Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  Climbing never-ending hills to Fordham and Grand Concourse, he thinks it best not to arrive at the bar and begin drinking before Zack, though goddamn it if he isn’t thirsty. He slows his stride, glances into shop windows. “Cheap, everything cheap,” reads one sign. A jewelry shop features women’s wigs; a hair salon, an array of jewelry; the men’s clothing store, lotto tickets. Nothing, but nothing is what it’s supposed to be. Like his life. His mom had one desire: to get him out and away from his dad. She believed in him, thought he’d have it all someday, whatever all meant. She never said. Well, he can’t ask her now. She’s gone.

  The last time he visited this bar, the room was bigger. Whatever’s changed, the bartender’s sour expression tells him not to ask. Still, he notes an unpainted plasterboard wall that’s cut off a part of the rear space. Probably an immigrant family on the other side of it. People will live anywhere when things are bad, and these days loads of people are down on their luck. That fact is not disputable. Money makes money, and luck favors the few who already have it. Maybe someday—but he doesn’t believe this—there will be an intergalactic juxtaposition that upends the pyramid, and the people at the bottom will become the lucky ones.

  A drunk on a barstool gives him the furtive eye. Is he one of the drunks? The question flits through his head to an early dismissal. No sign of Zack. He orders a bottle of Bud. Sip it slowly, he warns himself, and heads for the table farthest from the bar. A therapist told his teammate Jock, who was trying to quit smoking, to leave his cigarettes in the mailbox. Behavior modification. Walking down four flights to smoke would dampen his desire. Thing is, he did walk down, until the pack was empty. Jock’s gone from the plant, and he prays never to bump into him again because what could he say to a man with four children? Bad karma.

  Apart from the missing panels above his head, it’s too dimly lit to see the rest of the misery. The place must’ve been built before the last century, the old wood floor warped and shiny from wear. Lived in, he’d say, homey. As a bar it has character, he decides, even if it has no class. He was surprised Zack agreed to leave his family on a weekend. He isn’t even sure what he wants from this sit-down. Zack does steady him, though he can’t say why. Maybe it’s his refusal to stew over things that can’t be changed, like death. Weeks ago, his mind in turmoil, he shared his confusion about making a move for the floor job that would break up his team. Zack, who has no rush in him, took his time, listing all possible solutions until they whittled that list down to one: go for the job. Which is ironic, given how Zack avoids change at all cost.

  He sees him stop at the bar, his slim torso lost in a thick ski jacket, a woolen hat pulled low over his forehead, a man in disguise.

  “Afraid someone would recognize you,” he quips as Zack approaches, beer in hand.

  “It’s cold out there.”

  “Is there a message in that remark?”

  “Yes, definitely. I’d rather be at home.”

  “Too fucking bad, my friend, because you are my friend, and this is what we do for each other.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “I prepare an I’m-about-to-leave-you speech to give to Dory. Arrive home apologize for being out all night, but she’s too distracted to concentrate and flits all over the place doing god knows what. It’s not like her.”

  “Bad day, bad dreams, someone at the nursing home died. Too many possibilities that have nothing to do with you, Stu.”

  “Fuck! Did Lena tell you something happened?”

  “She told Lena you were out all night after the club.”

  “I’m not in the mood to be judged. I need a real drink.” Bourbon will burn through the blockage hardening inside him. Truth is, Dory’s home waiting for him, probably cooking a delicious dinner, wine on the table. It’s too much to absorb. Maybe tomorrow he’ll have a sit-down with Dory, but he doubts it’s going to happen. Just thinking about it feels dangerous, though he can’t say why, which is the real problem.

  At the bar, he orders a double bourbon, neat, and looks out the dirt-streaked window at a gray brick building, pure Bronx, with its worn façade and a faded aquamarine mermaid reclining over the entrance. Makes him think of the stone gargoyles along the courtyard eaves of the buildings near the projects where they all grew up. Nothing you want to meet coming home late at night. He takes a slug of the drink and decides he doesn’t want to talk about Dory after all.

  “So, my man, how’s it going by you?”

  Zack shrugs.

  It’s not his usual style to press Zack for details, believing as he does that stories unfurl as necessary. Still he asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “God knows.”

  “Between you and Lena?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Stop with the mystery shit. What is it?”

  “I didn’t take the overtime my boss offered. I’ve just fallen below zero on their keep scale. Even without this, everyone at work is suddenly as sure as his name the building site we’re supposed to report to next month is never going to happen. They’re placing bets on when we’ll be told and the layoffs begin. Then again, these guys bet on what’s in a lunch bag.”

  “At my plant, it’s what the men yak about, too. Layoffs, layoffs … bitch and moan about what’s coming next. Very depressing.”

  “Don’t say anything to Dory about this or Lena will find out. I don’t want her to worry.”

  “How sweet.”

  Zack grins. “Are you saying I’m a nicer guy than you?”

  “Your edges are rounder, that’s all.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That I’m sharper than you?”

  “Quit playing …”

  “That’s what I do, I play. How else does anyone get through this fucking life? Singing outside the monkey house, remember that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have we reached an age where those were the good old days? I mean, what about now, man?”

