by Carlos Colon
She reaches down but can’t take her eyes of her former trombone playing beau who’s trying to wrestle away from my one-handed choke hold. Am I crazy or is she a little turned on by this? Or maybe she’s just scared because Roberto’s face is turning blue. Fuck it, I’ll let him go. With the lack of oxygen going into his brain right now, he’s no threat to anyone. My release sends him to the floor like a pile of dirty laundry. “Veronica, I said go inside.” The door is open but she won’t go in. She probably wants to see what I’m going to do next.
With Roberto seemingly unable to find his legs, I reach out to help him up by the collar of his jacket. Hey, nice material, I gotta pick one of these up—without the band logo, of course.
“Listen amigo, she never wants to see you again,” I warn, as he desperately gasps for some air. “And you never want to see me again.” His eyes are blank. He may be shivering with terror, but I think he’s absorbing the message. “Now get the fuck outa here.”
My shove sends him staggering, reaching for a wall to maintain his balance. I grab him by the jacket again and throw him a few feet further down the hall.
“You! You’re a freak!” he yells. Tell me something I don’t know. “This ain’t over, man! You hear me? This ain’t over! Freak!”
No need for me to reply. My point is made. I’ll just watch as he turns the corridor and scampers towards the elevator.
Veronica’s visibly shaken. Tears form in her eyes. “Can you stay a little bit, Georgie? I’m scared.”
Uh, no, I’m pushing my luck as it is. Daylight is approaching and I am a couple of miles from the comforting darkness of my coffin. This is as far as my chivalry can go. “Lo siento, Veronica. No puedo.”
Her lips quiver. “Por favór, Georgie, tengo miedo.”
My cold thumb catches a tear before it runs down her face. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him bother you again.”
Shit!
Serves me right.
This is exactly the kind of thing I’m supposed to avoid. If I leave now, she will never forgive me and I’m going to look like the biggest asshole in Newark to her. No doubt everyone in the hospital will hear about it, too. But unless I want to turn into a pile of ashes here at the Martin Luther King projects, it’s time I high-tail—
My back!
Fuck, what time is it?
I’m burning!
I don’t believe this!
My head, it’s starting to spin.
The end of the hallway, around the corridor, I can see it coming. The dawn! It’s seeping in through the big window in front of the elevator.
Veronica can’t help but see my sudden expression of panic and my legs buckling from under me. “Georgie, what’s wrong?”
How could I have lost track of the time? Could it have been the company of a beautiful woman like Veronica (even with her babbling bullshit)? Was it the touch of her skin when I held her hand? Was it her eyes and the way she looked at me when I was protecting her? Or was it that all these things that brought feelings back from when I was alive, had gotten me so carried away that I forgot that I am dead? What am I going to do? If Veronica was terrified before, imagine her reaction when her heroic work buddy suddenly bursts into flames.
The sight of my face slamming onto her hardwood floor as I collapse into her apartment, sends Veronica into a panic. “Georgie, que pasa, Georgie?”
Can’t tell you, querida. No way you’d understand.
A minute ago I was strong as a bull, lifting her ex off the ground with one hand. Now she sees that same bull writhing on the floor in the fetal position, inexplicably burning under his clothes.
The window in the kitchen behind her has the shade wide open the pending daylight piercing through. It’s already barbecuing her undead compañero. “Oh my God, Georgie! What do I do?”
Her startled sons burst out of their bedroom to find a grown man crawling into their living room, looking like he’s about to go up in flames (except there’s no fire...yet).
“Get me out of the light!” A good thing Roberto’s not around now or our confrontation might have had a different ending.
The sun is just minutes away from searing in through the living room window. Veronica is confused, frightened, desperate to help. But she has no idea what to do. How could she? “What do I do, Georgie? What do you want me to do?”
“Closet, get me in a closet.” She stares at me quizzically. I’m not even sure she even made out what I said. It was barely above a whisper. “Now!” That time it wasn’t a whisper.
