“You’ve seen plenty of things like that, things you can’t imagine wouldn’t be a window into Hell… Like a man shoving a gun in his mouth and blowing his brains out in front of you after his wife left him. Or the guy that was raping his cousin and wouldn’t stop, even when you walked in with a gun drawn. How bad could Hell truly be? Aren’t we already living in it? This has to be Hell, because nothing about this is normal, right, good, or righteous. What do I, Nicholas Vitale, have to be grateful for? I ain’t got shit to be grateful for…”
He read the words on the paper, staying fairly removed from it all. It may as well have been the back of a cereal box, as monotone as he said the shit, but suddenly, it seemed to catch up with him. The words on the paper grabbed his ass by the ear and made him lean in close. He was FEELING it…
“I started off saying I had a good life, but no, I didn’t. I work for the city of New York, and I see all the shit the President acts like isn’t really happening and the news downplays for stories that are far more entertaining. I’ve seen babies dying from gunshot wounds. What the fuck do I have to be happy about, huh?”
“Jesus…” someone murmured.
“Ma used to say she loved you every morning, and by the afternoon, she’d curse you out in Spanish for stealing from her purse. That was something to be happy about, because Ma meant every word of it. She said you were a bad boy, a bad kid, but at night, she’d kiss your cheek anyway and tell you that you needed to grow up and live a beautiful life. Beautiful life, huh? You wanted to see where these opportunities Ma talked about were; you figured her head was in the clouds. But, you needed to be certain.
“So, one day, you got on train after train and visited other boroughs to see if they were better than yours. You were going to do some social studies, be your own street reporter. Find out the truth…
“You went places, and some were a little better. The South Bronx was a tad worse, but in the end, it was all the same…one big, ridiculous ass place to go to be destroyed, or be the destroyer. All the neighborhoods had decent areas, even what some would classify as affluent, but you weren’t interested in that. You wanted to see if there were shady nooks and crannies, dark things that reminded you of home sweet home. You dared to step foot in Manhattan, made your way into Harlem. It even had a few places that looked like home, though overall, the snobs on the hill made you angry. You shouldn’t have gone to Manhattan, Nick.
“You’d saved the best for last. You were happy when you’d only been to the Bronx and Queens. They all had enough spots like home to make you not feel so bad about being stuck in a hamster wheel, but when you went to Manhattan, you saw the world wasn’t all dirty and covered in shit, piss-stained and drowning in lackluster graffiti. You thought the clean places were only make believe, only for TV. You believed the whole world was like B-Ville. But it wasn’t. You stood there and looked up at all the big buildings and felt sick to your damn stomach. Instead of feeling like you could get out, had a place to aspire to be in, you felt trapped.
“Who was going to hire a little half Puerto Rican, half Italian boy who liked to steal and carry a knife, beat up people, and ran with a gang of thieves? You were filthy, you couldn’t speak a grammatically correct sentence to save your rotten, miserable life, and you thought you deserved exactly what you had, which was little of nothing, served to you on a shit covered platter 24-7. Everyone left you, Nick. Everyone left you because you weren’t important enough to stay for. People don’t leave good things, good gigs, and good people. They only leave messes and useless bullshit. It’s lonely at the bottom, and it’s lonely at the top, so you may as well stay in your fucking place.
Love,
Nick.”
The room went eerily quiet after he’d finished and slumped down in his seat. The bastard left everyone feeling touched, moved, hurting, and crushed. Taryn had betrayed her angry vows several minutes prior and now stared right at the man, this time not turning away. He wasn’t looking at her; rather, he kept his attention fixed on his knees, avoiding eye contact with every single soul in the room.
“Nick, I first would like to thank you for opening up like that and sharing something so personal. I must say, that you are the first person I’ve had in a long time to handle this assignment in a way that forced you to really dig inside yourself. I think I can speak for everyone by saying, we were all moved. This is good, very good. Do you feel more self aware now?”
