by Carlos Colon
Right?
Right?
Hello, Nicky? This is what you wanted, right?
The pendant with broken clasp in my hand now has me questioning the intentions of my behavior. Was I trying to discourage Veronica from getting closer to me or did I really want to mark my territory? In other words, was I drawing a line in the sand and daring Hector to cross it?
I can see her out in the street, half a block away, talking to El Exigente and his muchachos. One of them opens the door to the passenger side of a white Cadillac parked across the street, holding her hand as she goes in. She’s only gone a few seconds, not even a block away, and yet I find myself already missing her.
How did this happen?
11
The blurred faces above me made muffled noises that I couldn’t comprehend. I was cold, shivering, with hazy recollections drifting in and out my mind, reflexively pushing away terrifying images. Teeth tearing at my neck. A stream of blood, my blood, forming a pool under me.
My head felt like a two-ton block of cement. Lifting it was an impossibility. And then there was the other sound, a distant one that wasn’t coming from the two blurs above me. A minute or so passed before I realized it was coming from me. It was the sound of my own moaning.
The voices started clearing up—enough for me to determine that they were two male voices, more curious than concerned about my well-being.
Was I abducted by aliens?
“Take it easy, young man,” said the one closest to me. His voice was thin, a little rough, like someone who had smoked too many cigarettes.
“He’s resistant,” said the second voice, which was softer and higher pitched.
And though I remained lying down, motionless, it felt like I was falling into a deep wide canyon with no promise of landing, a sensation that led to nausea. I bolted up into a sitting position.
“Easy! Easy, young man,” said the rougher voice as they both tried to ease me back down.
“He’s strong,” said the softer voice.
“Stay down, young man, you need to stay down,” said the other.
The red, I started to remember all the red. And I recalled being scared, having no control. Again I fought to sit up. “Hold him down,” barked the cigarette-worn voice.
Despite their efforts, I shot up and threw them back easily, like flicking lint off a sweater. As the two blurry figures picked themselves up off the floor, I noted that I was on a couch in someone’s apartment. But whose? And where?
The room was spinning, not only left to right, but also over and under like those tunnels in Coney Island. As one of the blurry figures sprung forward and tackled me back down to the couch, images began to clear. Again I tried to fight. I was overpowered. The guy with the rougher voice straddled me and sat on my chest. Not ready to give in, I made another effort to rise but was halted by a hard sharp object that was pressing against my heart.
His face came into focus. It matched his voice, jagged, cruel, and unshaven with lines and scars of a life not spent behind a desk. His salt and pepper hair was greasy and combed in a spiky cut. He had a turquoise earring on his left ear but it did nothing to soften his appearance. The object causing the increasing pressure on my chest looked strangely familiar. Was it? Could it be...?
“Young man, I am leaning my body right up against this wooden stake which is pointed directly at the center of your heart,” said the cigarette-ravaged voice. “Now the three of us have a lot to talk about. But if there is any upward movement on your part, this stake will pierce right through your heart and end any chance of us having a friendly little chat.”
“Travis, he’s scared,” said the softer, more sympathetic voice. “He doesn’t know what’s happening.” There was an understatement! I looked at my higher-pitched abductor. He was tall and wiry. I figure he was about in his early 30’s, maybe twenty years younger than his partner. His hair was blond; his face was smooth. Dare I say it? He was actually pretty. “We don’t want to hurt you,” he said in almost a maternal tone. “Just try to calm down and listen to us. You’ve been through a lot. Okay?”
Travis took a little pressure off the stake. “What do you say, young man, can we talk?”Did I have a choice? I nodded cooperatively. Cautiously, Travis pulled the stake away and helped me sit up. Deciding that I was no longer a threat, he placed the stake on a coffee table in front of the couch next to a copy of the Village Voice. Guns n’ Roses were on the cover. I remembered seeing that issue on a newsstand on the way to Mantle’s. But I still was unable to latch on to any thought that could piece together what was happening. Yes, my eyes were coming into focus and yes, my hearing was starting to clear up; my mind though was lagging way behind. Mantle’s, red, what was with all the red?
Travis and his friend sat down on a love seat adjacent to the couch I was sitting on. I looked at my surroundings. The apartment was neat and tastefully decorated except for the mess I made wrestling to break free.
Cigarette-voice had a way of sounding polite and threatening at the same time. “I’m Travis and this here is Donny. We looked through your wallet so we already know your name is Nicholas.” Check. Wait a minute. There was a check, a bonus check. Was this attack all about the check? Travis read my expression. “If you’re worried about your check, it’s still in your pocket.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” said Donny. “Do you remember anything?”
Orel Hershiser, why was I thinking about Orel Hershiser? The Ritz-Carlton, the Star Lounge; I couldn’t remember why but I was developing the suspicion that Stefanie wouldn’t have been too happy about something that I did. A sick feeling set in. I reached for my neck. “NO!!!” The flesh was torn and jagged. Travis and Donny saw the panic and got up to try and calm me.
“Sit down, young man. Sit down,” said Travis.
“NO! NO!” I continued to struggle.
