

“I got the worst headache,” he said. He got out of the truck but was holding on the door to steady himself.

He looked at me. His eyes were bloodshot. He didn’t say anything. He walked unsteady to the door.

“You think she cares for you?” I said.

He didn’t even turn to look at me. He didn’t say anything.

I picked up one of the rocks and threw it. I was trying to hit the side of the trailer or the window, to scare him, to show him I wasn’t going to take it anymore, but it hit him in the back of the head. He went down fast, collapsed and hit his head on those bricks.

I screamed. I’ve never felt so awful my entire life.

But I told him he should’ve taken care of those bricks.

~~~

“I had the worst customer last night,” I said to Ron.

The doctor told me it was good to talk to him. Whenever I came to the hospital and sat with him, I thought about what a woman I met here told me. She said she was talking to her son one day when he woke up after five months and said, “Mom, what’s for dinner?” Just woke up like that.

“It was this family,” I said. “A six top. They all had accents, probably from down south somewhere up for Hershey Park. Well, this man was just terrible. Worst customer I’ve ever had. First he says he wants sweet tea, but we only have unsweetened. Well, he gives me this look like you wouldn’t believe. Then he says he wants Pepsi but we only got Coke, so I get another glare for that. I don’t know what people mean when they talk about Southern hospitality—the rudest people.”

“So then when he was ordering, he says he wants the chicken-fried steak. But we don’t have a chicken-fried steak, so I thought he was just confused and wanted the fried chicken. I didn’t want to get into a big old discussion about how we didn’t have a chicken-fried steak. So I bring out the fried chicken and he looks at it and says, ‘What the hell is that?’ He says he ordered the chicken-fried steak. I tell him we don’t have that. He yells at me to get the menu and so I get it and he looks at it and points to a pictures and says, ‘There, what’s that?’ like he’s got me. I tell him that’s the country-fried steak. ‘That’s what I ordered,’ he says. I say, ‘No, you ordered the chicken-fried steak.’ I say I thought he was just confused, calling the fried chicken that—maybe it was a Southern thing. Well, he gets all angry and says, ‘No in the south when we say we want a chicken-fried steak we mean a chicken-fried steak and that’s what I want.’ I say, ‘You mean a country-fried steak.’ He says whatever the goddamned thing is called. I tell him I’ll get him that but I’m charging him for both and he gets real nasty then. He says he wants to talk to the manager. So Joe comes over and the man says this is the worst service he’s ever got at a restaurant his entire life and Joe ends up comping his meal and giving them all free deserts.”

“Then this man—I couldn’t believe this!—he leaves me a dollar tip. On a thirty dollar check. A dollar! I couldn’t believe it. I took that dollar outside and they were getting into their car and I say, all polite, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I think you forgot this.’ I tossed that dollar right on the ground in front of him. One of his girls goes to pick it up but he says, ‘Leave it, leave it. Get in the car.’ He looks at me and says, ‘Bitch,’ and then real quick gets in. I say, ‘You’re a goddamn son of a bitch.’”

“Well, he’s backing up so fast he hits a car pulling up behind him. I don’t wait around to deal with that. I go back inside to the kitchen. I couldn’t take it. I was so upset. I was screaming, ‘Goddamnit, goddamnit.’ Joe comes back and yells at me to be quiet, the customers can hear. But I don’t care. I go into the break room to have a cigarette and Joe comes back and says he’s taking me off the floor—I got first outs. But I didn’t want that. I still wanted to make some money. I told Joe that but he wouldn’t listen. He says, ‘Those people were goddamn assholes, Nancy, but you can’t let them get to you like that.’ He gives me a cigarette and says, ‘Get your outs done and don’t let those assholes get to you.’ He’s right but I just can’t help it sometimes. I just get so angry. I go a little crazy.”

I put my hand on Ron’s. He knew I was there. I felt it.

Albert

Tue, 10 May 2011 10:38:00 -0400

Marian and I came home from our bars and traded cocktail napkins like playing cards. Hers was drawn by a thin girl who thought she was a Satanist. It was a drawing of a fantasy creature. “A lemur person,” the girl had said, and signed it, “-Rabid.”

Mine was a cartoon drawing and a few sentences in bad French. I worked at a French bar and everyone tried to speak French. It said, “I’ve had too much wine. I can’t feel my legs. I feel like a tree. I’m floating.” I thought it was pretty good, especially the cartoon.

Then she played the trump. It was written in red ink: "I agree. I concur. Absolutely. You’re right." On the side there was a crazy scrawl ending in a cartoon toothy girn, like a graffiti tag. Then, postscript, a title to a piece: "How to get along with Albert." Marian grinned.

I knew Albert from her bar. He was about sixty-five years old. He was scrawny and bent but he was quick. He ordered hot tea when it was early or when he had no money, and Rum and Coke with no ice when the sun went down. The bartenders all knew not to give him ice.

