Boys

by Scott Semegran

  SALUD!

  As we headed south past Auditorium Shores, past the joggers on the trail with their dogs or girlfriends or their loneliness, past The Palmer Auditorium, past Sandy's Hamburgers, we soon passed my apartment, ignoring the urge to go home, plop on the couch, and smoke a bowl.

  "Home sweet home!" I said, pointing.

  "What do you think Mr. Whiskers is doing right now?" Alfonso said.

  "Who knows. Licking his balls, maybe."

  "Sounds nice."

  "It does, doesn't it?"

  Alfonso was the navigator and he attempted to read the directions to the special customer's house--holding the crumpled piece of paper in front of him, trying to decipher the written directions without his glasses because he was just too cool to be bothered with wearing his glasses sometimes--although it would still be difficult to read even with his glasses on because Levonne's handwriting resembled a kindergartener's handwriting. He called out the bits of information he could decode and I compiled them with my own knowledge of the neighborhood, planning my next turn accordingly, and once I knew I was near the Bouldin area, I turned right into the hood, slowing down to a crawl, turning the rap music off, rolling down my window, and watching for kids or pets in the street.

  "We're close," I said, my eyes glancing left and right for surprise pedestrians.

  "I've never been around here," Alfonso said.

  "It's a quiet little neighborhood."

  "Do you know where we're going?"

  "Yeah, kinda, but we'll just have to park at the first spot I find so we can walk. Not much parking around here, not even for the residents," I said, scanning both sides of the street for an empty space between the V.W. vans, late model American cars, and Volvo sedans. A tiny space appeared and I exploded with excitement. "There!"

  I parallel parked my Civic (like a champ) and we hopped out, popped the trunk, and gathered up our delivery. The food was still quite hot and I could feel the heat from inside the to-go bags. Alfonso offered me a cigarette as we began to walk.

  "Question: what would you do if you won the lottery?" Alfonso said, sucking his smoke.

  "The lottery, huh? How much are we talking about?"

  "Well, the last big lottery jackpot was $6.5 million so let's round down and say $6 million. We don't want to be too greedy."

  "Hmmm, what would I do with $6 million?"

  "Yep, let's say we're at The GODDAMN and we bought some tall boys and some cat food and some Hamburger Helper but without the hamburger and you bought a quick pick and we went home and the next day you were reading the paper--"

  "We don't get the paper!" I said, laughing up a storm at the ridiculous idea of wasting our precious money on buying a newspaper.

  "Hey! This is my fantasy. Let me live it. So, you're reading the paper while sipping a cup of hot tea." We giggled some more. Preposterous! "And you check your numbers and discover that you won $6 million. What would be the first thing you do?"

  "Goddamn, that's a LOT of money."

  "Bet your britches, it is. A shitload of money."

  We walked down the middle of the street, parked cars up and down both sides, no sidewalks in this old neighborhood, just lawns stretching to the curbs. Dogs barked from backyards, cats and squirrels raced. It was the kind of old neighborhood where the residence enjoyed their yards and each other. I just seemed to know where I was going--although I had no idea--and Alfonso just followed me.

  "I imagine I would give most of it to my family and friends, maybe some to charity. That's an insane amount of money, really," I said.

  "You wouldn't buy a new car?" Alfonso said.

  "What's wrong with my car?!"

  "Uh, it's kind of a hoopty," he said, punctuated with a pshaw.

  "It gets us to work, doesn't it?"

  "Yeah, I guess."

  "I'm cool with my car."

  "So, what you're saying is that if you won an insane amount of money, you'd give most of it away to friends like me and to your family who doesn't talk to you much or help you?"

  "That's right."

  "Weird."

  "Oh yeah? What would you do with $6 million?" I looked at my friend, who was looking the other way, sucking on his smoke, contemplating something, accounting for his imaginary winnings.

  "Probably the same as you. Give it away, except I'd buy a nice ass ride. Something pimp!"

  "Word," I said. "What's the house number?"