He shrugged, kept his head down, and pushed his leg slowly back and forth, as if the words just wouldn’t come.
“I, uh, honestly don’t think that I am an unaware person. It’s my job to be aware, you know?”
She nodded in understanding.
“I think that was the problem. Because I am so self-aware, I tend to hide from myself. I have to shut everything off. Everything I’ve done and been through made me more self-aware. Like, as I stated, I used to steal a lot as a kid. I was often the lookout, too. That calls for knowing what to look out for.” He moved his fingers about, talking with his hands, but kept his head down. “I didn’t watch people, I’d watch the pigeons.”
“Pigeons?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He slowly lifted his head, looked at Frieda and explained himself. “If you saw a bunch of pigeons suddenly move, you knew a car was coming. They would move for nothing but a fast moving car and that was my cue to whistle for my friends to get out of whatever apartment or store they were ripping off because it could be the police. I watched birds, things like that, because watching other people was far less reliable. Animals see and hear stuff before we do.”
“Nick, can I ask you something?” Amber, another member of the group, asked.
“Yeah…”
“Do you think your job made things worse? You said you love your job but it was stressful, but… did it help or hurt in the long run? I couldn’t imagine being a police officer. That’s just too much…”
The guy sat there and seemed to deliberate over the woman’s question for a moment or two.
“Amber, I just can’t turn this shit off. I did start feeling strange at work sometimes.”
Everyone nodded in understanding.
“You keep seeing horrible things, and you think you’ll become immune to it, but you never really do. You adjust, you acclimate, but you never really are the same person ever again. People expect me to be a certain way at work, and it gets tiring, you know, the expectations. I get tired of being strong all the time. Shit.” He shrugged. “But, I want it both ways, you know? I want to be the hero, too.”
“Yeah, I can get that, man,” someone else stated.
“Sometimes I want to hug the crying mother that lost her son to the streets, but I can’t. Sometimes I want to tell the grieving grandparents that their grandson will get back home safe, but I can’t… because I don’t know that, and don’t want to give false hope. I just get tired sometimes, but you don’t understand that you’re so exhausted because every time you step out there, you have to, in some way, deal with yourself, too.”
“You have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, man,” Maurice called out, another resident. “I was a fireman. I have been on crack for the past seven years, man, and I know exactly what you’re talking about. If you go into these buildings one more time,” he pointed towards the window, “and see one more burnt up kid, hear another mother or father moaning about their child being trapped and you can’t save them, sometimes something goes POP!” He pointed to his skull. “You lose your damn mind. I was afraid to tell people I was crackin’ up, you know?” Maurice laughed grimly as he exposed several missing teeth. “You’re afraid you’ll lose your damn job, so you don’t say shit. You just be quiet and like you said, you don’t want to be perceived as no punk, like you can’t take it, weather the storm. You and me was supposed to be the superheroes, you know?” He grinned.
Nick nodded, seemingly hanging onto the man’s words.
“But sometimes the superheroes need the most help. It’s like we’re in a war that never fu
ckin’ ends and even if it did, we never get to go home afterwards because the war is in our own damn backyard…”
What drink would I order right now if I were allowed to? Probably a boilermaker…
The boilermakers are a dark stout that you mix with a shot of whiskey. They’re simple, and get the job done. If I were a drink, I’d be a boilermaker, too. You see, I’m the combination of two different things which, when brought together, created a motherfuckin’ monster. The whiskey is my father. I never knew him yet his intentions were crystal clear. His actions spoke on his behalf; I needed no interpretation. Like the whiskey, he only reached his full potential by breaking down others. I have a new understanding of the man.
