Hummingbird

by Jude Angelini

  The waitress says, “There’s free juice with the kiddie meal.”

  My mom smiles. “Oh? Okay, I guess juice is good.”

  The waitress leaves.

  My mom leans in and says in a half whisper, “We’ll just split an appetizer and then we’ll get going.” Her finger’s tracing the menu. “Did you want the quesadilla? Or the spinach dip sounds good.”

  I look over at another table and this old white motherfucker is wearing Coogi and eating steak. His wife is eating linguini with shrimp and drinking wine.

  The waitress comes back. “What’ll you be having this evening?”

  My mom says, “We’ll have the spinach dip.”

  The waitress writes it down. “And for your entrées?”

  My mom forces a smile and says it with less confidence this time, “Just spinach dip.”

  The waitress makes a face and I don’t know if it’s pity or disappointment. She says, “You won’t get free juice unless you get a kiddie meal.”

  My mom says, “Water’s good then.”

  I ask the waitress, “Can I get some lemons for mine?”

  I’m ’bout to take these sugar packets and make some lemonade.

  Then I hear Joelle mocking me again.

  I say, “Goddamn it, Wellie, quit saying what I say! You’re fucking nerve-racking.”

  The waitress backs off.

  Joelle repeats me again, without the cuss words.

  My mom shoots me a look.

  I say, “What?!”

  She says, “I’m going to the bathroom, be nice to your sister.”

  Rachel jumps in, “I don’t know why you are encouraging her.”

  I say, “What am I s’posed to do, be quiet the whole meal?”

  Joelle echoes, “What am I supposed to do, be quiet the whole meal?”

  Rachel sighs. “Just ignore her.”

  I say, “Sure, okay.”

  A little voice says, “Sure, okay.”

  I jump in her face now, I say, “Hi, my name is Joelle. I’m an annoying little dumbass. Let’s see what you do with that.”

  She says, “Hi, I’m Jude. I’m an annoying little dumb dumb.”

  Well played, tiny five-year-old. Well played.

  I lean back in my chair. She smiles and leans back in her chair. So we’re doing movements now?

  I pick my nose. She picks her nose. I hit myself in the head with a spoon. She hits herself in the head with a spoon.

  The guy in the Coogi gives me a look. I give it back to him like, What?

  Rachel sighs. “Jude, you need to be the adult in the situation.”

  I say, “I’m not an adult, I’m fifteen.”

  Joelle echoes, “I’m not an adult. I’m fifteen.”

  I’m rubbing my temples with both hands, staring at the middle of the table, looking at the sugar caddy, when it hits me.

  I reach over, pick up the salt shaker, cover the holes with my thumb, tilt my head back, and shake it in my right eye. I slam the salt shaker down on the table and smirk at Joelle with my arms crossed.

  She picks up the salt shaker in her little hand, but her thumb doesn’t cover the holes. She tilts her head back and shakes the shit out of it. I watch as the salt pours out slow motion dead into her eye. And then it gets nuts.

  She screams bloody murder, throws down the shaker, and runs shrieking through the restaurant.

  Everyone stops eating. They’re all watching the dirt girl, running around tables, holding her face, wailing.

  My mom comes out the bathroom greeted by her howling child.

  She grabs her up and yells, “What’s wrong?! What’s wrong?!”

  She’s answered with more screams.

  My mom pleads, “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong!”

  Joelle cries, “My eye!”

  The waitstaff ushers them out of the dining room and back into the bathroom.

  All the rich motherfuckers are staring at the bathroom door listening to my sister’s muffled cries, and when they finally subside, their heads turn back to the table where it all started from and staring right back at ’em is a hippie-goth girl and a fat white boy with dreads.

  They swallow their wine and go back to their steak.

  Five minutes later, my mom comes out with Joelle. Joelle’s damn near hyperventilating, holding a giant wad of wet paper towel on her eye.

  My mom says, “Get your coats, we’re going.”