  Alfonso pulled Levonne's wadded instructions from his back pocket and read the house number.

  "134," he said.

  "We're close. Must be a little ways up on the left."

  As we continued up the street, a calmness settled down around us, the barking dogs from earlier seemed more distant, giving way to a serene dance of June bugs, grasshoppers, and dragon flies in the front lawn of house 134: our destination. We walked across the well-kempt grass in front of the small cottage-style house, the front porch jam-packed with potted succulents, flowers, and cacti, organized meticulously, every one carefully in its place. The little house was in immaculate shape, lovingly cared for by its owner or someone, the paint fresh, the siding and roof pretty new, the windows clean and shiny. We admired it for a bit, looking around the yard, watching the dancing bugs over the green sea of St. Augustine grass blades. Alfonso nudged me to notify the owner and he looked for a doorbell. He found one to the right of the door, a colorful Rastafarian plate around the doorbell button. The plate was a bright red, green, and yellow, shaped like a silhouette of a Rasta's head--the button in the middle like it was the Rasta's nose--with two words embossed at the top of the plate. It said, 'One Love.' I pushed the Rasta's nose and the doorbell jingled a reggae tune inside the house. We could hear light footsteps inside coming toward us, the creak of the pier and beam foundation squeaking with each footstep. The front door opened, revealing a small, elderly woman with a sweet smile, teeth bright like pearls reflecting in the sun, long silver hair pulled back in a ponytail, her body diminutive and slim and her skin a translucent, milky white, wearing a brightly colored dress. She looked at us, smiling, even a small-fry like me a giant next to her.

  "Good day," she said. Me and Alfonso nodded. "Please come in."

  She opened the door wider, motioning for us to enter, and without hesitation, we did.

  A Most Miraculous Trip

  We tip-toed around the little, old lady, being careful not to accidentally trip over her and crush her, giving her room to waddle and maneuver. She giggled at our over-eager attempts at politeness, knowing full-well that we wouldn't hurt her on purpose (I was certain she could tell). She closed the door behind us and motioned for us to follow her.

  "Please, if you may, bring the food into the kitchen. It's this way," she said.

  We watched her slowly shuffle toward where we assumed the kitchen would be and took the opportunity to marvel at the parlor room we found ourselves in, as meticulous inside the house as it was outside, filled with a bohemian combination of antique furniture, music memorabilia photos and knick knacks, brightly colored accessories, burly Asian rugs, with a Victorian tea set here, a Japanese sake set there. Reggae music played from a small set of speakers perched on a window sill, a dub track that was slow and low and hypnotic and very soothing. I nudged Alfonso in his gut and the unexpected poke prompted him to rub his tummy, the circular motion of his hands around his mid-section accompanied by a giggle and a booty shake. We soon headed for the kitchen through a door at the back of the parlor room.

  In the kitchen, the little, old lady stood on a stepping stool and leaned over a stove, turning a knob to light the oven, stepping down from the stool and motioning for us to come closer.

  "Can you put the food in the oven?" she said, bowing down before us, sliding the stool away from the oven.

  Alfonso stepped forward, leaned over, opened the oven door, and placed the trays of food he was carrying inside. He turned to me and took the bags I was carrying, opened them, and placed the food in the oven as well. This pleased the li
ttle, old lady. She waddled up to Alfonso and patted him on the back, gently and lovingly.

  "Please, sit with me and have a drink. Would you?" she said.

  We looked at each other, caught off-guard by her friendly request. At the end of the kitchen, a round table sat in a breakfast area in front of a very large picture-frame window overlooking the lush backyard--four chairs around the table, a bottle of rum and a few small glasses in the middle of the table top, and what appeared to be an ashtray and a lighter. Alfonso looked at his watch and I shrugged as if to say, 'Fuck it.' The proposition sounded much, much better than going back to the P.W. to work or going home to sit around my coffee table without a bottle of rum on it or any warm food in our oven. We nodded to each other then sat at the table. The little, old lady waddled after us.

