by Jason Starr
“Fuck you,” Mickey said.
Chris laughed. “Come on, Mick, you’re my friend and shit, but everybody knows you smell like Charlie the fuckin’ Tuna.”
“Work at a fish store—see how you smell at the end of the day.”
“Can’t you at least shower?”
“Fuck you.”
“I’m trying to be your friend,” Chris said, “but you gotta do something because no girl’s gonna wanna talk to you when you smell like you’ve been cleaning fish tanks.”
“Come on, let’s just get out of here,” Mickey said. “We’ll go to a diner or something.”
“Why, you want some coffee and cake, Grandma?”
Chris ordered another beer and another shot. Mickey stood around, drinking water, as Chris drank beer after beer and got blown off by girl after girl. Each time a girl rejected Chris, he seemed even more pissed off.
About an hour had gone by since Mickey had stopped drinking when he said, “So you ready to throw in the towel?”
“What about her?”
Mickey looked to his right where Chris was looking and saw a thin girl with dirty blonde hair standing next to a girl with short red hair. Two guys in sharp black suits were talking to them.
“I think they’re taken,” Mickey said.
“Fuck taken,” Chris said, obviously shit-faced. “Those guys just came over to them. I like the blonde—she’s got that slutty, Madonna thing going on. Hello, sweetheart. Look this way. Fuck this, watch my beer.”
Chris stumbled up to the two girls. Chris said something to the blonde, and the blonde turned away. Suddenly, Chris looked angry. He grabbed the blonde’s arm. She tried to get free, but Chris wouldn’t let go. The two guys in suits tried to pull Chris off the girl, then Chris started going after the two guys. Chris connected with a couple of punches, and one of the guys punched Chris in the face. The bouncer came over and pulled Chris away. Chris was still cursing and screaming as the bouncer pushed him out of the bar.
Mickey went outside. The bouncer had Chris against a wall and was talking to him. Chris’s face was red and he was still screaming. The skin below Chris’s right eye was bright pink, and blood was dripping from his lips.
Finally, the bouncer returned to the bar, and Mickey went over to Chris.
“Nice going,” Mickey said.
Chris’s hair was a mess and he was sweating.
“Come on,” Mickey said, “let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
“No way,” Chris said. “I said I’m getting you laid—and I’m getting you laid.”
Mickey followed Chris to the car, trying to talk him into going back to Brooklyn, but Chris wouldn’t listen.
When they got to the car, Mickey said, “Lemme drive.”
“No way,” Chris said. “You drive like a woman.”
“There’s no way I’m getting in the car with you,” Mickey said. “You must’ve had six beers and all those shots.”
“Then take the subway home. I don’t give a shit.”
Mickey thought about it, but a white guy taking the subway back to Brooklyn at one in the morning was like a death sentence.
“Come on, just give me the keys,” Mickey said.
“Get in or I’m goin’ alone,” Chris said.
Mickey stood on the curb.
“Okay,” Chris said, and he started to pull away up Twenty-third Street. Mickey ran after the car, banging on the passenger-side door. Chris stopped and Mickey got in.
“This is bullshit,” Mickey said. “I’m never going out with you again.”
“Ooh, you’re hurting me,” Chris said, laughing.
“Slow down,” Mickey said.
“You kiddin’? They call me Mario-fuckin’-Andretti. Check this shit out.”
Chris stepped hard on the gas pedal, right as the light was turning red, barely beating the traffic on Fifth Avenue. Laughing, Chris zigzagged by a taxi. The driver of the cab stuck out his middle finger, and Chris swerved in front of the cab and hit the brake suddenly. The cabdriver braked too to avoid smashing into Chris’s car.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey said.
Chris turned off the engine, then he got out of the car and went back to the cab, taking the car keys with him. Mickey watched Chris and the driver yell at each other, then the driver got out of the cab and Chris started fighting with him in the middle of Twenty-third Street. The driver, who looked Pakistani or Indian, tried to punch Chris and missed, then Chris pushed him back against the cab and started punching and kicking him. The driver fell to his knees, his turban unraveling onto the street, but Chris wouldn’t let up, kicking him in the face until blood started gushing from his nose.
