Her eyes open abruptly. “You better!” She grabs my neck, and as she kisses me, I already feel her fading away...
I get up, every muscle in my body pulling me back to be with her. Halfway to the door, I turn back around. She’s got her head on her hand, lying on her side. Cheshire grin, eyes still somehow awake.
I stride back to her and she welcomes me when I get on her, kissing her feverishly. I guess another half hour goes by. And when she’s practically passing out while our lips meet, I finally do leave. She’s probably asleep before I even close the door.
When the elevator door opens, a short dude wearing a yarmulke steps out. He smiles at me and I smile back. I’m in a smiling mood. The thought crosses my mind that I’ll be smiling all week because of Heaven-Leigh.
It’s like I’ve entered into some vortex and come out the other side where all the rules are changed. Everything’s different. You only hear about that shit in Harry Potter or Narnia stories.
When I open the door to my cab, I feel the tiredness run over me like a tidal wave. I can’t drive like this. I check the time and see it’s eleven A.M.
I decide to crash in the driver’s seat for a bit.
To help my mind rest, I pull out my reader and flip to Stephen King’s Under the Dome. It looks like Dale (“Barbie”) and Julia might hook up after all. Which I think is cool, because didn’t it look like they were destined to right from the start? I know I’ve been rooting for it since the beginning...
But I don’t find out if they do. Instead, my eyes close. My hand drops the reader onto the bucket seat next to me. And I dream of a certain ex military man (me) and a certain newspaper woman (Blaze) sitting under a mysterious dome, looking up at it.
In my dream, we do hook up.
Deliciously.
FIVE
LOGIC LOSES
-1-
Blaze Ryleigh
When I hear the banging, I think the bass-drums at House Market have blown. A few cloudy seconds later, I come to understand that someone’s knocking at my door.
Deck?
“I’m coming!” I drag myself up.
Two things happen when I open the door: My heart sinks—it’s not Deck. My heart lifts—it’s Mr. Bernstein. He smiles his concerned smile.
Remembering life and its problems again, as if being with Deck the last few hours took me completely out of them, I say, “Tough life, isn’t it?”
“Feh! You’re telling me, honey. Those schmucks at Real Developments got real chutzpah, you know! They’re tightening around my neck so bad I had no choice.
“They think they can just plotz into Brooklyn and raise the prices without consequences!? I mean, people gotta live!” He squeezes one of my cheeks. “You look awful, everything OK?”
“Uh, yeah, I’ve just been up all night.” He frowns seriously. “I was working!”
“You’re not hangin wit dat schmuck—what was his name, the one with all those drugs and things...?” He waves his hand.
That would be Tolek Two-Face Tomas he’s referring to. A dude I “dated” for, like, three months or so. “Tolek,” I remind him. “The ‘schmuck’ you’re referring to.”
“That’s the one!” He wiggles his finger in the air, thinking. “Even his name sounds bad!”
Well, Xavier’s name sounds like honey on the tongue. But he wasn’t much luck for me either.
“No, I’m not hanging out with him anymore. But I already told you that I was into that bad stuff before Tolek came around. You know...me and...Savva.” I say this last part silently.
“Oh, honey...” He wraps a short arm around me, causing me to bend down at an awkward angle. “...I don’t care if you were into that drek before him. I just never liked him, you know. It’s as if bad luck follows some people, and good luck follows others. And he was bad luck. I just know it. You gotta surround yourself with people who bring you luck, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Mr. Bernstein moves over to my windows. I follow. I see that Deck’s still here and wonder, a little excitedly, why. Mr. Bernstein takes a sad breath, sighs out. “I’m sellin that one as well, Blaze.” He points at the practically abandoned wreck across the street. Savva’s old building. “I’m just too old to deal with this drek. I can’t raise the rent because I’m not in the business of making people hungry. It’s just the prices, they’re all going up. They’re building hotels here—I don’t even recognize Williamsburg anymore. And I got expenses as well, you know?” He shakes his head. “Forty-five years ago this year, it is, that I bought my first building. These apartments were packed—people coming from all over the world, settlin in New York. Sure, we had gangs and a lotta bad stuff happening as well. Giuliani sorted a lot of that out—or he likes to think he did—but the place was bustling. We got the crime out, and then we got a good bunch of people here. Artists. People like you, you know?”