Albert liked to talk. When someone disagreed with him, which was often, and tried to argue, he would roll his head backward on sinews like railroard tracks, and squint his fierce tired yes with righteous exhaustion. "Yeah, man, I know, I know." Then he would set his head level, sigh through his teeth, peel back his eyelids until the eyes shone like dusty comets and tell them exactly why they were wrong, usually with a joke that was not laughed at and he would frown at the lack of humor in his opponent. Everyone was an opponent to Albert. Then he would tilt his head back down towards his drink, slurp, and hobble up the steps outside for a cigarette. He was smarter than everyone and he knew it, and the reason they didn’t know it was a mystery to him.

I met him several times later in the middle of the afternoon (tea) or early evening (rum), and even with the napkin as my secret weapon (I agree, I concur), it was very hard to get alone with Albert. But he took a liking to me because I backed off when he rolled his head back and squinted, and I didn’t try to explain why. Also, bought him a drink. And Albert started to get along with me.

He was a good storyteller, with expert timing. His jokes were usually crude but always good, and he loved an audience, even if it was just me. He was a comic; we went to see him once on his birthday. A very classic performance—piano and satin suit. Not your mother’s Danny Kaye, but an old song and dance man to be sure. Once he had you, he wouldn’t stop, except sometimes for a cigarette.

Albert told me about his roommate, a man who changed his name from Wilbur Perry to Akkam Haseem. "That’s funny," he said (pause, sip, look away), "because he looks just like this nigger Wilbur Perry!" Wilbur was a jazz musician. "A Jazz Musician." He said each word separately. "Do you know what that is? A jazz musician is somebody that play saxaphone real bad when I’m trying to sleep. Albert was not a fan of religious people, phonies, or people who interrupted, and since Wilbur was all those things, Albert just packed a suitcase and left.

“Better to be homeless than to put up with that nigger,” he said, ha ha, and dipped his lips into his glass. It was a strange laugh, and his face got tight again very quickly.

A few days later he came into the bar nursing his bloody right hand with his left. He had just been mugged a block away. Marian brought him tea, on the house, and he just sat and mumbled.

I saw him again, and as always he would talk and I would listen. The same jokes, the same stories. Finally one night he stopped mid-act. His face got tight again, like the last time. “Hey, kid, I need a place to stay tonight.” He hadn’t found anywhere else to live since he left Wilbur, and the money he got from the government never lasted long. It was December and it was cold.

One hour later, on a Queens-bound train, he was telling the same stories and the same jokes, and I, remembering the napkin, would chuckle and agree whenever possible. If you’re clever there’s always a way to agree honestly, at least a little. I lived in Briarwood, which is almost in Jamaica, the end of the line. It took about an hour to get from the Village to my apartment.

Albert began to look worried, and said, "Uh, say, uh, how much further?" He coughed a lot.

"Just three more stops," I said. I was looking at the Barcardi Rum ads on the top of the train car. They showed smiling, tan men with their arms around women.

Albert got up, looked around at the one ot her passenger in the car who was half-asleep, scurried to the end of the car, and pissed in the corner.

We walked from the subway to my apartment. An empty bag of chips rusted with the wind, but it was frozen to the ground. It was a short walk, but felt long because of the wind. Back home we drank coffee and thawed. He talked until four in the morning, explaining how stupid everybody was. He had an answer for everything, always quick and always aggressive. He especially hated believers, and he knew that I was one, so he tried to offend whenever possible.

"Six days? What about all the dinosaurs, man? Six days, huhm, yeah, and Adam and Eve? Sheeeeit." And he laughed.

If it was offensive, I waited, and if it was funny I laughed. It was usually both.

In the morning he took a hot shower and a pair of my socks. “Do you know what laughter is?” he said. “Laughter is a luxury. That’s one thing I believe in. The luxury of laughter. That’s why I like you, kid. You know how to laugh.”

Home

Tue, 10 May 2011 10:36:00 -0400

After I poured myself another glass of wine, she sat beside me and said I looked depressed and really should move out of New York City. I wanted to burst into tears and cry on her shoulder and say, Yes, yes, you’re right. But instead I sipped my wine and said nothing. Then she beat me at a game of cards.

Snowflake

Mon, 09 May 2011 12:18:00 -0400

When you move to a new neighborhood in New York City, figuring out your new laundromat usually happens at night, when you are still living amongst boxes and new people and cats and suddenly you realize you forgot you promised to cover the morning shift for your lush boss, and all of your clothes are dirty.