A few other cars had stopped, and some people were standing around, watching. Finally, Chris stopped beating up the driver and got back into the car with Mickey.
“Give me the car keys,” Mickey said.
“Move over,” Chris said.
“No,” Mickey said.
“You got two choices,” Chris said, “move over or get the fuck out.”
“Asshole,” Mickey said and slid over. Chris turned on the engine and sped away.
“Shit,” Chris said, looking down at his legs. “That scumbag got blood on my jeans.”
“Watch the road,” Mickey said.
“I’m watching, I’m watching,” Chris said.
“You’re such an idiot,” Mickey said. “You forget you have a police record? If the cops catch you fighting with bouncers and cabbies, they’re gonna put you in jail. No juvie this time—real jail.”
“The guy gave me the finger.”
“So?”
“See? That’s your problem, Prada. You let people step all over you. You gotta learn to do the stepping yourself for a change.”
Chris ran a red on Seventh.
“Where the fuck are we going, anyway?” Mickey said.
“To get you laid. Where else?”
Now Mickey realized what Chris had in mind.
“No way,” Mickey said.
“Too late,” Chris said.
“Come on, just pull over.”
“Nope.”
Chris continued speeding down Twenty-third Street, swinging a sharp right onto Tenth Avenue.
“You’re a real dick, you know that?” Mickey said.
“Gee, and I thought I was doin’ you a favor,” Chris said, “finally gettin’ you some.”
“I don’t want to go to a whore, all right?”
“So what’re you gonna do? Stay a virgin the rest of your life?”
“What makes you think I’m a virgin?”
Chris gave Mickey a look then said, “Come on, who did you fuck, Linda Gianetti? You told me nothing happened with her.”
Mickey remembered his date with Linda in tenth grade. He took her to see ET and near the part at the end, where ET phones home, he put his hand on her leg. When the movie ended, Linda said she was tired and wanted to go home and she never wanted to go out with him again.
“Maybe I lied,” Mickey said.
“Yeah, right,” Chris said. “No guy in the world would ever lie about getting laid. Guys only lie about not getting laid.”
Chris turned left onto Twenty-seventh Street, past some barren factory buildings.
“Can you please pull over and let me drive?” Mickey said.
“No way,” Chris said. “Not till you meet Betty.”
“Who’s Betty?”
“That’s Betty.”
Screeching the brakes, Chris pulled over to the curb and parked. A tall black woman in a leopard-skin brassiere and a short black leather skirt wobbled toward the car on what looked like four-inch pumps.
Chris got out of the car and went around to talk to Betty. Mickey watched Chris go into his wallet and hand Betty some bills. Betty looked drugged out, or drunk, the way she was trying to balance herself. Still, Mickey couldn’t help feeling turned on. She had a sexy body—big high breasts, long legs—and her face was surprisingly attractive f
or a hooker—smooth skin, lips painted with bright red lipstick.
Chris returned to the car and said to Mickey, “Happy fucking,” then he walked away and Betty opened the driver-side door and said to Mickey, “Wanna move to the back, baby?”
Mickey knew he would never live it down with Chris if he didn’t go through with this. Besides, Betty looked good.
Mickey lifted the button on the back door, and then he stood out of the car. Betty got in the back. Before Mickey got in with her, he looked over at Chris, standing several yards away. Chris was smiling, sticking his index finger in and out of his partially closed fist.
The backseat of Chris’s car was covered with newspaper, soda cans, and other junk. Mickey swatted away as much of the garbage as he could onto the floor, then he sat down next to Betty and closed the door.
“Something smells nasty in here,” Betty said, making a face.
Mickey didn’t smell anything unusual except for Betty’s strong perfume.
“It’s probably just the car,” Mickey said. “My friend’s kind of a slob.”
“It ain’t the car,” Betty said, “it’s you. You smell like fish.”
“Oh, that’s just because I work in a fish store,” Mickey said, thinking there couldn’t be anything more humiliating than a cheap hooker telling him he smelled.