I realize, during his monologue, that he probably came to see me because he wanted to unload a little himself. Maybe I’m the only one of his tenants that gets him. I don’t know. I’ve heard the other tenants talking. They speak really badly about him, like he’s some monster that’s only out to make a buck and charge high crazy rents. I don’t tell them he only takes seven hundred or so from me, and sometimes not even that! At current rates, a “normal” tenant could pay as much as three or four times that amount for a loft my size.
“Well, that’s what happens with artists, isn’t it? They come in, raise the value—then those Wall Street types walk in, see a quick buck to be made, and they put up million dollar condos. Two million dollars! With ‘a few affordable apartments’ in each one. Affordable to whom, Blaze?” He turns to glare at me. “To whom!?”
The question is rhetorical. “Mr. Bernstein, you want some coffee?”
“No, no. Blaze, I’m sorry for taking up your time. I wanted to come by and check what your plans are. I also wanted to let you know I had no choice. These lofts are bleeding everything I have out of them. I need to unload them. And then...don’t even mention what happened to that landlord back in ’13. Remember that? They burned him, Blaze. Actually, maybe I will take that coffee...”
I make us a cup each. We sit at my rough-hewn kitchen-counter, the one separating the kitchen from the rest of the loft. Mr. Bernstein looks up at my fifteen-foot wide wall shelf. “I see your library’s growing.”
“There’s still space for more.” I look at the bottom row of the shelf, on the right.
“How many?”
“Well, it depends, but it averages out to about one book per inch so...” I count. “...forty more? Give or take.”
“One per inch?” I can see he’s counting.
“There’s about four hundred and eighty up there now.”
He smiles, realizing I caught him out. He also knows I’ve read every one of them, so he doesn’t ask that. But I see in his gray eyes that he wishes I got out more, that I would associate with people more.
That I would let them closer...
In time.
“Your friend built them sturdily.”
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about the shelves. I nod, thinking about how Patryk also built this very counter on which we’re drinking coffee now, as well as the stands on which my decks sit—the vinyl and the CD decks—and the protective casing for my top-of-the-line B&W 683 speakers. (Which, incidentally, he also gave me when he left.)
Take it all. I don’t want any link to the past. Don’t want any link to...her., he’d said with red-eyes just before he left back to Poland. And where is he now? I wouldn’t even know where to look...
He’s the only dude I know who turned his graffiti skills into a paying gig (that and a little carpentry on the side.) Not rags to riches, but enough to have me constantly ogling the dough he sometimes brought in. Mostly bedroom walls in the city. Because they pay like a mofo, he used to say.
Out of the blue (or maybe not, because I was distracted) Mr. Bernstein says: “Forty-five years, Blaze. Forty f
ive years I been doing this for. And now...” He shakes his head again.
“What you gonna do...I mean, financially?”
“Oh, I’m fine! Don’t you worry about me. Decades of smart management. But it isn’t about the money. It’s been about providing homes for people. I remember a couple who moved next door about twenty years ago, young, just had a baby... Oh, never mind. Memories of an old fool. That’s all. You know I turn sixty-eight this year? I’m too old for this stuff as well.”
“Can’t you sell to another landlord? I mean, instead of selling to the developers. A new landlord might raise the rent, but I could manage that. Developers will surely offer no option to renew.”
He gives a regretful, slow shake of the head. “No one wants to buy, sweetie. Too much pressure from the big boys. As more and more condos go up, services and upkeep goes up. Landlords will be forced to charge higher rents. You can’t charge higher rent for an old building like this when, next door, in the up-and-coming high-rises, people will be paying similar rents for five times the quality. Ten times! Feh!”
