Staten Island Noir

by Patricia Smith

  "Yes, Amy, I swear on my hairy balls that I do."

  Amy stuck her tongue out at Benny, who gave her the finger in response. They'd been flirting all year; nothing had happened. Mikey sat down, picked at a plate of pasta salad. He looked back toward the patio and saw his uncle Tommy letting himself in through the chain-link gate at the side of the house. His uncle—squat, mustachioed, and grim, raising three kids on his own—was wearing construction clothes. He'd come straight from a job, on a Saturday.

  Tommy plucked two tall boys of Bud from the enormous white cooler stationed near the grill and walked over to their table. Every stiff-legged, achy stride pushed a wince across his face. He handed Mikey one of the cans and took a long, foamy pull on his own.

  "Congrats, Mikey." Tommy brought his beer can down, knocked it into the one he'd put in Mikey's hand. He looked around the table at the others. "Having fun?"

  Mikey cracked his beer, took a surreptitious sip.

  "Yeah, I am now."

  Tommy laughed. "Good. Well, enjoy your day. Enjoy your day."

  He turned away and then turned back, a quick pirouette that caught Mikey in the middle of rolling his eyes at Jenny.

  "Because a week from Monday, you come to work with me. Gonna teach you a little something about hard work before you head up to that country club."

  He walked over to the other adults huddled on the patio. Benny started to laugh. Mikey told him to shut up.

  "Sorry, bro. That sucks. That really sucks."

  Pete shrugged his shoulders. "At least he gave you a beer."

  * * *

  The next morning, Mikey got up early and went down to the kitchen. His mother was cooking bacon and eggs. A white box from Galluccio's bakery peeked open on the kitchen table, the red and white twining already cut. He walked up beside his mom and kissed her cheek. He glanced out the window above the sink to the backyard. Already clean. The chairs folded, the trash collected in four tidy white bags.

  "Mom, you should have waited. I would have helped you clean up."

  "It was nothing. Took no time at all."

  With her spatula, she lifted a few pieces of bacon out of the hissing pan and dropped them on a plate covered with a paper towel. Mikey grabbed a piece of bacon and put it in his mouth.

  "Christ, Michael, at least wait for it to cool off." She laughed. "You know, I saw that beer Uncle Tommy gave you yesterday. I let it slide but don't get used to it. You're still living under my roof."

  "Jesus, Mom, it was one beer."

  "I don't know what my brother is thinking sometimes."

  Mikey reached for another piece of bacon from the plate. His mother put the last of the bacon in the fat-filled pan and it crackled before fading into an agitated sizzle.

  "Yeah, Mom, about Uncle Tommy, I don't know about this construction job. I thought I'd work at the CYO camp again."

  "Michael, the pay is great. You'll make three times what you did at the camp. You'll have some pocket money at school."

  "I don't need money for school, Mom. I have a scholarship."

  "That doesn't cover everything. You want a bike to get to class? Or some CDs? Or what if Jenny comes to visit, you want to take her out to dinner? These things cost money." She pointed the grease-coated end of the spatula at him to accentuate each point.

  "But Coach Whelan said I need to gain weight this summer. He said I need to gain ten to fifteen pounds of muscle."

  "This job will help. You'll be lifting things all day."

  Mikey knew he wouldn't win. He retreated to the kitchen table and flopped into one of the chairs.

  His mother talked at him over her shoulder, her voice raised so he'd hear her above the frying bacon. "Michael, you know how things are right now. Money is tight. This will really help."

  She turned off the burner, brought the plate of bacon over to the table. She sat down next to him.

  "And look, you have a week before you start. Go and have some fun. No moping."

  Mikey's pout eased into a reluctant smile. He knew he was being selfish but he couldn't help it. He'd worked hard for four years. He hadn't slacked off his senior year like most of his friends. He'd kept his grades up even though it didn't come easy, had never come easy. He'd busted his ass, in the classroom, in the batting cage, on the field. He'd earned that scholarship. He figured he was due a breezy summer.

  Mikey's dad walked into the kitchen, took a crumb bun out of the bakery box. He'd probably overheard their conversation and waited things out in the living room. Left all the heavy lifting to Mom. As usual. He stood there for a minute, taking small bites out of the crumb bun. He'd been on furlough for four months. Not sure when it would end. Money was tight.