Veronica snaps to attention.
“Ayudanme, muchachos!” She calls the boys to take me by the arms while she wraps her arms around my chest in an attempt to pick me up. It’s agonizing. Their touch against my burning, dead flesh is unbearable.
My pained shout startles the boys and they pull their arms away for fear of hurting me. The older one looks about twelve, the younger one nine. They shouldn’t have to see something like this but there’s no choice.
“No, don’t stop!” I’ll bear with the pain. Veronica’s bedroom is only a couple of steps away. If they can get me close enough, I can stagger through the doorway and make a dash for the closet.
The TV in their living room is off. On the darkened screen is the reflection of a mother and her young boys trying to aid a man about to burst into flames. That means my projection is gone (which is no surprise). In this type of agony, we are unable to control our capabilities. So far, in their panic, they either haven’t noticed or haven’t reacted to my death face. Frightened as they already are, that’s the last thing they need to see.
Veronica holds the closet door open in her bedroom. I’m close enough to make a quick run and throw my smoking torso into what must be a pile of a hundred fucking shoes.
“Close it! Close the door!” I don’t even feel the half dozen handbags that fall onto my head from Veronica’s overly determined slam. I’m more concerned with the light bleeding in from outside underneath the door, a problem solved by yanking one of her dresses from above and tucking it under.
Veronica leans against the door, breathing heavily. “Are you all right, Georgie?” Damn, that was close. I’m so weak I’m not even sure I can respond. “Georgie?”
“It’s okay. I’ll be all right, thank you. Just please don’t open the door.”
“Georgie, I don’t understand? What’s wrong?”
What a strange turn of events. Now she is the one who is protecting me. “I have a condition. I can’t be in the daylight. That’s why I work at night.” Wrap your mind around that one, babe.
“Daylight? What is it, like a skin condition?”
Please, Veronica, just go away. “Yeah, kind of...”
“But Georgie, we work in a hospital. Maybe they can do something.”
Dammit, woman don’t you have to get the kids ready for school? “No, it’s incurable.”
“How do you know, Georgie? Maybe there’s like a new treatment or something.” This woman isn’t going to let go, is she? “Let me look it up. What you got, what’s it called?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about it.”
“No, Georgie. I want to help. Let me look it up.” Holy shit she’s persistent.
“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
“So then I can open the door?”
“No! No! Porphyria, it’s called porphyria.”
“Por-what?”
“Porphyria.”
“Por... por... what is that?”
“Please, please... I’ll explain later. Just let me rest for a little bit. Please.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
Silence.
Thank you.
She’s off to the kitchen. “Vamos, muchachos, limpiesen. Tienen que prepararse para escuela.”
Time for the boys to clean up and get dressed for school. Poor little bastards, I must’ve traumatized the shit out of them.
“Quien es ese hombre, Mami?” The older one’s a little more curious as to who this walk
ing torch is that’s hiding inside her closet.
“That’s my friend, baby. His name is Georgie.”
#
An hour has passed. The boys have left for school and I’m well enough to fall into my inanimate state. That is, assuming Veronica can manage to shut up and leave me alone.
“Georgie? Georgie, honey, you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I just need to rest.”
“Can I get you anything?”
Dammit, woman! “No, no, I’m good. Just please don’t open the door.” It’s not my coffin but it’ll do, even with her four inch heels poking me in the ass.
“Okay honey, I’m going to go to sleep now but I’ll be right here if you need me.”
As a night shift worker her daily routine is similar to mine except that during the weekend she can spend some daytime hours with her boys. Hopefully she won’t wake up before dark and check inside the closet. If she does she’ll find her previously heroic friend bursting into flames above her shoe collection.
