Worlds Apart

by Luke Loaghan

Delancey blushed. I placed my arm around her. She didn’t resist. We spent an hour laughing and talking. It was cold outside, and the other customers still had their coats and hats on. But I felt warm and comfortable. The smile on my face grew like an illuminating candle flame. In close proximity, she was intoxicating. I couldn’t concentrate on her dialogue. I was thinking about how much I really liked her, and how great she smelled. I asked if she was wearing perfume, but she was not.

  We were about to leave, when I noticed an old gray haired woman smiling at me. Delancey was in front of me, and exited first. The woman said something, and it sounded like she said, “You are so in love.” I kept walking, astonished by her statement. I wondered if it was true, if I was in love with Delancey.

  We walked to Washington Square Park. NYU college students were hanging out, along with an eclectic crowd of hippies, vagabonds, and the usual village crowd. The park was deserted in comparison to how congested it is in the spring and summer. We walked under the large, white stone arch. I gazed up, marveling at its detail and height, feeling small in comparison.

  “How high do you think it is?” asked Delancey.

  “Maybe 70 or 80 feet.”

  “Have you seen the one in Paris?” she asked.

  “There’s one in Paris too?” I asked astonished.

  “You’re so funny.” She giggled out loud. “This arch is modeled after the one in Paris.”

  “You’ve been to Paris?” I asked.

  “We used to go every year, but I haven’t been there in about three years. The last couple of summers we went to London and Frankfurt.” She stopped herself from carrying on, realizing that I was not a fellow world traveler. We strolled to the statue of George Washington.

  “How did you spend last summer?” Delancey asked.

  “I was actually a few blocks away from here, working at a bar on Bleeker Street. I cleaned spilled beer, changed kegs; it was a pretty good job. What about you?”

  “I spent the summer on Long Island. My stepfather, Bruce, has a house in Florida that we visit from time to time. But I would really like to go back to Paris. It’s the best city in the whole world. It is my mother’s favorite city as well.” Her face enlivened when she recalled Paris.

  “It can’t be better than New York. There’s an old saying…there’s no place like home. And I love New York!” We both laughed and twirled around with arms wide open, heads leaned back, and eyes to the sky. We embraced and kissed, and I no longer felt the chilly air. I might as well have been on a warm beach. The physical affection that we were starting to share made my spirit jubilant.

  A folk singer was playing guitar in the center of Washington Square Park. I gave her a dollar, and asked her “sing New York, New York for my Parisian loving friend!’

  “I don’t know how to play it on guitar,” the folk singer said.

  “I do.” I picked up her acoustic guitar, and played while the folk singer sang the lyrics. She was really belting it out and I joined in on the vocals. A crowd huddled around us and the folk singer stopped singing. I kept the song going. Dozens of people now gathered, and the singer walked around with her hat to collect change and dollar bills. I couldn’t see Delancey, but kept singing and playing the guitar to New York, New York. The singer pulled a tambourine out of her coat. The crowd cheered and applauded. It was a real New York moment.

  Delancey was difficult to spot. The song came to an end with an over the top crescendo, much to the delight of the crowd. I bowed to their applause, and the folk singer offered half the money in her hat. I declined, but thanked her for the opportunity. The crowd dispersed, but I did not see Delancey. I walked around the fountain, and called out her name twice. In the distance, three large figures in familiar black leather trench coats huddled around Delancey. The large figure in the middle turned around. It was Juan Perez.

  The two boys that were with him immediately turned their attention to me. Juan held his hand up, to call off his goons. He leaned over, and gave Delancey a rather long embrace and a kiss on the cheek. Then a second kiss on the cheek. Juan flashed me a devious grin. She walked away from him, and he playfully held her back. Delancey was a little embarrassed. Juan and his friends finally walked away, laughing at me.

  “What were those guys doing here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. They said that they were in the area getting a hair cut,” Delancey explained.

  “You are on very good terms with Juan,” I said.

