Troika

by Adam Pelzman

  So I’m thinking I should stick to the surface streets, make my way south and west, avoid the bad neighborhoods, which in this part of the state can pop up out of nowhere. One second you can be in a real safe area, lots of middle-class homes, cute shops, a bicycle just lying on a lawn and no one’s even thinking about stealing it, nothing to worry about. And then the next minute, maybe you make a wrong turn or you’re daydreaming about being loved or famous and you don’t see the red flags, some graffiti on a wall, a woman on the corner smoking a cigarette, she’s wearing a short skirt and a pink halter top, holding her fingernails up to the light, a pack of kids on bicycles looking over their shoulders, puffy jackets even though it’s hot as hell outside. So you make that wrong turn, and you’re only a quarter of a mile from the nice place, but you make the wrong turn and there you are and damned if you can’t remember how to get out. Was it left, right, left? Or left, left, right?

  You panic and start to sweat, and you can feel it under your arms, the dampness, the fear. It happens to me like that sometimes, and not just in a car driving around. Sometimes I’m daydreaming and I’m not paying attention to what’s really happening, I’m somewhere else, and even though it feels good for a few minutes, the fantasy, it turns out to be just the opposite. It turns out that I’m not escaping at all, that I just got myself into deep trouble, and I can feel the sweat coming on, my body’s way of telling me that I made a mistake and I’m going, again, in the wrong direction.

  I look at my watch and it’s nine-thirty and I figure it’s gonna take me a good hour, hour and a half to get home in this weather. I think about Julian and the ring on his finger and that sick feeling in my stomach when I saw it. I think about the anger I felt when I got up on that stage, looked down and found myself staring at an empty seat. I jump inside my car and close the door, toss my purse on the passenger seat and gather myself, the rain coming down hard on the metal roof—plunk, plunk, plunk—and it feels nice and cozy.

  The sound of the rain on the roof makes me think about my father, the camping trip when I was a little girl. Me and him in a canvas tent on a beach near Nibujón, the east end of the island, and the rain crashing down just like now, with me and him all safe inside, eating pastries and listening to salsa on the radio. Tito Puente, Celia Cruz, Willie Colón.

  I ache for him and try not to think of his death, try not think about how things might have been different for all of us. Him, my mom, me. How so many lives can change ’cause of just a few seconds, maybe a fraction of a second, an inch or two, even a small change in speed or direction. Everything has to come together perfect to end a life before it’s time.

  There’s my father, Rafael was his name, standing on the beach. He’s a few feet from our tent, casting a line into the water, a white straw hat on his head and his thin body twisting in the hot wind, proud and determined to catch our dinner. And there’s me, his little girl. And I’m watching him in awe, wondering what will end up on his line, maybe a wahoo or a snapper, which is delicious. And there he is now, the pole bending, something big and strong on the hook, and my father digs his bare feet into the sand, pulls hard and arches his back.

  I see him struggling to keep his balance, so I run over, put my hands around his waist and hold tight. I try to pull him away from the water, to stop the fish from pulling him into the surf, away from me. And the two of us are sliding in the soft sand, sliding toward the edge of the water, then catching ourselves and back a few feet toward the dunes. Every time we take a step toward the water I feel a panic in my chest, like I’m about to lose everything. Every step back, away from the surf and whatever creature is pulling us into the dark blue, every step away brings me comfort and slows the thump in my heart.

  Hold on, baby, my father yells, and his hands grip the pole so tight I can see the veins popping out through his smooth, tan skin, and I hold on tight as I can, so tight around his waist that he gasps for air and says not so tight, baby, not so tight. But I don’t listen to him and don’t let up a bit. He’s pulling in the line a few inches at a time, but the pole is bent so much, like a half circle, that I can’t imagine what in God’s name he’s got on the other end of the line, maybe some sea monster or a whale. And we’re making our way, half step by half step, up toward the dune while my father works the reel. And then my heel hits something hard, a burned log in the sand. I trip and fall backward and, with my hands around my father, I pull him down to the beach with me—and before we hit the ground the pole breaks in half, shatters right in the center from the force of our fall, and the top half flies out into the sea and disappears into the water, attached to the sea monster. The bottom half stays in my father’s hands, a piece of broken wood attached to nothing.