“Nicholas, sit down,” said Travis pushing me back down on the couch. “We’re going to help you.” Help? It seemed to me I was a little bit beyond being helped.
Donny placed his hand on my shoulder. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
I felt the caked blood around the open gash above my collar. “That woman, who was she?”
“Her name is Simone,” answered Travis.
“What! You know her?”
“You could say we have a history.” Travis lowered his collar to expose a shredded wound similar to mine.
A halo of images circled above me, leading to the naked firm-breasted redhead straddling my hips. Normally that might be an appealing and arousing thought. Not so much when a piece of your neck is hanging from her teeth and your blood is spraying across her maniacally laughing face.
The wooden stake on the table, what’s with that? This was all too fucked-up to believe. “What the hell is going on?”
“You don’t have any idea what just happened to you, do you?” said Donny.
“Jesus! What time is it?” I ignored my queasiness and sprang up from the couch. “I have to get back to my family.”
Travis gestured me down. “Young man, right now the last thing you need is to see your family.”
“What do mean by that? What did you do to my family?”
“Nobody did anything to your family,” said Donny. “Your family is fine.”
“What time is it? My wife, she must be worried sick.”
Travis came over and led me back down to the couch. “Nicholas, I can’t stop you from doing what you want but right now you need to understand what is happening. You need to know your condition before you go back out and... Well, before you go out and walk among those that are not like you.”
I stood up again. “What does that mean?” By that point I had determined that the two men gently restraining me were not a threat. In fact, as they were saying, it seemed like they wanted to help. Regardless of that, I was becoming more agitated.
Travis remained firm. “Calm down young man, you need to understand your current situation.”
“And what situation is that?”
Travis took me by the shoulders and looked at me face-to-face. “You may be standing here, young man, talking and moving all about just like you have for the past number of years throughout your life, but the fact is you did not survive Simone’s attack.”
“What! What are you talking about? Where are we, anyway? Whose apartment is this?”
“This is our apartment,” said Donny. “We’re on Fourth Street in Soho.”
I was baffled. “What the fuck am I doing in Soho?”
“Never mind that,” said Travis. “Tell us what the last thing you remember is.”
“This is bullshit! I’m going home!” I ran for the front door. This time neither of them tried to stop me as I unlocked their door and bolted out.
In the building’s corridor to the right of their apartment was a stairway leading to a small foyer at the front of the building. The sounds from the street outside comforted me. But they weren’t the only sounds I was hearing. There was a couple on what I think was the fourth floor. They were screwing. On the floor below I was even able to hear someone flipping through the pages of a magazine while he was taking a shit.
“Aren’t we going to go after him?” asked Donny from inside his and Travis’ apartment.
How could I hear all this?
“He’s going to have to realize things for himself,” replied Travis. “Once he does, he’ll come back for answers—if he survives.”
On the first floor, through the glass door at the front of the building, I could see city life going on, business as usual. It brought the promise of restored sanity. But what about that remark Travis made, me coming back for answers? Whatever. I was not about to stop. If I could get back home to Stefanie, Jessie and Davey, once there, I could try and sort out what happened. I might not have the faintest idea of where to begin or how to even try to describe what occurred, but Stefanie had always been there for me in the past. Any chance of me putting my life back in order would have to begin with her.
It was early evening. Lights were coming at me from every direction as I stepped out onto Fourth Street. Streetlights, headlights, traffic lights, neon lights, I was overwhelmed like a small-town tourist from Idaho. The clothes I had on were the ones I wore that night at Mantle’s. Since I was dizzily stumbling along the sidewalk, bumping into random pedestrians, they probably assumed I was some sleazeball corporate suit that just staggered out of a three-martini business dinner. The dried up splotches of blood probably passed for vomit.
A taxi came to a screeching stop as I spiraled out into the street. The driver stuck his head out, waving his fist and shouting a string of unpleasantries in Arabic. When I made it to the other side, I collapsed onto the steps of a brownstone duplex where a well-dressed mother shielded the eyes of her little kindergartener. The faint sound coming from my throat caught the child’s attention.
“Help me.”
They quickly scurried past me and ducked into their home. The mother was menstruating. I smelt it! I didn’t know how I picked that up but I did. And it was making me...hungry?
A few minutes later I was able to pick myself up. My vision became clearer—enough so that I could see the typical New Yorker passersby avoiding eye contact with the wobbly spic in the filthy, wrinkled business suit. It was probably for the best. They were no longer fellow Big Apple residents to me. They were prey.
At the corner intersection, a pair of young ladies was looking into the display window of an art shop. They were students at the Metropolitan College campus on Canal Street. Though still weak and disoriented, I made my way towards them and pretended to admire the art in the window from a couple of steps away. The pretty little things were oblivious to any possible threat from the foul-odored stranger that was studying their reflections which were cast upon the glass. They were more interested in the abstract nuances of some local artist’s painting, batting around bullshit analytical critiques that made them feel more discerning.
A delectable assortment of scents came from their direction. One of them had a nice floral essence while the other was earthy, yet sweet. The pangs were unmistakable. My body felt heavy, my mouth dry. Instinctively I tried to take a deep breath to soak it all in.