Clarity is like gazing out a window but when you look out, you have no idea what to focus on, what to view and appreciate. The dark stout is my mother. She’s reliable, rich in spirit, you know what you’re gonna get, and she never disappoints. And that leaves me, the boilermaker. I’m robust but water my own self down. I’m built to last, and simultaneously created to fail. I’m harsh when I initially hit you and get into your system, but I promise to make it worth your while…
The boilermaker sat there on the hard park bench with the chipped light blue paint. He had no idea why an outside picnic seat had been brought inside the facility and plopped in the hallway; nevertheless, it looked like a great place to summon some peace and quiet without shelling himself off from the rest of the world. Nick’s thoughts wobbled back and forth like a ninety-year-old with a shaky hand and peg-legged walker. The week had been tortuous, ruthless, and remorseless as truths and inner turmoil beat him about his psyche. Back-to-back one-on-one sessions with his counselor, group meetings, ducking and dodging guys from the precinct, and coming to terms with himself had caused dark thoughts to enter his brain and take him over.
At one point in time he looked at the front door and daydreamed of bolting, but the fantasy was short lived. He turned away and reminded himself that nothing in his life had ever come easy, so why would this be any different?
On a sigh, he leaned over and tore off the edge of the soft wheat bread partially wrapped in parchment paper that he’d been munching on for a snack. As he chewed on it, he darted his gaze here and there, taking in the scene. One guy kept moving his shoulders up and down like the dirty, cloud-forming dancer from the iconic Charlie Brown cartoons of his youth. Twisted, bright red headset wires from his mp3 player flowed out of young man’s ears while he rhymed and jumped about in tight, jerky movements.
‘…Killin fields need blood to graze the cash cow
It’s a number game, but shit don’t add up somehow…’
“That’s Jordan. He’s listening to Mos Def’s, ‘Mathematics’,” came her alluring voice, breaking him out of the interesting observations. “He’s autistic,” she added. “And he’s brilliant. He was put on all sorts of medication but got hooked on one, oxycodone, after a car accident. Anyway, he can listen to a song one time and have it down pat.” His chest constricted a bit as he looked up into her eyes. Dark eyes, so very dark, like two small worlds that grabbed hold of his reflection and stole his soul in a single, inky blink.
She’s speaking to me now… This is good, very good…
He slowly scanned her, and landed once again upon her head… no hair… sparse lashes…
Something is going on with her. Is she sick? She seems healthy, doesn’t look ill. Of course, I of all people should know, looks can be deceiving…
“I have a friend like that.” He nodded as he observed the man still bobbing about in the near distance. “You can show him a map, and he’ll know it front and back. That’s amazing, isn’t it? It’s really crazy how the brain works…how it misfires but then does crazy shit like that.”
“Yeah. It is amazing,” she said dryly as she began to stroll past him.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“…To class.” She paused then turned back in his direction.
“Before you go, can I ask you something?” He felt the flush in his damn cheeks as his temperature rose a degree or two. There she stood in taupe leggings covered in emerald polka dots, bright green, wooly socks, and an over-sized t-shirt that read, ‘If I Wanted Your Opinion I’d Tell You What It Is’. He smirked at the thing, which did remind him of her.
“Ask me what?” Her eyes narrowed as she seemingly prepared to go in on him. He could see it all over her face; one misstep, and he was good as two-day-old burnt toast.
“Remember when you said that, uh, I should have asked you out, or something?”
“It’s too late now.” Her lips pursed, she put her hands on her sparse hips.
“Is it?” He slicked his tongue over his lower lip as he eyed her up and down, falling into some lustful trance as a wisp of her perfume drifted close, tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, ‘Fuck me.’ “Well, I’m going to try again, anyway. I like you, Taryn. I mean that. I want to take you out. I don’t know how we’d work that angle, but I want to. I want to get to know you better, talk to you.”
“Nick, I don’t think—”
“No, don’t do this, okay?” He got to his feet, brushed a few breadcrumbs away forcing them to hit the floor. “Don’t tell me to get lost, good luck in my recovery, and all of your other canned responses. Now, I just need to know how we can do that? You said that’s what you wanted. Give me a chance to show you I’m not who you think I am… let me prove myself to you.” He spoke earnestly; surely, she could see that? “So, how about it?”