  "Tommy told me that you'll be working out at Shea Stadium. That'll be cool, right?" Powdered sugar stuck in the corners of his father's mustache. He said this seriously, like it made up for the fact that Mikey's summer was ruined.

  Mikey stood up, put on his baseball cap, and stared straight at his father. He was already a few inches taller and now he was actually taking his father's place, bringing in money for the family. He pointed to the emblem on his cap, filled his voice with sarcasm. "Yeah, it'll be cool. Except for the fact that I'm a Yankees fan and except for the fact that Shea is a fucking dump."

  Mikey didn't wait around to be reprimanded. He walked out the side door into the bright morning sun. He didn't see his father turn to his mother for an explanation, didn't see his mother shrug her shoulders in response.

  * * *

  Mikey did what his mother suggested: he tried to squeeze a whole summer into one week. Went down the shore with Pete to his parents' house for a few nights. Took the 4 train up to the stadium and caught a Yankees game with Benny. Bought a twelve-pack of condoms and made his way through them with Jenny. Picked her up from work in the afternoon, went straight to her house, up to her bedroom, her parents still at work.

  One night, he took Jenny into Little Italy for dinner. Mikey ordered a carafe of red wine. The waiter didn't react, didn't give him the once-over or ask for ID. He just brought over two glasses and a full carafe. They giggled at their good fortune. Mikey poured some for each of them and made a toast, like a big shot.

  On the ferry back, they sat outside looking at the long, graceful span of the Verrazano, lit up against the night. Jenny's head was on his shoulder, her hand rubbing his leg, just above his knee. Her fingers were tucked inside his shorts, touching the inside of his thigh, the spot that drove him nuts. His face felt hot, flush with wine.

  "Mikey, have you thought at all about what we're going to do when we go away to college?"

  He hadn't. Not really. They'd be dating for six months. He really liked Jenny, maybe even loved her. He wasn't sure. How could he know? He loved it when they were alone together, the way she made him feel. And he got pissed when he thought about her with another guy. Not just kinda pissed. Rip-your-head-off pissed. Can't-hold-a-thought-in-your-head pissed. Maybe it was love. It was definitely intense.

  He still thought about other girls. Wanted to do with them what he did with Jenny. But that was normal. Everyone had thoughts like that.

  When he'd started dating Jenny, he asked his dad what he thought of her. They had just picked up bagels at the Annadale Deli and they were back in the car, his father driving.

  "She's nice, Mike, she's really nice. Cute girl."

  That had made Michael happy, his father liking Jenny, approving of her. And then, a few minutes later, the car parked in their driveway, his dad had ruined it. He turned to Mikey.

  "You're young, Mikey, you're very young. And just remember: even if you're banging Miss America, you still wanna bang the runner-up." He got out of the car quickly, embarrassed by what he'd said.

  Mikey was furious. Just like his dad to taint something good. But that's what he thought of now, with Jenny's hand on his thigh and the question about their future hanging there, unanswered. He thought about his dad's stupid advice and the fact that he was gonna be in Syracuse and Jenny
would be three hours away in Albany.

  "Yeah, kinda."

  "Well, what were you thinking?"

  "I thought, like, that we'd stay together but also, you know, see other people. Still be together but be allowed to see other people."

  Jenny didn't respond for a little while. Her fingers kept massaging his thigh.

  "Why? What were you thinking?"

  "I mean, I don't really want to see anyone else. I just want to be with you."

  The warm feeling from Mikey's face crept down into his chest. He felt bad and he was pissed that he felt bad. He didn't want to talk about this now. He didn't want to explain. He was about to say something when Jenny continued.

  "But I guess that makes sense. I guess."

  That was enough for Mikey. He didn't think about it again, not on the ferry, not on the train, and not when they got back to Jenny's house and used the last of the condoms on the couch in her basement while her parents snored two floors up.

  The week drew to a close. On the Sunday before he started working, Mikey went with Jenny to Amy's house. It was hot and muggy; Amy had a pool, a small above-ground number, but it did the trick. They took dips then dried themselves in the sun on the small wooden deck next to the pool. Jenny wore a one-piece blue swimsuit that accentuated her compact figure; she had small, pert breasts and a pleasantly thick rear. Amy wore a halter top green bikini, displaying a voluptuousness Mikey hadn't realized was there. His eyes kept wandering to Amy's hips, her bare stomach, her large breasts. He hoped Jenny didn't notice.