  I say, “What about the spinach dip?”

  She ignores me and heads to the front. We follow.

  It feels like the whole restaurant is watching us leave. I’m staring down tables like I’m Tony Montana, some whisper to each other, some look at their plates.

  Say goodbye to the bad guy.

  When we get to our van, we pile in through the trunk ’cause all the other doors are broken.

  fried

  I’m arguing with Eddie about where we’re gonna eat. He doesn’t wanna eat at the steakhouse we’re at in Crystals. He says he doesn’t like the air in here, it’s too perfumed.

  I tell him, “This that baller shit.”

  He says, “No way man, let’s go.”

  I say, “Hold up, lemme just see what they got.”

  I’m out front looking at a menu, he’s pacing around, complaining. The little Asian hostess is eyeballing us like we can’t afford the place. I kinda wanna eat here just to show this twenty-two-year-old with a roommate that I can.

  She’s staring at Eddie with disgust. He doesn’t notice.

  This chick I fuck told Eddie he looks like he works at a record store. He does. He dresses like he peaked in the nineties with boot cut jeans and beat-up Adidas.

  I laugh about it ’cause he works in finance and could buy her ass. He’d just rather spend money on drugs than clothes.

  I wanna spend my money on a bomb meal. That’s all Vegas is good for: food and shows. Eddie wants to gamble and this menu’s too high. Ordering a seventy-five-dollar ribeye seems pretty steep just to prove a point.

  I finally say, “Fuck it, let’s bail.”

  The hostess fakes a smile, tells us to come again.

  We’re walking by Dior. Eddie says, “See man, I don’t wanna eat here, it’s a goddamned mall.”

  I snap back, “We in Vegas, man. They got fake pyramids and Eiffel Towers. This whole fucking place is a mall.”

  We push past the Persians with their shopping bags full of designer shit, out of the amber-scented air and back onto the strip to be greeted by the desert heat and fat Midwesterners nursing pink daiquiris in foot-long plastic cups.

  We pass a caricature artist drawing a couple; all her pictures look the same. I ignore the Mexicans flicking whore fliers at me and focus on a train of red-faced white girls, sloppy and hooting, holding penis scepters made of balloons.

  Every time I end up in Vegas, I’m like, Why the fuck did I come here? It’s everything I hate about America crammed into one place. I look around at these motherfuckers and think, No wonder they wanna blow up our buildings.

  Eddie yells, “Happy Birthday!” to the girls.

  The chubby one at the end waves back.

  I’m like, “It’s her birthday?”

  He says, “They’re walking around with dicks on their heads, she’s either getting married or it’s somebody’s birthday… We gotta find a bathroom quick. I gotta take a shit.”

  He’s withdrawing off Oxys, diarrhea’s a side effect.

  I say, “Let’s hit Harrah’s.”

  “Sure, how about you give me some of that GHBeezy?”

  I say, “Dog, I just gave you some.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not working and the G really takes the edge off.”

  I tell him, “Give it a minute, man. You not patient.”

 
He says, “I know myself. It’s not working.”

  I sigh. “Okay, you’re grown, just don’t end up wrecked.”

  I hand it to him. He runs to the bathroom and leaves me on the sidewalk with the peasants.

  A woman passes me pushing a Chihuahua in a stroller. I wanna hate her, but the G kicks in and my mood lifts and I’m thinking we’re all out here doing the best we can.

  We end up eating at some fancy soul-food joint. It’s the kind of spot where they serve thirty-dollar fried chicken and the collard greens are sautéed. All the waitresses look like car models, overdone with fake tits.

  Eddie’s in love with the blonde one. “How much do you think it would cost to sleep with her?”

  His couch is a futon with holes in it. He’s had it since college. He’s forty-five now.

  I say, “More than you wanna spend.”

  “Like three hundred bucks?” he asks.

  I’m like, “Try a g and go up from there.”