Being that we are not sleeping as we did during our living years, our inanimate state leaves us dangerously vulnerable. It’s not like we’re dreaming, snoring, counting sheep or any of that shit. We’re dead, dead as your great-great-grandmother. You can blast Uptown Funk and throw a party with a hundred guests in front of our open coffin. We won’t hear or feel a thing. That is why I lock my coffin from inside. Call me paranoid, but how else could I possibly rest in peace (pun intended) without any fear of being exposed to the daylight? What if some curious asshole finds the casket in the afternoon and tries to open it?
What’s that noise?
Holy fuck, is that Veronica snoring? Man she fell out fast. She sounds like a lawn mower. How can she fall asleep like that? I would think anyone would be completely wired and tense after a morning like she just had—not exactly the ideal way to end a work shift. The excess drama must have completely wiped her out.
But hey, at least she finally got me in her bedroom. Unfortunately for her it wasn’t quite the way she imagined it.
7
Coach Nathan of the Hunter College Hawks baseball team used to get a great kick out of his starting second baseman Sticky Nicky. I don’t know where he came up with that nickname. I hated it. It made me sound like I just stepped out of the bathroom with a copy of Penthouse. But to him it was a term of affection. He saw me as a scrappy kid that was also the team’s most physical player. I stirred up the most action even though I was the smallest player on the field. My playing style involved diving for balls, sliding hard into bases, and barreling into catchers that were twice my size. He called me the Puerto Rican Pete Rose.
As a team we weren’t that good, we always lost a few more than we won. But my constant harassment of star players on the better, opposing teams was a constant source of entertainment to our supporters in the bleachers. Even the girlfriends of our more talented players would single me out as their favorite.
My “scrappiness” often drew physical confrontations with our opponents and charged up my teammates along with our followers in the stands. They loved how I never backed down to anyone—even if it was the 6’2”, 220 lb. All-City starting first baseman. Which is why, even with me not being the greatest hitter or fielder, I became the player everyone most enjoyed watching.
When Stefanie came to our game against Bronx Community, she witnessed this first hand and was able to hear some of the girls sitting in the bleachers, giggling about the cutest guy on the team. Apparently it was me. I couldn’t have planned it any better.
Doing my best to impress my tutor, I stole two bases and slammed into Bronx Community’s buffalo-sized catcher while trying to score from first on a single. I was out by a mile and the catcher never even budged. He flinched about as much as he would have if a fly had landed on his shoulder. Still, it was theatrical enough to get a good response from the bleachers.
When I picked myself up and dusted off, the catcher smirked as he threw the ball back to the pitcher. He couldn’t resist stirring the shit. “Go sit down, cucaracha.”
I took the bait.
Ready to rumble, I charged him but was intercepted by our on-deck batter and the umpire before I could take a swing at him. The umpire then continued to fan the flame by throwing me out of the game, which incited from me a rant of ear-melting profanities.
Our bleacher supporters ate it up. Stefanie though, found my behavior a little unnerving—so much for impressing her on the baseball field. Now I was down in two categories, English class fuck-up and poor sportsman.
“Why do you play like that?” she asked later at the Kingsbridge Diner (a nice Italian dinner at an Arthur Avenue restaurant wasn’t exactly in my budget). Besides, in those days a greasy spic from the South Bronx probably wouldn’t have been welcome there.
“Everyone on my team and all the other teams are like four inches and twenty pounds larger than me,” I said. “That leaves me at a disadvantage. So everything I do, whether it’s getting on base or scoring a run, I gotta fight for it.”
Stefanie studied Sticky Nicky as he poured ketchup on his burger and fries. I wasn’t stating my case too convincingly. “It didn’t look like that. It looked like you wanted to start a fight just for the sake of starting a fight.”
“Nah, that’s just the way I play.”
Apparently my aggressive style of play was more interesting than her tuna fish sandwich. “Maybe football is more your sport.”
“Actually, I tried out for football. I just didn’t make the team.”
“Well, from the sounds of the girls in the bleachers it looks like you have a nice little fan section.”
I laughed. “Them? Nah, they’re all dating the good players on the team.”