  When Jenny went inside to call her parents, Amy turned her entire body to face Mikey. She brought one hand above her temple to shield her eyes from the sun. She'd gotten out of the pool just a few minutes earlier. Droplets of water trickled across the goose bump–covered flesh of her stomach.

  "When do you head up to school, Mikey?"

  "Week before Labor Day."

  "Oh, that's late, right? Isn't Jenny leaving in the middle of August?"

  Mikey nodded, a slow, uncertain movement. Amy wasn't going away to school. She was staying home, going to CSI.

  "We should hang out. If you want to come over and jump in the pool or something. You know, after Jenny goes away."

  Mikey couldn't see Amy's eyes under the cup of her hand. He nodded again, less uncertain. He raised his right knee and shifted his towel over his groin. With his left hand, he guided his developing erection flat against his thigh. He tried to keep his gaze on Amy's forehead.

  He heard the porch door slide open, then the pad of Jenny's bare feet on the deck. She sat down on her lounger, her sunglasses perched on her head.

  Amy completed her rotation onto her stomach, her face turned away from Mikey. "What did your parents say?"

  Her voice was a lazy slur. "Nothing. Same old stuff."

  Mikey stood up and slipped into the pool in one quick motion. He turned back to Jenny, pushing himself right up against the side of the pool to stifle his erection. He felt it bow against the wall of the pool and slowly recede.

  "My father said good luck tomorrow. Ame, his uncle is picking him up at four thirty in the morning. Can you believe that?"

  Mikey smiled. He'd managed to keep the job out his head most of the week, even though it popped in here and there.

  "How bad can it be?" he said. Then he bent his knees and dropped his head below the water's surface.

  The next morning, Mikey waited outside his parents' house in the predawn blue. Per Tommy's instructions, he wore jeans, boots, and a long-sleeve T-shirt. He stood there half-asleep until his uncle's battered gray van turned onto the block and cruised to a stop in front of him. They drove in silence to a deli near the expressway. Mikey ordered a ham and egg sandwich on a sesame bagel. His uncle paid the tab, handed Mikey a tall coffee as they walked back to the van.

  "Thanks, Tommy, but I don't drink coffee."

  The driver's door creaked open, slammed shut. Mikey could hear the words before his uncle opened his mouth.

  "You will."

  Tommy was so predictable.

  The highway was empty. They flew across the island, the complaints of sports fanatics drifting out of the radio. The Yankees had blown two games in the ninth inning over the weekend. The callers were apoplectic; they wanted a new closer, a new manager, a new owner. Mikey took a few sips of coffee. It wasn't terrible but he'd rather have a Coke. Or a Snapple. Something cool.

  As they ascended the upper level of the Verrazano, the sun crept into the sky. A soft yellow haze spilled out over the whole city. Mikey could see the rides out on Coney Island, the skyscrapers at the base of Manhattan, a pair of yellow ferries passing in the harbor.

  Mikey let out a long, silent yawn that pushed his chin down to his chest.

  "You should sleep now."

  The van descended into Brooklyn and the highway thickened with cars, buses, and trucks. The callers had moved on from the Yankees; they were decrying the Knicks' latest draft pick.

  Mikey closed his eyes and nodded off.

  * * *

  "What do you think, has the kid gotten a taste?"

  "I don't know. Ask him. Kid, you gotten your first taste yet?"

  "He hasn't gotten a taste. Look at him. He's all skin and bones."

  "Kid, stick out your tongue. Let us see if you've gotten a taste."

  "Nicky, take a look at the kid's tongue. Tell us what you think."

  Big Nicky strode over to Mikey. He was huge, a colossus.

  "Let me see your tongue, kid."

  Mikey stuck his tongue out. He already knew that you didn't say no to Nicky, even for something this stupid. Nicky leaned down and inspected Mikey's tongue. He took his time, rotating his head so he could examine the sides. He stared down Mikey's throat. The other guys were laughing, enjoying the performance. Mikey felt ridiculous, standing there, tongue extended, but he couldn't show it. Nicky lifted his hands from his knees, delivered the verdict.