Where is the nearest laundromat? I ask my new Japanese roommate Tomoku. She looks confused and shows me rows of pretty lingerie hanging above the bathtub. Though I envy her independence and work ethic, I can’t see myself getting mud out of my Sevens and the smell of smoke out of my work shirts in the bathtub with a washboard. I google map my neighborhood and find the place.

In Williamsburg, where I used to live, the route to the laundromat was edged was hipster bars. I used to get stares from the faux Ritchies and Dougherties as a I hauled trash bags full of clothes to the gleaming 24-hour Suds-R-Us. The Chosen Ones would give me the up-and-over through their Jackie O glasses. I could almost hear them thinking, “You do your own laundry? That’s hot.” They probably thought I was purposefully channeling Kurt Cobain with my cloud print pajama top and Doc Martens.

In Flatbush, where I live now, I get stares too. Hey Snowflake, they say. I do the downcast eye. Erm, uh, hey. I don’t want to be rude; don’t want to be inviting. I’m just trying to get my clothes clean.

I get to the mat, buy a new card. I have a collection of defunct cards and plastic keys that still have money on them. All laundry machines have fun instructions printed on the lids. These new ones have the best first step: check inside for children. I check. No children. I put my laundry in and start the machine.

I look at the black babies running around, their ears already pierced, and I want to steal them and make them my own. That’s one thing all laundromats have in common: children and the safe Saturday-morning smell of detergent. Nothing really bad can happen to you in a Laundromat (Unless you’re a small black child, then I might steal you and make you my own).

A polo shirt comes up to me and says, “Hey, this is gonna sound a little wierd. My sister’s in the car outside, can you come to talk to her. She was thinking of moving here, but she’s not sure if it’s, uh, safe…since…we’re…for people like us. And she’s a girl and all you know?”

I go outside and tell Sister that it’s okay to be white and it’s okay to be a girl and it’s okay to live in Flatbush.

It’s a pleasant night. The white siblings drive away, I light a cigarette, and walk around the block.

It’s the usual trashmash of store fronts. I pause in front of the hair cutting place. The pictures on the window advertisement are fading. i haven’t gotten my hair cut since the free Bumble and Bumble modeling fiasco that left me looking like an eighties metal band groupie. That was nine months ago.

Inside the barber shop, two brothers in tracksuits lounge with their feet on the sink watching BET. One is tall and young, with braids. The is older, meaner-looking. The comforting smell of marijuana leaks from under the door. When they see me peering in, the young one draws his finger across his throat in universal sign language for “We fucking CLOSED, bitch.”

I nod. “I’m just looking at the times,” I say.

“We CLOSED,” he says.

“I know—”

Now he’s coming to the door. “What?”

“I need a trim, I was just looking at the times.”

He opens the door. “How much you got?”

“What?”

“How much money you got?”

“Um, not a lot. Ten bucks?”

He rolls his eyes, grunts, and motions for me to enter the barber shop. I waltz right through the door, which he locks behind me.

The older man ties a bib around my neck with dry, dubious fingers. The Velcro won’t stick because it knows I shouldn’t be there and the bib tries to slide off my chest. The young man splays out in his barber’s chair and turns his sullen eyes back to BET. he lights a roach and holds it with a rhinestone bobby pin.

The older man regards my hair as he plugs in an electric razor. “You like haircut?” he mumbles. He takes a lock of my hair and rubs it between his fingers. The expression on his face is the same one i’ve seen on men looking at rows of tampons in the grocery store—confused, vaguely disgusted, but there’s a job to be done. He starts slicing pieces of my hair off and asks if I’m single and where I live. I answer in monosyllables as I identify telephones and exits.

The younger one offers me some of the roach he’s smoking and I decline. A man outside the store and sees me and asks to come in, but the young guy says they’re closed and doesn’t ask the man how much money hd has and doesn’t open the door for him. The man with dry fingers likcs his lips and asks me if I like girls.

My phone rings. It’s Joey. I leap out of my chair. “Oh, wow, I have to go.” My hair looks like a leaf pile two coeds just made out in. “Hair looks great, thanks you so much.” I give them some bills and sprint back to the Laundromat.

I check inside the dryer for children before I switch my clothes over. I catch my reflection in the window. I finger comb the piles of leaves on my head. The layers are random and drastic. Some sections are missing completely. It’s a statement, that’s for sure.

The next day at work, on the precipice of another cocktail hour in Manhattan, Asia, the coconut-blonde waitress, leans toward me with a bewitching smile. I can smell her perfume, Allure by Chanel.

“Your hair is so pretty, Marian,” she says in her vanilla-bean voice. “Where do you get it done?”

“This new place in Brooklyn,” I say. “It’s called the Laundromat. It’s really progressive.”

She polishes silver as a I rim a martini glass with sugar-in-the-raw.

“Ah,” she says vaguely, sizing up a table of bankers. “You’ll have to take me there sometime.”