“You don’t think you’re good?”
“Oh, I’m okay. It’s just that everyone else is better.”
“Oh, stop it. You act like you’re the worst player on the team.”
“Hey, I’m only hitting like two-sixty. That is the worst on the team.”
“It’s not all about offense, you know.”
That stopped me mid-bite. “Oh, so listen to the sports analyst over here.”
Stefanie shifted the conversation back. “So you’re not dating any of them?”
“What?”
“The girls in the rooting section.”
“Oh, nah, don’t have the time, too busy to date. I got school, work, and it’s just me in the apartment so, you know, gotta pay the rent.”
It was a reminder of the previous night’s conversation. There was no mom in my apartment when I got home from school, no dad coming home from work, and no one to talk to about college, plans, or anything else. It was all up to me. No one checked my grades, no one paid my rent and no one from home came to the ball games to root for me. I was one hundred percent my own person.
“You must really miss your family,” said Stefanie, again stopping me mid-bite on my burger. When she realized it wasn’t the best point to bring up, she tried to retract. “Nicky, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, no, it’s okay. I just... I just don’t ever really talk about it. I just...”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
We had already done so the night before, the sounds of my mother screaming, cries of my strong, proud father, my sister’s blood spreading on the street in front of the car, the crowd gathering around her lifeless body, the fury of my mother’s fists pounding against my face, my pants soaked in warm urine. “No,” I answered quietly. “Not anymore.”
There was no further talk at all that evening—no baseball, no Chaucer, no college, nothing. When we got back to my car, which was parked under the Jerome Avenue El, I awkwardly bumped into her while reaching for the door on the passenger side.
It felt electric.
Not the door handle, her body.
We had avoided making eye contact since we left the diner. It was if we thought it might lead to an impulse we wouldn’t be able to control. Boy, were we right. J
ust as I opened the door we caught each other’s glance. That was all it took.
We fell into the front seat on the passenger side, hungrily locking our lips together in a forceful embrace. We then paused for a second and looked at each other.
Oh yeah, we were ready.
It wasn’t the ideal place, a parked car on Jerome Avenue with the Woodlawn Express roaring above us, but hey, these things happen when they happen. The mind goes blank and the bodies take over. I don’t even remember how we journeyed our way to the back seat that night, but I do remember us sweating out the delay in her time of the month for about ten days.
I also ended up getting a “D” in English—nothing to brag about, but at least I passed.
#
The cloud was all but lifted. For the first time since I could remember, Los Ruidos had lost some of their grip and were allowing me to breathe a little freer. Tinnitus by definition never goes away but when you’re able to tune it out, life can be a bit more agreeable. And with my mind always being on Stefanie, the presence of Los Ruidos was barely noticeable.
Our study sessions together usually began with all proper intentions at her apartment until her father’s increasingly intrusive eye led us to seek solitude in mine—an obviously bad idea. It resulted in very little studying, a worn out mattress, a stained couch, and even a broken dining room table (we got a little carried away that afternoon).
My newfound high spirits, though, also had an effect on the Hunter College Hawks—and it wasn’t a good one. Their gritty second baseman had mellowed. He had lost his aggressive edge. And since my other attributes were unspectacular at best, it made my spot on the roster virtually worthless. In my senior year I didn’t even make the final cut.
Coach Nathan said it best. “You play like you just don’t give a shit anymore.”
He wasn’t wrong. Being with Stefanie was all that my time allowed for. Nothing else mattered. Even Carmen, the super’s wife, saw the difference in me. And though she was disappointed that I was no longer sneaking into her bedroom for our usual gymnastics while hubby went to Ace Hardware for maintenance supplies, she actually seemed happy for me. We had had our share of fun, but now it was nice to no longer have to look over my shoulder while her legs were wrapped around my ass. Besides, she had other playmates like the postal worker in apartment 3A and the pharmacist that lived on the fifth floor.