“It feels a little like the end of an era, Mr. Bernstein.”
“Or the beginning of a new one.” He smiles, trying to cheer my spirits. “You and I been through a lot, eh kiddo?” I feel embarrassed as he says it. “How’s your Mamah doing?”
“Good, thanks. She’s got regular work now. Cleaning.”
“That’s good, that’s good. You still sending money up to her?”
“Yeah, but that don’t hurt me nothin. A couple hundred dollars goes a long way in Poland.” And a very short way in New York.
“Blaze, I know you send much more than a couple hundred a month. You’re an angel, kiddo. Tell you what, forget the rent for the next six months. Just put it into savings up for your next apartment. Who knows, maybe you’ll be one of the first to take up one of these new luxury condos.”
“Mr. Bernstein, you know I don’t like charity.”
“It’s not charity, Blaze. I promised your Mamah I’d take care of you, and I don’t feel right about taking any rent from you!”
“You know very well she never meant that. And if she knew there were months you just let the rent slide, she’d be the first to call you up on it.”
“She is a proud woman, isn’t she? Never took anything from anyone.” He sighs. “Anyway, but this is between you and me, Blaze.” He cocks his head like a naughty kid.
I blush. “Yeah.” My voice croaks. “And...thanks. I don’t know how I woulda made—“
“Oh, shoosh!” He flicks a hand at me. “When you get to my age, you realize the only reason you probably wake up in the morning is because you see spark and hope in people younger than you. Much younger than you! I probably needed you more than you needed me. I’m just an old fool who took a liking to you. Don’t worry, I’ll squeeze it out of these other schmucks who complain too much about what peanuts I charge them as it is.”
“I can cover some of what I owe you.”
He sips his coffee. “Blaze, you’re also a proud girl, just like your Mamah. But, as you’ll get older, you’ll realize that money comes and goes. I was fortunate, I’ve made a lot of it in my life. I know this is getting all schmaltzy, but I consider you almost like a daughter. After what happened next door...oh, goodness...” He puts his hand to his eyes. “...Well, let’s just say I believe you’re a good luck person. And Good Luck People should be supported. You never let life drag you down. If you insist on paying me, then pay this old fool in kindness. I’m gonna retire over in Long Island. Come by and visit me every now and then.” Mr. Bernstein’s a true-and-true Brooklynite, one who doesn’t consider Brooklyn itself to actually be a part of Long Island. And when he says it, he actually means the suburban counties of Nassau or Suffolk.
The back of my throat and all behind my ears is twanging with uncried tears of gratitude—and of those memories of what happened next door...
“Anyway.” He gets up. “I better get going. I just wanted to come by and check on you. You did get my note, didn’t you? It looked like I woke you—”
“Yeah, I did. I played a late gig last night. Been up all night.”
“Then let me get out of your way so you can get some sleep. Lemme know if you need help finding a place, Blaze. I’ll keep my eyes open as well.”
“Thanks, Mr. Bernstein. I’ll walk you down.” I’m thinking I want to see what Declan’s still doing here.
“Oh, no, I’m good.”
“I was leaving anyway.” He looks at me suspiciously, and I realize the lie is obvious—because he woke me up, hello! “OK, fine,” I admit, “there’s someone I want to go and see.”
He breaks into a smile. “I saw the blond-haired boy getting into the elevator on this floor. New friend?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“He feels lucky.”
“Mr. Bernstein, I think I’m definitely gonna visit you in Long Island when all this is over.”
“Oh, sweetie, even before it’s over. The people over there are about as exciting as snails. I miss the good times, the excitement. Anyway...”
I wrap my arm around his round shoulders, and we catch the elevator.
Downstairs, he turns and holds both my hands. Thinks. “Is she good? Your Mamah. I mean...is she happy now?”
I swallow. “She’s...surviving. I Skype with her once a week or so.”