  “He thinks more of it than I do. We’re friendly but there is nothing else.” She wrinkled her forehead as she emphasized the word nothing.

  “It means nothing for you, but I wouldn’t bet he felt the same way.”

  We rode the subways to the upper west side and walked to Delancey’s apartment building. A black Cadillac pulled up in front of her building. A tall, middle aged man in a dark business suit stepped out of the car.

  The first thing I noticed was his soft brown leather shoes, then his finely tailored pants and suit jacket. The man’s hair was slicked back, and he held a dark brown leather briefcase in his hand. The man approached us, staring disapprovingly.

  Delancey’s hand broke away from mine. The man glowered, perhaps even growled, and I started to feel intimidated.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said. My heart sank, like an anchor hoisted into an ocean. Knots in my stomach were pulling at each other.

  “This is my friend David,” Delancey said. “David, this is my father, Peter Kenmare.”

  I held out my hand to shake his, but Mr. Kenmare did not reciprocate. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kenmare,” was all I could stutter.

  He stood in front of me, looked me up and down, and smirked. He glanced at Delancey, and took her by the hand. Snug around his thick hairy wrists, his Rolex reflected a flash of light from the street lamp.

  “Lets go eat something, honey. I made reservations at the Russian Tea Room.”

  “That sounds great, Dad.”

  They walked into the building, and Delancey turned around to wave goodbye. I stood in the cold, sweating. The doorman said I was lucky that Mr. Kenmare didn’t run me over with his cab.

  “Thanks,” I said wryly, “that makes me feel so much better now.”

  I was angry for being intimidated by him, and affronted that he was such a cold hearted snob.

  For the rest of the week, I didn’t see Delancey after school. She was busy with extracurricular activities. I only saw her at lunch and in the hallways. She didn’t mention her father and did I not feel the need to bring it up.

  Friday night arrived, and the guys were going to the movies. I backed out; my funds were too low. I had spent all my money going out with Delancey and this was not a pay week.

  My brother and I rented a video. My father came home with Chinese takeout. Harry and I talked about Delancey, and I mentioned that I had bumped into her disapproving father. Harry said the best thing was to avoid her father since the relationship wouldn’t last forever.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “It’s likely over when you graduate or when you both go off to college.”

  It was hard to believe that I was getting advice from my younger brother. I felt saddened by the reality that my relationship with Delancey probably had an expiration date.

  The phone rang and to my surprise, it was Sal. He was really jazzed up.

  “David, what time are you going to sleep tonight and what time do you plan on waking up?” Sal asked.

  “In about an hour…I’ll get up about six for work.”

  “Would you do me a favor, and take a pen and paper with you to bed.” Sal wasn’t asking, he was instructing.

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to prove it to you. Keep the pen in your writing hand, and the paper in the other hand. And remember which hand has which. Sleep on your back, not on your side or stomach.” Sal hung up.

  Harry and I watched a little more TV, and then I went to sleep, taking a small note pad and pen with me. The whole thing seem
ed bizarre, but then again, this was Sal.

  The alarm clock rang at six am. I had a difficult time waking up, and felt exhausted, like I had worked all night. As I was heading out the door, the phone rang.

  “Sal? Why are you calling me so early?” I was still barely awake.

  “Never mind that, when is my birthday?” He was giddy.

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “When is my birthday?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Are you sure? What’s my home address?” Sal asked.

  “How should I know?” I said, still confused. “Sal, I have no idea, and I have to go to work now.” I was annoyed.

  “Check the paper you took with you to bed.”

  I went back to my room and saw the note pad. In my handwriting it said “Sal 9-30.” It also had an address written on it.“Sal, is your birthday September 30?” I asked.

  Sal burst out laughing and said, “Yes, it is!” I remained silent.

  “The dream world is the beginning of the astral plane. We’ll talk in school this week. I have to come by anyway.”