  "My name is Sarah. And you?" she said, sitting at the table then pouring some rum for us, then some for herself.

  "Alfonso," he said.

  "Seff," I said.

  "Nice to meet you both," she said. She raised her small glass. "To good health. Toast with me. Cheers!"

  "Cheers!" we said. Our three glasses clinked in mid-air and we drank our rum together.

  SALUD!

  "It was a surprise seeing your two kind faces. Another man has been delivering my food the last few weeks and he seems kind of dour, nice nonetheless, but still dour."

  "That must be our boss man, Dan," I said.

  "Yeah, he's the G.M. He runs the restaurant," Alfonso said.

  "I see," Sarah said. "I hope he is a good boss to you, then." We said nothing, trying to sip the last drops of rum from our glasses, imagining sour-puss Dan the G.M. delivering this sweet, old lady's food with as much enthusiasm as trying to push out a constipated turd. The little, old lady offered us more rum and we accepted, then poured some in our glasses. "Did you both grow up in Austin?"

  The rum began swerving through our veins and a warm, fuzzy feeling enveloped our bodies, that feeling that comes from downing straight alcohol midday without much food in the stomach. We looked at each other and laughed. Up until that point, nobody seemed to care about us enough to ask anything beyond what kind of salad dressing was available for the dinner salad or what kind of sauce was best on spaghetti or if there was any more free bread or if glasses could be refilled with tea. It was a nice change.

  "I'm from Rosenberg," Alfonso said, his eyes fixated on the ashtray, a shiny cigarette laying in the glass dish--upon closer inspection--was not a cigarette at all, but a smoking device painted to look like a cigarette: a one hitter. "Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?"

  "Not at all. I didn't know young people smoked anymore. I'll join you in a bit. So, Rosenberg? That's near Houston. Am I right?"

  "Yes, ma'am," he said, lighting a cigarette and looking at me, then rolling his eye in such a way to get me to look at what he discovered in the ashtray, but I wouldn't look. It seemed rude. "It's about 20 minutes outside of Houston."

  "And you?" she said, smiling at me. "Are you from Rosenberg as well?"

  "No, I grew up in San Antonio. I moved to Austin to go to college, fell in love with this town, and made it my home. I tried to find a real job after I graduated from college but couldn't. I guess that's how I ended up at the Pasta Warehouse. I thought making tips must be better than making minimum wage. Boy, was I wrong." We laughed a forced laugh, the type that comes after someone tells an uncomfortable truth, a truth with a little sadness behind it, and it bears the weight of complacency.

  "Life can be funny that way. Sometimes, things turn out differently than you expect. Nothing wrong with that, though. That's just the way life is."

  "Are you from Austin?" I said.

  "Yes, pretty much. When I was a girl, my family lived near Georgetown. My daddy was an electrician. My mama was a school teacher. I have strong memories of wanting a big family, wanting a bunch of brothers and sisters to play with, but my parents only had me. And since I was an only child, I was also a lonely child. My parents worked so much that I always felt alone." Sarah picked up the one hitter and tapped it on the edge of the glass ashtray, a little ash sprinkling out, the high-pitched clink of metal on glass, a sound I immediately recognized. I stared in disbelief at the little, old lady with a one hitter in her hand and I gave a wide-eyed look to Alfonso. He rolled his eyes back at me, annoyed. "I learned at a young age that if I didn't get what I wanted then I had to go look for it. I knew I wanted to see the world so I moved to the big city, Austin, Texas."

  She reached behind her and opened a drawer to a small table, pulling out a small, glass mason jar with three, bright green marijuana buds in it, tiny glistening tricomes reflecting in the sun light. She opened the jar and took a pinch from one of the buds, then crammed the pinch into the end of the one hitter. She offered it to us. Alfonso quickly accepted. He placed the one hitter to his lips and lit it with his Zippo lighter. As soon as the smoke hit his lungs, he coughed roughly, smoke pouring out of every orifice in his head. He passed the one hitter and Zippo to me and I took a more cautious hit than my overzealous friend. When I was through, I gave the one hitter to Sarah, who tapped it on the ashtray again, took another small pinch from her stash, loaded the pipe, and took a small drag herself. She didn't cough or explain herself; most stoners didn't when they realized they were in the midst of their own. A serene smile slid across her face as she continued.