  He stops to think about it, his eyes close, and his head falls. He’s out for ten seconds, comes to, and starts mumbling some shit from a dream.

  I say, “Jesus Christ, Ed. You did too much again. Get some coffee in you.”

  He gets all defensive. “Dude I’m fine. I just want a watermelon mojito.”

  I say, “Do you see that on the menu?”

  “All I see is tropical.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all they got.”

  He starts to doze but he shakes it off. “Well, get me that then.”

  The waitress shows up and he keeps his eyes open for that.

  I order everything at the same time. I tell her to start with dessert like the Romans did. The salad shows up first, the cake gets there last.

  Eddie’s nodding and dozing the whole time, laughing for no reason and going back to his dreams, his tropical mojito sitting in front of him, ice melted, untouched.

  His head’s down, he’s snoring. The busboy’s clearing the table pretending not to notice.

  I’m shaking my head, we can’t never do nothing nice…

  Now the manager’s staring at us so I smile and nod and act like this is normal.

  It kind of is.

  Eddie sleeps it off as I finish my dinner alone.

  And then the manager comes over to ask, “How’s everything?”

  I look up from my cake and say, “Couldn’t be better.”

  customer service

  I’m walking through Ridgewood to the L train. Big day today: Sway’s doing an hour-long radio interview for Hyena.

  I’m stressed, I got a lot riding on this book release.

  I cough up a lung. This cold ain’t going nowhere either. I take out a bottle of DayQuil and swig it. Get it together, Judey.

  I pass some Puerto Ricans on the stoop smoking a blunt and some Russian grandmothers drinking tea. I hang a left on Himrod and my phone rings.

  I look down at it, it says Ang on-screen. Pop’s hitting me with my annual B-day call, where he yell-sings “Happy Birthday” in an exaggerated New York accent.

  I don’t really feel like talking to my dad. I mean, I’m grateful I came out of his dick thirty-six years ago and I appreciate him playing catch with me as a kid, but I got this interview on my mind.

  Hyena dropped this week and I wanna get that NYT bestseller list. I wanna show ’em I belong.

  I stay walking and the phone stays ringing till finally I’m like fuck it, let the old man sing.

  I answer it.

  He don’t got a song for me.

  He says, “Jude…”

  “What’s up, Pop?”

  He sounds tense. “Jesus Christ, kid, what the fuck are you doing to me?”

  I’m confused. “What are you talking about, man?”

  “You put that shit in the book about me and ya mother?”

  I say, “I told you I was doing that.”

  He barks back, “No you didn’t.”

  “Yes I did.”

  We go back and forth about it awhile.

  You tell people what you’re gonna do and they ignore you, then when it happens they get mad. Same shit happened with Gabby, she won’t even speak to me ’cause I mentioned her once in the book.

  He’s still harping on about it. I get why he’s upset. He’s ashamed.

  I’m half-listening. He goes on, “How you gonna write that? People gonna think I’m a fuckin’ rapist—”

  I cut him off, “Pop, you did it. It affected me. I wrote about it. If you don’t want nobody talkin’ ’bout you doing rapes, don’t fuckin’ rape people.”

  He’s like, “You coulda waited till I was dead ta write ya book.”

  I’m like, “I don’t know when you’re gonna die!”

  “What are people gonna say?”

  I walk it back. “Fuck them. That was over thirty years ago. You not the person you was then. You changed, that’s not you no more.”

  I walk in silence with the phone to my ear.

  He finally says, “Yeah…” He’s not even mad anymore. He just sounds sad.

  I don’t know if he’s ever forgiven himself for that shit. I don’t know if he’s ever even faced it. Must be hard to look at. They were on the rocks and there was probably no going back, but he blew up the family with that one.

  I say, “Hey, Pop, I gotta hop this train. I got an interview for the book today. Lemme just blow this thing up and then we can all do good. You know if this shit goes, I got you.”