  I arrived at work, still perplexed by Sal’s trick. Mike was more than an hour late. To my surprise, I heard a tapping inside the café. The lights were off, and the glass doors were locked. Mike had spent the night sleeping in the café.

  Christine asked me six times to grab a bite after work. Reluctantly, I agreed. At the end of the day, we walked outside and found Eddie Lo in his car. He popped his head out and shouted, “Get in, we’re going for Dim Sum.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I really did not want to get in the car. Christine insisted that I get into the car, and then pushed me in.

  I was in Eddie’s black Cutlass, the same car from the Seaport robbery. I sat up front with him. He asked if I knew how to drive. I did not have a license, but explained that I could drive my father’s station wagon just fine.

  The three of us ate Dim Sum at a restaurant on Grand Street. Everyone knew Eddie at the restaurant. The service was prompt, and always with a smile. The manager seemed nervous around Eddie. She brought the Dim Sum carts as quickly as possible.

  We spent an hour there, and Eddie picked up the tab and promptly threw it in the garbage. The manager, trembling with fear, apologized for handing Eddie a bill. The manager at the restaurant treated him like a VIP, out of fear. We left the restaurant.

  Eddie was driving when he said, “Let’s see you drive,” and pulled over on Water Street. I was anxiety stricken. I had never driven in Manhattan. Christine remained silent in the back seat. Eddie stepped out of the car, walked over to the passenger side, and opened the door.

  “Let’s see what you can do, if you can really drive or you are all talk.” He laughed.

  Then he leaned into the car, and said “I’ll be right back.” He took a box from Christine and walked into a nearby store. The box looked like fireworks. This did not seem to be anything out of the ordinary. Chinese New Year was that week. Suddenly, there was a loud bang, and Christine ducked down. Firecrackers exploded on the street.

  There were 28 seconds from the time I saw Eddie leave the car, to when I saw him hit the ground after three loud bangs. I incorrectly assumed the louder bangs were just bigger fire crackers. The fireworks exploded outside of the clothing store Eddie had entered. Smoke covered the sidewalk, making it difficult to see. The store’s alarm went off; its glass front shattered. I knew why Christine had ducked down.

  Gun shots were being fired, muffled and disguised in the smoke and clangor of fireworks. Eddie ran back to the car and jumped into the passenger seat. Christine handed him a metal object from the back of the car. Eddie screamed, “Drive! Drive! Fast! Now! NOW! GO! GO!”

  As I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal, in the mirror I could see Chinese gangsters chasing after us. Eddie fired his gun, temporarily deafening me in the process. An enormous cloud of thick smoke was behind us.

  My heart was racing, and my stomach cramped up. Another loud bang, and the driver’s side mirror shattered. The bullet missed me by inches. I floored the accelerator, going 70 miles per hour on Water Street. This was Manhattan, and no one ever did 70 miles an hour.

  “Make a left here!” Eddie shouted. I turned sharply left, nearly hitting two oncoming taxi cabs. My heart continued to pound fast, my ears still ringing from the gun shots. I kept driving fast, and thirty seconds later, I was on the Brooklyn Bridge. Eddie kept shouting to go faster. I entered the Bridge at 90 miles an hour, and crossed the divider onto on coming traffic to pass three cars in front of me. I switched back to my side of the divider, my heart racing faster than the car.

  I started to slow down at Christine’s insistence. I made a sharp left at a traffic light on Tillary Street, drove another block, and then pulled over in front of a subway station. I stormed out of the car.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Eddie shouted.

  “What the hell just happened?” I demanded.

  Eddie was frustrated that I had stopped the car.

  Christine said it was a rival gang attack. “We were in their territory.” Eddie yelled back in Cantonese.

  I ran to the nearest subway station, angry with them and with myself. Christine chased after me, insisting that they would give me a ride home. The last thing I wanted was a ride home from those two.

  Why had I driven the car? Why did I even get in the car to begin with? Why did Eddie want me to drive his car? I was mixed up with a Chinese gang, and I wasn’t even Chinese. I didn’t think things could get worse, but I was wrong.