  "I was accepted to attend the University of Texas at Austin and I thought that would be a great starting point to get out and see the world. I moved into a Co-op and quickly realized just how different college life was going to be from the small town life I was used to. The friends I made there were so kind and loving. The seeds of the Hippie Movement were being sewn then in the early 60s and I was exposed to it right away at the Co-op. There was a lot of drinking and smoking and singing and sharing. It was an electric place to live."

  "Oh, man. When I went to U.T., I spent a lot of time at those Co-ops," I said, leaning back in my chair, resting my arms behind my heavy head, a big smile on my face. "The best parties were at the Co-ops."

  "So, we're both Longhorns, then?" Sarah said.

  "Hook 'em," I said.

  "Hook 'em," she said, raising her hand in the sign of the horns. "Anyway, as much fun as it was, I really wanted to see the world more than anything and I spent most of my free time when I wasn't doing my chores for the Co-op or smoking grass with my roommates looking into opportunities to travel and the most affordable way to do it, it seemed, was to volunteer."

  "You mean, like join the Peace Corps or something?" Alfonso said, lighting himself a cigarette and pouring the three of us some more rum.

  "Sure. That was an opportunity but there were many more opportunities as well. The world was becoming a smaller place and it seemed the United States wanted to be the leader. If you wanted to volunteer your time and see the world, then some charity was willing to let you do it. So I took the first opportunity I could during my first summer break from college and I never looked back."

  "What did your parents think of you wanting to leave the country?" I said.

  "You know, they were typical small town folk so the idea of leaving the country was a little scary to them. Asking their advice or opinion about it wouldn't have done me much good since I already knew they would say not to go. But I wanted to go. I wanted to see the world. I didn't want to just find a job in Georgetown and work or just stay on campus and study. Also, I didn't ask my parents for any money so my desire to see the world wasn't a burden on them. I found a volunteer opportunity in Haiti and I accepted it. The first time I ever flew in a plane to another country was for that trip. It was a miraculous flight."

  We settled into a relaxed slump in our chairs, the THC coursing through our veins, the rum settling nicely in our guts, Sarah's story projecting in our minds. As she continued, a movement in the backyard caught my eyes and I gazed out to the picturesque yard, a dance of june bugs, grasshoppers, and dragon flies swirling around just outside the window. In combination wi
th the slow dub tune playing softly from the front of the house, it was a mesmerizing sight to see.

  "I just stared out the window the entire flight," she said, a sparkle in her eye as she reminisced. "The world was just so beautiful to my young eyes. When we landed in Haiti, my volunteer work started right away. I was sent there to help a charity whose sole purpose was vaccinating children from polio and it really was a wonderful opportunity for me. The people and especially the children of Haiti were so beautifully sweet and kind. I worked during the day in a renovated building in Port-au-Prince that once was a pool hall and at night, I was free to do what I pleased. I would find ways to go to the beach, catch a bus or ride a bicycle, and I would walk late into the night, looking at the stars, listening to the ocean crash onto the beach, and eating fruit for dinner. It was wonderful."

  "Sounds amazing," I said.

  "It really was. I heard rumors that things in Haiti weren't too great for its people and that there was an undercurrent of terror created by the government under Papa Doc but I never experienced or witnessed any of that. My days were consumed by smiling faces of the Haitian children and night walking on the beach. Before I knew it, the entire summer had passed by and it was almost time for me to go home. A few nights before I was supposed to fly back home to Austin, I was walking on the beach and I had a realization that it wasn't my time to go back home, I still had more traveling to do and more things to see. I decided that night that I was not going to get on the plane back to the United States."