“Your body clean?” Betty asked.
“Yeah,” Mickey said. “Of course.”
“We’ll see. Take down your pants so I can suck on your dick.”
Mickey pulled down his pants to his ankles. His heart was racing and he was starting to sweat.
“Your friend say it’s your first time,” Betty said.
“It’s not my first time,” Mickey said confidently.
“Whatever, don’t matter to me none.”
Betty’s cold dry hand reached under Mickey’s underwear. It felt weird but good, having someone else touching his dick. Mickey didn’t know what he was supposed to do next, if he was supposed to touch her back. He started running his fingers through her greasy hair, but this didn’t seem right, so he put his hand on her leg instead.
“Feels like you ready for me,” Betty said.
She pulled up her skirt then grabbed Mickey’s hand and moved it up her thigh. It was dark in the car—the only light came from the lampposts outside. Mickey closed his eyes, the idea slowly coming to him that something was wrong.
Mickey jerked his hand away and jumped off the seat, banging his head against the roof of the car on the way out.
“What’s the matter?” Betty said.
Suddenly, her voice sounded deeper, more manly.
Mickey pulled on his underwear and pants and got out of the car as fast as he could. Chris was standing on the sidewalk, laughing hysterically.
“Party on, boys,” Betty said to Chris as he walked away, swinging his butt.
Chris, still laughing, was keeled far over, his head almost against his knees.
Mickey, his face bright pink, said, “Gimme the fuckin’ car keys, you asshole.”
5
WHEN VINCENT’S FISH market opened for business at ten A.M. on Saturday, Mickey was hoping Harry would leave for the day, but Charlie hadn’t shown up yet, so Harry had to stick around. At around ten-thirty, Harry called Charlie at home but there was no answer.
“He better have a good excuse or I’m gonna fire him,” Harry said.
Around lunchtime, Mickey was hoping Angelo would show up to finally square his debt. The last time Mickey had seen Angelo was last Tuesday, and he was starting to wonder if he would ever see him again.
Harry called Charlie a few more times, but by one-thirty there was still no answer. Mickey hadn’t taken a break all day, and he was exhausted. Afraid he’d slip with the knife and cut himself again, he went to the deli up the block and bought a pastrami-on-rye and a cup of coffee.
When Mickey returned to the fish store, Charlie was standing near the cash register. The lower part of Charlie’s left arm was in a cast, and he had bruises on his face.
“Jesus, what happened?” Mickey asked.
“He’s in the middle of telling me the story,” Harry said. Then he said to Charlie, “So did you see what they looked like?”
“A few of ’em,” Charlie said, “but it don’t make a difference. The cops said they’ll look for them, but I know that’s just bullshit. The cops don’t give a shit what happens to two black dudes. But if we was white and the other guys was black, they’d have ’em arrested overnight—guaranteed.”
“Hey, I know I told you this before,” Harry said, “but you never listen to me. You gotta be careful about where you go at night. You gotta stay out of the white neighborhoods.” Harry took off his apron. “Anyway, I’m glad to see you’re alive, and now I can leave to go to my dentist appointment I had three hours ago. By the way, you’re only getting a half day’s pay today.”
“What?” Charlie said. “You can see what happened to me, can’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m very sorry,” Harry said, “but it’s no excuse for not calling in. You have my home number—you could’ve called me this morning.”
“Ah, come on, man,” Charlie said.
“So long,” Harry said, smiling as he left the store.
“Motherfucker,” Charlie said. “If I had to get my arm fuckin’ cut off, he’d try to dock me. Son of a bitch piece of shit.”
“What happened?” Mickey asked.
“You heard him? ‘You gotta stay out of the white neighborhoods at night.’ Like it’s my fault ’cause I’m black? Like I gotta sit home all night in my house like I got a curfew. Fuck him, man.”
“Come on, tell me,” Mickey said.