  I’m afraid my father will be angry with me, that he will blame me for the fall and the broken rod and the lost dinner, and the dampness under my arms gets worse. But instead, my father puts his arms around me and gives me a kiss on the forehead. You all right, Perlita, you all right? And I smile and tell him I’m fine and sorry for falling. Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry. And then he lifts me up off the ground, brushes the sand off my bony shoulders, holds my hand and we walk down the old beach road, where there’s a few goats and men selling trinkets and necklaces. We find a little stand and we get grilled meat and arepas and sweet corn and take it back to the beach and talk about the past and the future, and we watch the sun set, amber and purple and thin lines of yellow.

  I’m in the car, driving in the Florida rain, but I’m really on the beach with my father and tears are running down my cheeks. I’m not aware of the road around me and I almost run through a red light, and an old woman with powder-blue hair in a big old Cadillac, there’s lots of them down here, the Cadillacs and the old women with blue hair, well, she gives me the finger and points to her temple like she’s telling me to use my brain, and she mouths the word stupid.

  It’s that woman calling me stupid that snaps me out of my state, bittersweet thoughts of my dad, and it’s only then I realize that I’m not driving toward Miami. Turns out I’m driving east, toward Julian’s hotel. I’m going past the dead strip malls, leftovers from a crazy time when it seemed that anyone who wanted to put up a building could do it. There were some girls from the club, two from Latvia and one from Baton Rouge, who got together, started a company called Brass Pole Development—yup, that’s the real name—pooled their money and built a little apartment building in Pompano Beach with four units and a wading pool in the back. They rented it out quick and figured they were real smart. But then the market crashed, the tenants didn’t pay and the girls couldn’t make the mortgage payments. And that was that. So much for being legit, one of them said after the bank took the property, we’re sticking to the pole from now on.

  I see Julian’s hotel in the distance, all lit up, and figure I ended up here for a reason, that probably something guided me here. So I keep driving and pull into the hotel parking lot. The rain lets up and I grip the steering wheel. I’m breathing hard and it’s hot and muggy in the car and the windows fog up so no one can see in and I can’t see out. I open the window and look out to the hotel. There’s a few people out front, gazing up at the dark sky, holding their palms out and trying to see if it’s still raining. I’m still angry about that ring, still confused. So I get out of the car and take a deep breath, a courage breath is what my father used to call it, and walk toward the hotel entrance, all determined like I’m one of those baseball managers stomping across the field to yell at the ump.

  Julian stays in the same room every time. He told me once that he likes 1404 ’cause it’s high up and faces east, toward the ocean, and it’s not near the elevator or the noisy ice machine. And also the television is at a perfect angle to the bed and the shower has good water pressure, all of which is true. I strut through the lobby all confident, get in the elevator and press 14. But just as the doors are about to close, a man waves his arm between them and they stop real fast, shudder like they’ve just
got punched, then open right up. In walks two men, and the second I see them I know all I need to know—’cause that’s how I am, super-observant and good at sizing up a man in a matter of seconds.

  The doors close and I smell the booze, bitter and sick and seeping out of their skin, the same way you can smell when someone’s got the flu, and I figure that’s God’s way of protecting us, our senses telling us when danger and disease are close. The first guy in, the one with the goatee and the yellow tennis sweater draped over his shoulders, he says what floor you going to, like he’s being a gentleman and trying to help. I point to the panel, to 14, which is all lit up and I say already got it, thanks. And then the second guy, he’s got a sunburned face, a little purple on the tip of his nose, he’s wearing chinos and a golf shirt and his phone is clipped to his belt. And this is just not a good look. This guy says to me, get this, he says wanna come over to our room—we got a suite—and watch some porn? He starts laughing as soon as he says it and looks over to his friend all cocky like he’s got some game.