  He’s hopeful now. “Like if it gets made into a movie, you gotta part for me?”

  I say, “Yeah, Pop, of course.”

  He likes the sound of that. I’m his last hope for him to blow.

  There’s only one thing he wanted even more than having a family, and that was to be loved by everyone.

  albatross

  She’s on the floor having panic attacks.

  She’s crying.

  She says she can’t breathe.

  I’m standing over her, annoyed.

  I say, “It’s all in your head. Boss up, Gabby.”

  I leave her there in the fetal position and drink water out the bathroom faucet. All this arguing’s got me thirsty.

  We’ve been over it a thousand times: I’m only back in Detroit for a few weeks. I need to go out and see my people.

  I fix my hair in the mirror.

  These Arab girls are too possessive. They’re too tribal. They get too jealous.

  I grab the keys and bail.

  I’m always leaving. Her dad left her too. But he’s dead and now she’s got me.

  I hit the Buddha Bar with Brad and drink my Red Bulls and mingle, then come home at three and try to get some.

  I kiss her awake.

  It’s make-up sex. It’s usually make-up sex with us.

  We fuck in the dark on the futon and I come inside her because I don’t know what else to do. I know I love her, but we’re falling apart and I don’t know how to save us.

  A few weeks later, she’s pregnant.

  We’re in the living room with her mom and her sisters. They’re worried. They wanna know our plan.

  Gabby’s on the couch next to her sister. She’s scared. She’s been crying. I wanna feel for her, but when I look at her, all I see is an anchor.

  They talk a while about possibilities. I’m in the armchair, checked out. Then her mom asks me what I wanna do.

  I turn my head and look dead at her.

  “Look, I already got one kid I don’t take care of. I don’t really want another one…” They’re staring at me in awe. I smack my lips. “…And that’s that.”

  Her mom’s eyebrows raise. She nods. “And that’s that?”

  I shrug, yup.

  She never liked me before, but this cements it.

  They go on
making plans like I’m not there, and I lean in the chair and think about getting back to LA.

  Her mom wants her to get an abortion. That’s saying a lot ’cause she’s Muslim. It’s the first time we’ve agreed on anything.

  Then Gabby takes me to the other room and holds my hand. She looks up at me and she says, “We can do this. It’ll be hard but we can do this.”

  I say, “Really?”

  Her eyes are red but she’s smiling, “We can do it.”

  I’m looking back at her and I love her. I wanna believe her. I say, “We can.”

  She says, “Let’s just have our baby.”

  I say, “Okay.”

  She’s not scared anymore, she’s glowing and it’s giving me strength. We’ll figure it out. We’re smart. Maybe her sisters can babysit or something, I don’t know.

  We walk back in the living room holding hands.

  I put my arm around her and she says, “We’re gonna keep the baby.”

  I nod. And her mother sighs.

  And a week later, we’re at the abortion clinic.

  It’s sunny and it’s sad.

  I sit there with her sister and wait for them to finish.

  Gabby cries all the way home. I don’t. I’m somewhere else. I push it down deep inside.

  Then we watch The Royal Tenenbaums and wait for it to get late enough to go to sleep.

  They say the movie’s funny but I don’t laugh.

  We break up after that. Then we get back together and break up again.

  I’m with Julie now and I got a career. I’m having coffee with Gabby, catching up. She tells me our son would’ve been eight by now.

  I tell her, don’t think like that.

  She sips her tea. She says, “You owe me your life.”

  I tell her, “Shit, Gabby, you’re doing better than me now.”

  We have that conversation every year till she stops bringing it up.

  The last time I see her, I finally cry about it.

  I tell her I’m sorry we went through all that.

  She’s looking at me like, What took you so long? Then she says it’s okay and leaves me there with my ketamine and my tears.

  Then some other shit happens and we don’t talk no more.

  To this day, I still can’t watch The Royal Tenenbaums. But fuck it, if you seen one Wes Anderson movie, you seen ’em all.