Nothing.
What the hell?
Again I tried inhaling with nothing making its way into my lungs. Okay, how about exhaling? Nothing! Nothing passed through in either direction. Yet I didn’t feel like I was suffocating or choking!
“He’ll come back for answers,” said Travis when I left him and Donny back at their apartment.
He was right. I had to go back for answers.
But there was something I needed more. And it was only a few feet away.
All humans know the taste of blood, whether it be from cleanings at the dentist or from licking off a cut on your finger as a child. For most, it’s not a taste that is particularly appealing.
The menstrual cycle of the woman in front of the duplex with the child had activated my senses. But why her menstrual cycle? And why did it stir up such a hunger?
I was craving.
Craving for my dry throat to be coated by what ran through the veins of the lovely little art admirers.
At the expense of their young lives.
I had to get home quick. There was something wrong with me, terribly wrong. Was it hallucinogenics? Was I on some kind of substance that was about to make me do something I could never take back?
To see if I was presentable enough, I looked at the glass for my reflection.
It wasn’t there!
Where was it? The girls’ reflections were there, where was mine? I raised my hand and touched the glass, searching for a sign of myself. The earthier student turned towards me. She let out a gasp. Hearing her reaction, I turned to look at her. The other one then looked at me. Her mouth opened as if to shriek but no sound came out. They just turned and fled. It was as if they had just come face-to-face with Death itself.
Not having a reflection, I couldn’t see what they had seen because the cacophony of my emotions had not yet taken its toll.
“You need to know your condition before you go back out and walk among those that are not like you.”
What did he mean by that?
“You may be standing here, young man, talking and moving all about just like you have for the past number of years throughout your life, but the fact is you did not survive Simone’s attack.”
That made absolutely no sense. Nothing was making any fucking sense!
I turned back to the window. This time my reflection appeared. They had seen Death! My face was hollow, cadaverous—the look of a man that... shouldn’t be walking. I may have been above the earth, but I belonged under.
My face contorted. I sobbed loudly on the Soho street. Death was crying. Yet heavily as I wept, not one tear. I concluded that a dead man couldn’t shed any.
A supportive hand took my shoulder. It was Travis. His expression conveyed no sympathy. Later, as I grew to know him, I learned that’s how he was. His face remained the same whether he was happy, sad, or really pissed off. Donny was next to him. His face mirrored mine. Emotionally he was the exact opposite of Travis.
“Let’s go back inside,” said Travis. “It’s going to be a different world for you from now on. You’ve got a lot to learn.”
12
“Please be honest with us, Mr. Negrón. How is our daughter doing? What do you see in Myra’s future?” Gabriella Crawford is a hard working mother of two that commutes ninety minutes every day to her job at a major publishing house. Her husband Horace, an equally dedicated family man, works extra shifts at Port Authority to help pay for their three-bedroom apartment in one of the finer high-rises in Flatbush. Their fifteen-year-old son Nate is a typical young man of his age that has left his chair at the dining table to catch the opening tip of the Knick game on TV. He is unaware that sitting beside him on the couch is the father of Davey Negrón, the substance abuse counselor enjoying a hospitable dinner
with the Crawfords.
“She’s making progress,” answers Davey. “I am reasonably confident that she has a chance to straighten her life out in the not-too-distant future.” My boy, you are such a horseshit liar.
Mr. Crawford can tell. “I’m sorry, reasonably confident? What does that mean?” I feel so bad for this poor bastard. Horace Crawford is a burly bear of a man that always breaks down into tears at the family therapy sessions when his daughter goes into her hostile, disrespectful tirades about how overly strict he was in bringing her up. Gabriella also gets shredded by Myra for her disciplinary methods. She rants that her mother’s corporal punishment drove her to seek refuge with neighborhood friends whose street activities were less than wholesome.
“It means that each day brings your daughter farther from the old Myra and closer to the new Myra.” With a line of shit like that, Davey, someday you could run for office.
Why he bothers, I don’t know. Personally, I wouldn’t waste any time on a worthless little sludge like Myra Crawford. In fact, if it weren’t for the heroin-tainted blood that’s running through her veins, I would have no trouble feasting on her skinny little neck. The Crawfords, though, are exceedingly kind and generous of heart, which unfortunately has Davey extending himself far beyond the call of professional demand.
At all the sessions I have personally observed while keeping tabs on my boy, Myra has done nothing but throw trash-mouthed bile at the two people who are fighting the hardest to save her life. Why? Because they are trying to keep her away from Darryl, the heroin-addicted, gonorrhea-infected, twice-arrested piece of shit that has an inexplicable hold on her. Only for the vermin that treats her like an under-the-bridge crack whore, while spreading his venereal disease onto her, along with getting her addicted to heroin, does any warmth pass through Myra’s lips. And that’s with her knowing that he’s been screwing around with some other junk-addicted skank from the same neighborhood. But hey, Myra puts the blame for that on her parents too because they tried to distance her from him. Yes, minor flaws notwithstanding, Myra remains convinced that Darryl is the love of her life.