  My criminal cousin, Brass, was at my house, the last person I wanted to see. His deceased father was my father’s cousin, and as a result, we kept in touch with him.

  Brass earned his nickname when he was expelled from junior high school for fighting with brass knuckles. He eventually went to three different high schools, and was expelled from all three, before he finally dropped out in the eleventh grade.

  Brass was a thirty year old marijuana dealer. But officially, he was a welder. Brass always bragged that he was in the iron worker’s union, and had a union membership card to prove it.

  We ate dinner, he exchanged pleasantries with my father, and then we went to check out his new car. It was a Cadillac Sedan Deville, with black leather seats and a polished wood interior. The sound system was pretty impressive, and the engine sounded powerful.

  “I just got it last week. Turn up the stereo and check under the seat,” said Brass.

  My hand pulled a chrome colored Magnum 44 pistol from under the driver’s seat.

  “It’ll blow a hole in someone like a cannon ball,” Brass said, proudly showing off his latest weapon.

  He was a big talker, and really never let anyone get a word in. It was better not to speak anyway, because Brass had a short fuse and anything you’d say…and I do mean anything, could set him off. I once saw him punch and kick a guy for making a remark about the weather.

  Brass boasted that business was booming, and he was making thousands of dollars a week. His customers were bodegas throughout Queens, and Brass explained that he needed to hire more people. He asked how much I was earning working at the café.

  “Minimum wage,” I said.

  Brass offered me ten times minimum wage if I worked for him. I turned him down. He said that I could make enough to buy my own car and pay for a fancy private college.

  “Come on, it’s not because you go to Stanton is it? Get off your high horse and do something to help your family. Where’s your loyalty to your family? Look, I’ll make it easy for you; all you have to do is sell at school. You go to school anyway, why not make some money while you’re there. I’m already losing money in schools because of the Deceptors. All you have to do is collect ten dollars per bag. You’ll be helping out your father,” Brass said.

  “I’m not going to work for you.” I could find a way to pay for college without selling weed.

  “Look around. Your family in is financial hot water, and you’re doing not
hing to help out around here. David, you are the smartest kid in this family and deserve to go to a great college. Wake up, will you. There are plenty of kids that sell dope to pay their high tuition.”

  “I don’t believe you. Stanton kids get scholarships and financial aid,” I said.

  “Yeah – scholarships. There’s the Weed Fund Scholarship. There’s the Crack America Scholarship. There’s even the Cocaine Club Scholarship.” Brass was having a good time with this. “College doesn’t care where the money comes from, as long as you pay your tuition on time. There are no questions on the application about selling marijuana to pay the bills, and they don’t ask you for the source of your funds, and if you don’t believe me, go to the Marcy Projects in Bed-Stuy and see who’s dealing from the roof tops.”

  I started walking away.

  “Your mother would’ve wanted better for you than an ordinary school. Think about your future. This money can open so many doors for you.” Brass glared at a police car driving by. The cops stared him down, but kept driving.

  “Okay fine, if you don’t want to sell weed, there’s other products. There is a high demand for steroids and speed. You’d be helping football players get scholarships and helping smart kids stay up later to study.” Brass moved to within six inches away from me. “All you have to do is supply. They’re already buying from someone else – its just business.”

  I knew every athlete at Stanton, and could easily sell these guys steroids; it would be no big deal. But I thought about my grandfather, and my promise to him, and my life map, and turned Brass down again.

  Agitated, he drove off in his fancy Cadillac.

  My father didn’t care much for Brass and his antics. Brass had brought him a bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold scotch, which he placed in the liquor cabinet. “All that glitters isn’t gold,” he said.

  The mail was on the table. Two envelopes were addressed to me. One was from the College Board, with my SAT scores. The second envelope was from the state college I had applied to. My father had already opened both letters.

  My SAT score was close to my scores on the practice tests. The second envelope was better news.