“I tell you what.” She leaned lazily against the wall and crossed her ankles. “If you find me in my favorite spot tomorrow night, then I will accept your date invitation. You have to be there on time or the deal is off.”
“What’s your favorite spot and what time should I meet you there?” He couldn’t see himself, but he was certain his eyes glossed over with anticipation; his time had finally come. He could barely contain the smugness in his smile.
But then, she began to walk away, a bit of pep in her perfectly placed steps. Pausing, she looked coyly over her shoulder. “…That’s for you to find out.” Just like that, she continued up the hall, turned a corner, and was gone.
“Shit!” He stomped his foot in fury and frustration. “I can’t believe this.” he mumbled.
There’s a shit load of places she might be at tomorrow night. And what time is that? I need to guess that, too?! This place is huge, and she won’t make it easy…
He cursed some more then kicked the air hard and rough as if it were a can of expired alphabet soup and he made it spell out, ‘F.U.C.K.’. But then, a thought hit him and he was struck with devious glee…
He took another look at Jordan and made his approach. When he tapped his shoulder, he startled the poor guy who was lost in a world of his own. He looked into the fellow’s light, hazel eyes, the pupils dancing about and glossed over as if he swam in a deep sea of emotion. Jordan’s russet complexion had a small smattering of toasted freckles along the bridge of his lengthy nose, and his full, fleshy pink lips kinked in a grin, almost as if he knew why he was standing there. Perhaps he did.
“Hey Jordan, how are you? Look, think you can help me? I need a favor.”
“I don’t know you,” the man immediately said in a robotic voice. His thick, dark brows dipped as he scanned Nick from head to toe.
“Okay, well, let’s get to know each other.” He threw on a big smile. “My name is Nick Vitale. I’m a resident here. I don’t think you and I have had any group sessions or classes together, but I’m fairly new here.”
“I see my therapist in the mornings. My therapist is Ms. Doreen. Ms. Doreen is new here, too.”
“Oh, okay, I see. Well, being new is hard sometimes. I’m still trying to make friends. I need help making friends with someone in particular. I thought maybe you could assist with that.”
The guy looked at him suspiciously, giving him the once over again. “I’m busy. I’m waiting for my friend Parker and Parker doesn’t like to lea
ve late. I have to stand right here and wait for him. We’re going out to get pizza. I like pizza with extra cheese because they never give enough cheese. Parker wears a blue denim jacket he got from a thrift store. The thrift store was called Second Chances. Second Chances is now closed. It closed down in 1996; March 3rd, 1996 to be exact.”
Nick smiled and nodded in understanding, then placed his hand affectionately on Jordan’s shoulder.
“I see… that’s interesting. Hey, do you know Taryn?”
“Yes, I know Taryn Jones. Taryn is an African American woman who is a resident here. She stands 5’10 and weighs approximately a hundred and thirty-two pounds. She is very nice looking and is kind to me. She never makes fun of me, either. I like Taryn, Nick Vitale.”
“Yeah… well, I like her too, Jordan,” he said. “I want to be her friend. She seems to be a very likeable person.”
“She is. Some of the residents call me stupid and she took up for me. She told one resident, his name was Brian Williams, who stands 6’1 and weighs approximately two hundred pounds that if he called me underdeveloped again, she was going to tear off his arm and beat him with it. I liked that. I liked that very much.” The man said the shit so gravely and matter-of-factly.
At this, Nick cracked up.
Oh boy, what am I about to get myself into?
“Well, sounds like he deserved it. Here is the deal, Jordan. I’m not going to try to bullshit you, okay? I need help figuring out something about Taryn. I could do it myself, but I’m short on time.”
“What’s the question?” The man slicked his mp3 player into his jacket pocket, as if ready to get down to business.
“Do you know where Taryn’s favorite spot is? Where she likes to go in the evenings, hang out?”
In the Nick of Time Page 12