  “They were good old days, but I don’t miss the car sex.” Zack shakes his head. “Beaches, backseats, and front seats, I couldn’t do that anymore.”

  “But they were days of expectation, right? What would happen, what could we make happen, what we didn’t yet know would happen? That expectation’s been doused, blown out like a candle.”

  “How eloquent.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t miss any of that because I won’t believe you.”

  Zack looks at him. “Okay, what I miss most is taking everything for granted.”

  “Too bad that’s untrue. If memory serves, you’ve never worried, not then, not now. I mean terror-worry, Zack. The kind that’s in the body. The back hurts all the time, the bowels move too often or not at all, you can’t stomach food, your limbs feel heavy, you want to cry but the liquid’s gone. And the worst part is realizing there’s nothing you can fucking do about it all because circumstances are so beyond your control you don’t even know where to begin. The Buddhists have it made. They clap their hands and accept. Me, I walk through the hours not wanting to know what I know. There is no fucking light at the end of the tunnel because it isn’t a tunnel, it’s my life. That, my man, is terror-worrying. You don’t get to have that. Your DNA doesn’t allow it.”

  “Jesus, Stu. Okay, you’ve lost your connection with Dory, but that’s temporary. These ties come back, they really do. A word, a glance, some gesture will light the old fire. And your job, hell, you just got a new position. They’re not going to boot you, not yet, maybe for even longer than not yet.”

  “Let’s get high and lose our minds for a couple hours.”

  “Can’t. They’re at home expecting me to return the way I left. Come have dinner with us.”

  “Lena wouldn’t want an unexpected guest.”

  Zack says nothing, which he finds strangely upsetting.

  “Anyway, Dory’s waiting,” he adds, not even sure if that’s where he’s headed.

  6.

  Instead of tackling t
he laundry, Lena takes the Sunday papers to the couch and begins flipping through the pages, but it’s Dory’s attitude about Stu that’s on her mind. If it was Zack … but it wouldn’t be.

  Rosie bounces down the stairs. “Where’s Casey?”

  “In his room watching something on his computer.”

  “Is Dad back?”

  “He’s still out with Stu.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I loaned Mirabelle two of my textbooks and I need to use them to finish some homework before Monday. I won’t be gone long, but you know Mirabelle, she has a thing about talking.”

  “Do you have to go right now?” She pats the couch for Rosie to sit. “It’s the weekend. Nice if you’d hang out with us.”

  “Us? I’ve been home all day. You must’ve felt my presence, or is that only happening now?”

  “I don’t want to argue.”

  “If I stay home, I’ll be on the phone anyway. You and me, we’re not in the habit of chatting idly, are we?”

  “Rosie, if you want to chat, idly or not, I’m all ears.”

  “Well, I don’t. See you later.”

  “When?”

  “Oops, forgot something.” Rosie rushes upstairs. And finds Casey sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching an episode of The Office on his laptop. “I need your help.”

  “What,” he responds, his eyes still on the screen.

  “I lied to mom. I told her I’d be at Mirabelle’s. You have to answer the cordless if it rings in case it’s Mirabelle and tell her I used her as an excuse.”

  “Call and tell her yourself.”

  “I did, jerk. Something’s messed with her cell phone. I’ll try again, but just in case … I need a cover.” She stares into his wide eyes. “I’d do it for you. You’ll want me to later on, I promise. I’ll never forget that I owe you.”

  “I’ll try to get to the phone first.”

  “Not good enough. That’s why I brought the cordless up here. And why do you like that program?”

  “It illustrates how ridiculous people can be with each other.”

  “Who do you know like that?”

  She can tell that Casey’s sorting out an answer in his usual methodical way. She drops the cordless on his bed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m meeting friends somewhere.”

  In the vestibule, she grabs her down jacket off the hook and slings a small backpack over one shoulder, knowing her mother’s watching.

  Seeing Rosie half out the door, Lena’s about to remind her to be home by ten, but decides it’s best to say nothing. Mothers and daughters, dicey at times. She suddenly remembers her own mother at the center of a triangle of benches, undressing before a small circle of gaping tenants, her dress already puddled at her feet. She tried to stop her. “Too tight, too tight,” her mother muttered, pushing her away with shocking force as she finished peeling off her underpants and bra, revealing robust breasts, dark brown nipples, rounded hips, her long, shapely legs for all to see. The need to run away thwarted only by the horror that nailed her to that spot, the vision of her mother’s voluptuous body imprinted on her brain. She was thirteen, two years younger than Rosie, that tender age when shame, humiliation, anything odd is almost unbearable. A police car, siren blasting, sped into the projects. A young cop, who looked as embarrassed as she was, tried and failed to get her mother’s dress back on. Her arms still flailing, two cops wrapped her in a blanket and placed her in the patrol car. She got in as well, largely to escape the onlookers.