Charlie let out a deep breath then said, “My cousin was DJ’in’ this sweet sixteen party in Mill Basin last night. I wanna start gettin’ into DJ’in’ myself, you know, so I went with him. Anyway, we was leaving, standing outside the house, when Jerome, my cousin, starts talkin’ to this white girl. Then these white dudes come out and start saying shit, calling us niggers and shit. My cousin started saying shit back to them, then one of the white dudes goes away and comes out with one of them aluminum baseball bats. My cousin and me, we run, trying to get to our car. But the dude’s behind us, swinging the bat. He got my arm, but I made it inside. But they had Jerome up against the car outside. The dude was swinging the bat at him, and I was in the car, watching. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I thought if I opened the door the guys would drag me out and beat me too. So I just started honking on the horn, and then these other people came over and the guys just ran. Jerome was in bad shape, man. Lost a lot of blood, broke bones and shit everywhere, but they got him in stable condition now. It’s gonna be in the paper—somebody from the Post talked to us at the hospital last night.”
“Jesus,” Mickey said.
“Whatever,” Charlie said. “I just feel bad ’cause I didn’t do nothing. I was just sittin’ there in the car, watchin’ it happen.”
“You did the right thing,” Mickey said. “If you got out they could’ve killed you.”
“Or maybe I could’ve saved my cousin’s ass.”
“Or maybe you did save his ass,” Mickey said. “Maybe if you didn’t honk on the horn, no one would’ve come over and scared the guys off. Maybe if you went out there, you both would’ve been killed.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Charlie said, “but I still feel like I did him wrong.”
“Can I get you something?” Mickey asked. “You want something to drink? You want some of my sandwich?”
“That’s all right,” Charlie said. “I just wanna forget about it. That’s why I came into work today. So I could go on with my life, you know? I ain’t gonna let those motherfuckers keep me at home.”
Mickey took a bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a gulp of coffee. He took another bite when the bell above the door rang, and the girl who had been in the fish store yesterday walked in. She was wearing a lot of makeup today, especially around her eyes, and
she must have done something with her hair because it looked fuller and bigger than Mickey remembered. Her legs looked perfect, in tight purple acid-washed jeans, and she was wearing a baggy white sweater.
“Remember me?” the girl asked.
Mickey didn’t know what to say or do. He just stood there, staring. He remembered he had a bite of food in his mouth and swallowed it, then he said, “Sure I remember you. Hey, I’m really sorry about yesterday. My boss is just an asshole sometimes.”
“Amen,” Charlie said.
“What happened to you?” the girl asked Charlie.
“Nothing,” Charlie said, “just fell off my bike last night.” Then he said to Mickey, “I gotta go wash up,” and he exited to the back of the store.
“So can I get you something?” Mickey asked the girl.
“No, thank you,” the girl said. “Actually, I just came by to see how you were doing.”
“You did?” Mickey said.
“Yeah,” the girl said. “I felt bad for leaving yesterday, but someone was waiting in the car for me and I didn’t want to buy anything from your boss. So how’s your finger?”
“It’s fine, see?” Mickey said, holding up his bandaged hand.
“Well, I’m glad.”
“Don’t you want something?” Mickey asked. “The fluke and flounder are fresh today. Also the kingfish is really nice.”
“No, I’m sorry. Maybe some other time. Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling better. See you around.”
“Bye,” Mickey said.
Mickey watched the girl leave the store. Charlie returned from the back and said, “Where’d she go?”
“She left,” Mickey said.
“You get the digits?” Charlie asked.
“Nah,” Mickey said.
“What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” Charlie said. “Can’t you tell that girl was in heat?”
“It’s not like that,” Mickey said. “She just came here to see how I was feeling.”
Charlie stared at Mickey, his hands crossed in front of his chest.
Mickey stood there for several seconds longer, then he went around the fish stands and dashed out the door. He looked both ways, up and down Flatbush Avenue, but he didn’t see the girl anywhere. He was about to go back into the fish store when he spotted her coming out of the video store across the street. Mickey darted into traffic, not seeing the station wagon speeding right toward him. The driver of the station wagon slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a stop, inches in front of Mickey.