  "This kid has definitely gotten a taste."

  The others broke into hysterics. A few even cheered. Nicky thudded a hand on Mikey's shoulder, lowered his voice.

  "Kid, young pussy is the best fucking thing in the world. Enjoy it while you can."

  His uncle piped up, ending the party: "All right, all right, you've had your fun. Enough fucking around. Back to work."

  The guys shuffled off, their bodies tilted one way or the other by the pails of concrete they carried. Nicky reached down and lifted two of them with ease, one in each hand, like they were cans of soup. He walked down the ramp and winked at Mikey as he passed. Mikey retrieved another bag of dry cement and carried it over to the mixer.

  His uncle slapped him on the back. "Having fun yet?"

  Mikey tore the bag open. A chalky gray mist rose into his nose and then down to his lungs. He coughed; the spasm knocked a dose of sweat off his face. He felt an ache in his lower back, in a spot he never knew existed. He glanced at his watch. It was just past nine. The day wasn't even half over.

  * * *

  At the end of the shift, Mikey was whipped. He'd spent the whole day mixing cement. Eight hours. A rushed half-hour for lunch. His hair was caked with tiny flecks of concrete and his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were heavy with sweat. His forearms throbbed and his legs hummed with nascent cramps. Two oysters of ache lay tucked behind his shoulder blades. He sat on the asphalt of the enormous parking lot and waited for his uncle. The other guys split into groups of three or four and piled into cars, except for the handful of Mexicans who just walked out of the lot into the bustle of Queens. Mikey closed his eyes, fell into a grimy half sleep.

  Tommy flicked Mikey's ear, waking him. Mikey pushed himself up and lurched toward the passenger door of his uncle's van. Tommy laughed and tossed him a set of keys.

  "You slept on the way in."

  Then Tommy climbed into the emptied-out back of the van and laid down. He was asleep before the van left the parking lot. Mikey was terrified. He'd never driven in traffic like this. It was chaos, every man for hi
mself, stop-and-go speeding up to a harried group crawl before reverting back to stillness. Sudden explosions of movement, cars swerving across two lanes, the noses of yellow cabs butting in everywhere.

  And Mikey's eyes were shutting on him, despite the fact that it wasn't even three o'clock and the van was beset on all sides by hostile, honking drivers. When the van settled into line for the toll on the Verrazano Bridge, Mikey engaged the cigarette lighter. He pulled it out, and when the concentric circles had faded from orange to brown, he singed his left forearm. The pain jolted him awake and he drove the rest of the way home watching a blister form where the lighter had touched his skin.

  His house was empty. He took a quick shower, turned on the fan in his bedroom, and slipped under the sheet. He'd just rest for a half-hour, an hour at most, and then he'd go the gym and lift or take some swings in the backyard. The phone rang but he didn't have the energy to get it.

  Mikey heard his mother calling him. He opened his eyes, looked at the clock. It was almost eight. He'd been sleeping for three hours. He was still sore. He threw on shorts and a T-shirt and staggered downstairs. His mother and his brother were waiting for him at the kitchen table. He gorged himself on chicken cutlets and rice for twenty minutes and then excused himself and went back upstairs to sleep.

  Later, he heard his mother yell something up to him but he didn't answer. He just rolled over and went back to sleep. When the alarm clock sounded at four a.m., he sprung awake, reinvigorated but miserable, astonished that people actually lived like this.

  * * *

  The week took forever. Every day was a marathon of dust and toil. Mikey stopped showering in the morning, slept the whole way in. He started putting names with faces. A few of the guys were all right. They joked around, they made him feel welcome. A few of the guys were assholes. They didn't like him, could never like him. This was their life; he was just visiting.

  The Mexicans didn't joke or judge. They just worked.

  On the drive home every day, he stopped at a deli near Shea and bought a liter of Coke. It kept him awake but overfilled his bladder. One day, he pissed right into the empty Coke bottle as the van sat in traffic on the West Shore Expressway. The sound woke his uncle, who peered in from the back, laughed, and went back to sleep. It wasn't ideal but it beat the cigarette lighter.