  At the hospital, her mother was whisked away. No one told her anything, though she kept asking the nurses for information. Never a shy child, she grabbed the arm of someone in scrubs and demanded to know if her mother was dead, which suddenly seemed frighteningly possible. Not long after, a thin older woman came over and in a voice lower than a whisper told her that her mother had been admitted to the psychiatric ward.

  Zack always dismisses her concerns about sanity as melodramatic, says history doesn’t follow that generationally, that her mother had been unstable since forever. She likes hearing him say these things, but they also cut off discussion.

  The steam comes on with a loud hiss then quiets to a hum. The wind presses on the windows desperate to get in. She reaches over to switch on a lamp, a halo of amber light. With the image of her mother still fresh in her mind, she wishes now she’d reminded Rosie to be home on time.

  7.

  Rosie hurries to the bus stop. It irks her—her mother on that couch as if there were nothing in the world larger than the house. Her mother isn’t stupid, but she’s a woman without dreams. A house, two kids, obedient husband, and the same-old same-old are more than enough for her. Well, not for Rosie. Life on the edge, that’s what she wants, never less than what’s possible. Her work will be meaningful. The Peace Corps, maybe, or Doctors Without Borders. Marry when she’s forty, or maybe not. Children? Probable but not required. Once, foolishly, she tried to explain her future to her mother, who listened with a barely hidden smirk, as if Rosie were only saying what any teen would say. It annoyed the crap out of her and killed any urge to make her mother understand the ways in which they’re different, so different.

  The bus speeds through the night. Rosie sits near the window. The outside world a black-and-white blur, a negative of its daytime self. It’s the same route she takes to school. When her parents bought the house, she, like Mirabelle, refused to change schools.

  Siri is waiting and she can barely sit still. She loves remembering the moment they met, nearly six months ago, a good day, she’d say, if anyone asked, except no one but Mirabelle knows about him, so who would ask? He was sitting alone in the school cafeteria, reading a book. Its title, Seven Kinds of Ambiguity, intrigued her almost as much as his handsome face. She asked what it meant. It was a philosophical novel, he explained, that challenged the role ambiguity plays in how we think, talk, and write. After school that day they walked for hours. He told her he was sent to America to help care for his elderly aunt and uncle. One afternoon a week he food shops for them; Thursday evenings, he accompanies his uncle to the chiropractor. On weekends, he works in an Indian restaurant, mostly delivering takeout. He’s two years older, which pleases her.

  She exits the bus near the Whitestone Bridge and walks on, bathed in the blue glow of its lights. If her mother saw her here with only the FDR expressway and a field of dried grass and brittle bushes for company she’d freak. Beyond the field, she can just make out the row of attached brick houses not far from the church. She’s trekked this path before, though always with Siri. Now, weird shadows appear wherever her eyes land. She begins to jog.

  He’s there in front of the old stone church, wearing a hooded jacket. Several men in tattered blankets sleep on its wide steps. Weeks ago, Siri discovered the grotto behind the church filled with tombstones, marble benches, statues, and lanes that end suddenly. The first time there, it was a bit eerie. Siri whispered that he wouldn’t let a soul hurt her, which made her laugh. Back home, he said, that would not be a joke. When he talks about Pakistan, which isn’t often, his merry black-lashed eyes go serious; his gentle tone turns earnest.

  “You okay?” he whispers.

  “Why not?”

  They’re sitting on the wide marble gravestone of the beloved Randall family, their backs against a stone bench. Is it illegal to sit on the dead, she wonders? Under the puffy down jacket his arm wraps her waist tightly.

  “I came, you know,” his tone confessional.

  “Me, too.”

  “Really, just from my fingers?”

  She laughs. “Yes.”

  “First time?”

  “First time with you.”

  “What?”

  She laughs again. “Kidding.”

  “What does it feel like for a girl?”

  “No different than what you feel, I guess.”

  “Wow, that’s great.”

  “Hav
e you done the real thing with anyone?” she asks.

  “Real thing?”

  “You know … penetration.”

  He kisses her nose. “You are the only one.”

  “So you’re a virgin, too?”

  “Still, yes. Is that bad?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are you cold, Rosie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want my hands to rub at you?”

  “I can’t. I have to go home.”

  “Rosie, thank you.”

  “I don’t like it when you say that?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not a prostitute.”

  He looks at her. “Is that what thanking you means?”

  “Sort of.”

  8.

  Dory hurries through the automatic doors into the lobby. She asked the cleaning staff to use Clorox on the floors. Nothing else kills the institutional stink. She waves to a new face behind the poor imitation of a reception desk, then strides past the cracked vinyl couch, the two stained, upholstered chairs, and through another set of doors into the locker room, where she changes into ugly, comfortable shoes. She slips on her not unfashionable pink uniform. Snug, it falls lovingly over her hips. A tremor of sadness runs through her. Stu’s passion has gone underground. It’s been weeks. She misses the rhythms of his body as well as the sweet aftermath, his woody scent, her gently aching limbs. “What’s happening?” she whispered one recent night in bed. “Too damn tired, can’t get it up.” His words muffled by the pillow. Okay, she understands … the new job … the choice he made … he’s upset, drinking more, which doesn’t help the blood flow, but still …