Mr. Bernstein’s pretty short, with one of those wise and cuddly faces. No James Franco, but I think it works differently when you’re older. I think you look at other things other than the instant visual gratification of Sex Appeal. Mamah was never one to get involved with men in my presence. For all I know, she and Mr. Bernstein did get together. Mamah was always very shy. I never met my father, and as far as I know, Mamah never saw anyone else after him. Even back home now, I don’t get that she’s seeing anyone. Is that how it gets when your heart is broken once? Do you become afraid to reach out one more time for that hot passion that just might get you burned? I like to believe that it’s because I became her life, that I became the most important thing to her—I like to think that’s the reason she never followed a romantic life of any kind here; not that she was burned by love.
“OK, Polish girl with an Irish name, say hi to your Mamah for me next time you talk to her.”
“I will, Mr. Bernstein.”
He lingers just a second longer, need and longing evident in his gray eyes. Then he leaves.
-2-
A blast from the past...
We were all into the drugs back then, not just Tolek. And I’m pretty sure Mr. Bernstein knows that, but I’ve always found that he tends to assume I’m the innocent cherub who only got in with the wrong crowd and made mistakes.
I wish it were true.
Tolek was older than me by four years or so, so I guess he must be around twenty-five now. But he’s not the reason I started dropping—oh, please no. Savva and I had been in the scene long before he came around!
All he and I had ever done was tongue, some rubbing with our clothes on (mostly uncomfortable on my part), until the day we broke up—and, by the way, I’ve always had a resistance to using the words “we broke up” when referring to him, because it never really even felt like we’d dated in the first place.
I’d always had a resistance to having him touch me, a resistance I didn’t understand but which was nonetheless there. I’d gone all through High School without a boyfriend (the “totally cool” Eliasz Piscor and I never did get it on, not even behind the school dumpster), and I was starting to get a little self-conscious about it. So I’d hooked up with Tolek at a party I was mixing at (one of my early ones, where the pay was beer and the people passed around a hat “for the rent.”)
Savva used to tell me that if I’d had real feelings for him, I’d let him get nearer to me. It was a foreign concept to me. All I knew is I didn’t like him being there. Once, right at the end, I did let him put a finger inside me—at his constant insistence. It disgusted me so much that I called t
he whole thing off afterwards. I told him we weren’t “compatible.” I remember using that word: “Compatible.” I’d picked that one up from one of Savva’s many philosophical ponderings on the state of the universe while we mowed the grass at her appointment.
Mowed the Grass—that was Savva’s favorite euphemism for smoking weed. Mine was Firing up the Colorado Cocktail. There were other minor differences in our lingo: She called ecstasy Molly or The Doctor; I stuck with Adam in those days. Now? I don’t call it shit. I think I stopped caring what name you use for any of it when Savva graduated onto shooting H (which she called Chasing the Dragon or Meeting with Aunt Hazel and George Smack.)
She only ever smoked “the good shit” (another favorite term of hers.)
And she never knew when to stop, either...
But, back to Tolek: After he touched me, I thought, If all boys are that rough there, then I don’t want any part of it. And I certainly wanted no part of it with this boy. So I explained that to him.
He didn’t take it well.
Mr. Bernstein had come knocking while we were in the middle of the argument, Tolek’s voice (and hands) high up in the air. The walls of my loft damn near reverberating with how much he was shouting at me, telling me I’d “led him on.” I remember that day well—it was a Thursday, around five. And it was high summer. I remember this because a fierce sun was up and shafts of it shone across the grids of my loft’s windows, cutting Tolek’s face in half with its shadows. I recall thinking, as he stood there blaring at the top of his voice at me, that the shadow down the center of his face made it look like his face was cut in half—just like Two-Face from Batman, one face dark, one light.
Tolek had always been a little on the “rough” side—a real tough guy—but this was the first time where his anger had flared up like a volcano, as if he’d been playing Mr. Nice Guy all those months just to get me to go all the way, and then, when I didn’t let him, he snapped, and Face Number Two came out.
Know Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book One) Page 7