  Now, I’m a little girl, thin and no more than five four in flats, but I am a stripper, and a Latin stripper, and I don’t take shit from anyone, especially a couple of middle-aged white guys with golf shirts and khaki pants. So I’m watching the floor panel blink in red numbers—four, five, six—and I step forward between the two guys and I put my finger in the chest of the one who suggested the porn and say . . . I pause to make it more dramatic . . . I say let’s do it, boys. How about I take the both of you back to the room and fuck you ’til you can’t breathe. Sound like a plan, Romeo?

  Well, this is where you separate the men from the boys, and trust me, there aren’t many men when a girl like me does something like this. And sure enough, this boy gasps, turns redder than he was before, which I didn’t think was possible, and staggers against the elevator wall. He clutches his belt-phone with one hand and his chest with the other and says uh, uh, uh. Ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen. There’s no thirteen ’cause of bad luck. The doors open and the two guys part, open up a path for me and I step out of the cab. I walk down the hall toward Julian’s room and I can feel their eyes pointed like lasers on my ass.

  I stand in front of the room and press my ear against the door, which is cold, and I can hear noises inside. It’s Julian’s voice on the phone. Yes, a hamburger, please, medium well, with sweet potato fries and a club soda. There’s also the sound of a TV, sports I think. Here goes, and I raise my hand and knock all forceful, one time, two times, until I hear the TV go quiet and the squeak of the bed as Julian gets up and the slide of that stupid dangling chain out of the slot. And I wonder how it is that little chain is ever gonna stop someone from kicking the door in. I take a step back, fix my hair and straighten up my shoulders, try to get every inch out of my small frame.

  The door opens and Julian stands there in his bathrobe, and he’s got a look on his face that says how the hell did the food get here so fast, ’cause I just hung up the phone. But when he sees it’s me and not room service, he grabs his left hand with his right, covers it up. He looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and says you hungry? I just ordered dinner. He steps to the side and opens the door wide. I walk inside and toss my purse on the dresser right next to his wallet and his gold watch and I say I’m gonna take a shower. And I’ll take a burger and those sweet potato fries I love and some ginger ale. Orange slice? he asks, and I nod yes.

  The shower has two heads and they’re adjustable, so I aim one at my face and one at my chest and it feels so good, not too hard, not too misty, but just right. I’m scrubbing up with the nice body gel they have, seaweed and cucumber it says on the bottle, which seems like a strange combination but turns out that it smells great, and I’m wondering what I’m gonna say to Julian when I get out.

  My first thought, option number one, is that I tell him to go to hell, tell him that even though I’m a stripper I have certain rights—rights to be treated with honesty and kindness. And that this isn’t working for me. Maybe I say don’t you ever come by the club again, ’cause I’d rather dance for some married guy in a bad golf shirt with a ring on his finger, someone who doesn’t say anything sweet to me, ’cause at least that’s an honest man.

  My second thought is to not even bring it up, just pretend I didn’t see a thing. Turn this back into what it should’ve been all along, and that’s a commercial transaction. Go back to where I dance and he gives me money. Dance, money. Dance, money. No more sleepovers and room service and hot showers, no more free dances or screwing him in the hotel. Dance, money. And leave it at that.

  I dry off and put the robe on, wrap a towel around my wet hair so it looks like a turban, white and high like the Sikh from the club. There’s a little sign on the sink that tells me I can save the planet by reusing the towel. I wonder why anyone wouldn’t want a new towel and I figure they really don’t care too much about the planet but they’re just trying to save some money on cleaning—so I toss the towel on the floor and step out of the bathroom. And I don’t feel guilty about it at all, ’cause I got a footprint, a carbon footprint as small as a mouse, and I get to have a little fun sometimes without worrying about the whole fucking world.

  When I come out, Julian’s sitting on a chair at the desk and he’s reading a book. I can’t see what it is, but it’s thin and has a soft cover. He closes the book and looks up to me, sort of sad, and he raises his left hand high above his head, still, like he’s a real polite kid trying to get the teacher’s attention. And he says I guess you want to talk about this, and he points to the ring.

  I sit down on the corner of the bed, cross my legs and adjust my towel-turban. Yes, I say, I’d like to know, ’cause I’m a bit confused. Julian takes the ring off his finger and holds it up to the light, rotates it, examines it. He looks at me, but he’s having trouble with eye contact, keeps looking down every time our eyes catch. He shrugs his shoulders and places the ring on the desk, on its edge. Then he holds the top with his left index finger and flicks it hard with his right. It spins tight like a top, stays in a small area of the desk, about the size of a dime, and holds its speed right there for a few seconds, maybe five. Then as it starts to lose speed, the spin isn’t as tight and the ring covers a bigger area, moving side to side, bigger and bigger, the size of a nickel, then a quarter, going slower and slower, no longer standing up straight, wobbling, wobbling, slower and slower until it falls to the desk. Then there’s one last little jump before it goes flat and still. We watch the ring, all quiet on the wood.

  I reach for Julian’s knee. He pulls back just a little, a flinch like he’s afraid. And just then, at that moment—perfect timing—there’s a knock on the door and it’s room service. I turn away from the ring. I’m thinking here comes our food, and I’m glad for the distraction, relieved that right now I get to stay ignorant. I’m hungry and looking forward to my sweet potato fries and I hope they didn’t forget to put an orange slice in my soda. Julian jumps up off the chair and says I’ll get the door, you try to find something to watch. And as I’m pointing the remote at the TV, waving it back and forth like a flyswatter ’cause it doesn’t seem to be working, it occurs to me that there’s option number three, which hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  Option number three is where things just stay the same.

  MANNA

  There Frankmann sat, at the age of eighty, staring out his office window to the busy wharf below. He scratched his short beard and wondered, despite his advanced age, what role he might one day play in the world. Such thoughts—fantasies of future greatness—had filled his mind during adolescence, when he wondered if he would be an officer, a Talmudic scholar, a sculptor, a hunter of tigers. But during the intervening decades of his great commercial success, he no longer considered his role in the world, choosing instead to focus on the daily ledger, the profit and loss, the measure of his remarkable ability to make money in every possible circumstance—and it was only on his eightieth birthday, when Frankmann looked at h
imself in the mirror and saw for the first time an ancient man, that he realized he’d not yet made his mark.

  Frankmann peered through the window, searching for the tuna boat that was scheduled to return from the Sea of Japan. He looked at his watch and noted that the boat was three hours late. As the vessel’s de facto owner, he was concerned. He worried about the safety of the crew. Frankmann knew their wives and children, and he cared for them—not in an apparent manner, but from a safe, some would say unreachable, distance. And, as he was a man guided by economic rationality, he also worried about his investment: the boat, the gear, the fuel, the fish.

  He turned his attention to the far end of the wharf. There, the fat woman Garlova stood in front of a makeshift bar. To her side was a green jug of potato vodka and a wooden barrel filled with fermented horse milk that Frankmann had purchased from a slow Mongolian on advantageous terms. Sailors, fishermen, construction workers, young men from the navy, even a poacher who’d come into town to sell muskrat pelts, lined up with rubles in their hands. Frankmann wondered how much he would make selling booze that day—and how much Garlova would steal from him. He didn’t mind if she stole just a little, a few rubles here and there; that was part of the unspoken pact between master and servant in this part of the world. A little theft made things work smoothly, greased the gears of commerce. But with too much, things broke down.

  Frankmann’s eyes moved to a store on the other side of the bar—the butcher Korsikov who sold fresh meats and poultry and was rumored to have taken recently to gambling, drinking and other forms of dissipation. For the past year, Korsikov had been habitually late with his rent, and Frankmann began to worry that the butcher might default.