Twelve

by Nick McDonell

  White Mike runs through all the parties he knows are happening. “Where’s the party?”

  “Chris somebody and Sara Ludlow.”

  White Mike tries to keep his face straight. “What’s the guy like?”

  “He’s actually a model. Tall, brown hair, kind of long. Really handsome.”

  “Well, what’s the problem?” I know the damn problem, thinks White Mike. The guy’s a pothead. And an asshole.

  “Well, I don’t know, I’m sort of suspicious of those parties, you know. And models are jerks.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “No, I’m serious, I don’t know, he just doesn’t seem like the kind of guy I’d like. I don’t know.”

  “Well, those parties can get weird.”

  “Have you ever been to one?”

  “Mostly they’re not really even parties, just a bunch of kids getting wasted, listening to music, flirting with each other.”

  “I think I might go. You should come too.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop by.”

  He tells Molly it is his father at the restaurant when his beeper goes off. I am those parties, thinks White Mike.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  ANDREW HAS NOTHING to do. He walks with no destination in mind and ends up in Carl Schurz Park near Gracie Mansion where the mayor lives.

  A tall man with a knitted wool cap pulled over his ears is sitting alone at a stone table with a chessboard painted on it. There is a little pom-pom on top of the cap, and his bristly white mustache glistens with moisture from his condensed breath. His pores are huge, craterous, even from the distance at which Andrew views him. There are chess pieces covering the board before him. Apparently he is playing against himself. Andrew stands and watches the game. The man sits deep in thought for several more minutes. Andrew pretends to study the board while he studies the man and his bulbous pink nose. Finally the man moves a pawn one space. He does so with startling force, a sharp bang as he whaps the piece down on the stone. He gets up, circles the table, and looks at the game from the inverse perspective.

  Andrew walks a little closer to the table. The man still does not look up; just exhales heavily, sending a plume of white mist into the air. He pulls his overcoat about him and readjusts his yellow scarf.

  “Want to play?” He looks up suddenly and catches Andrew’s eyes.

  “Sorry?”

  “Do you want to play,” the man repeats impatiently.

  “Umm, I’m not very good.”

  “Don’t say umm.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t say umm. Am I going to have to repeat everything with you?”

  “I’m not sure if I want to play, actually. I think I might have somewhere to go.” Andrew begins to leave.

  “Oh, bullshit. Stay and play. It’s your move.”

  Andrew looks at the old man incredulously but sits down.

  “There we go.”

  “Don’t you want to start a new game? I think I interrupted yours.”

  “Nonsense. Play what is there. You have the advantage. You’ll need it.”

  Andrew looks hard at the board. He decides he really wants to beat the old man. They play in silence. The man slowly pushes Andrew into a corner. They both ignore the cold. When the man scores Andrew’s queen, he takes out a long-stemmed oak pipe and a bag of tobacco and taps down a bowl. His match flares in the cold afternoon, and he lights the pipe and sucks on it silently, looking at the boy across from him as much as at the board. Three moves later he has the boy in checkmate.

  “You played better than I thought you would.”

  “Thanks, I guess. I’m Andrew.”

  “Sven.” They shake hands.

  “What happened to your head?” He points at the bandage around Andrew’s forehead.

  “I got run over by an ice-skater.”

  Sven laughs a hacking old-man laugh around his pipe. “Fell down, did you? Ahh, heehee. Well then, what are you doing out here in the middle of the day, a youngster like you? Don’t have any friends, huh? You a loser?”

  “What? Whatever, man. Thanks for the game.” Andrew starts to move away.

  “Well now, wait up a moment. Come and I’ll buy you a drink. Don’t say man.” Sven gets up and packs the pieces into a little plastic bag and puts it in a pocket of his old overcoat. He limps off a little ways, then turns back to Andrew, who is standing by the table. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Umm, yeah, yeah.” Andrew jogs over to catch up, as tall old mustachioed Sven limps off toward the edge of the park. “So where’re we going?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.”

  “Hold up, I want to know where we’re going.”

  “Well, Mr. Big Britches, if you’re that uppity, we’re going to O’Reilly’s.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You know the place, do you?” Sven grins. “Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?”

  “I pass by it all the time.”

  “Live around here?”

  Uneasily: “Yeah.”

  “Ahh, don’t worry, I’m not going to come and rape you.” Sven turns suddenly on the boy and shoves his face close— “Boo!” Andrew starts, then lets out a sigh as Sven hoots with laughter. “Be strong.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  THERE WAS A bum whom White Mike walked by every day on the way home from grammar school. He was short, with light dark skin and bad acne and a long chin and a narrow nose and a big Afro that he wore with a sweatband sometimes, and he was always exercising—push-ups, sit-ups—on an exercise mat. He was rag-ass, but clean by White Mike’s bum standards. His name, as far as White Mike knows, was Captain. That was how he introduced himself when White Mike handed him half a roast-beef sandwich one day. Lettuce, tomato, mustard, cheddar cheese, no mayonnaise, pickles.

  Captain asked: ‘Where’s the mayo?”

  “Sorry,” said White Mike.

  “No, I mean not for me.” He gave a great whooping laugh and turned the heads of the people waiting for the bus. “I mean you, you don’t like mayo? Mayo’s good, brotha.”

  “I never liked it much.”

  “I’m Captain, nice to meet you.” The man extended his hand. White Mike felt how it was rough like sandpaper, callused and hard.

  “Mike.”

  “Mike, huh? Well, you know, got to finish my workout.” Captain went hack to his mat and started exercising. Captain was the strongest guy White Mike knew. He did push-ups one-handed on his fingertips and crazy sit-ups and all sorts of stuff. White Mike could have done chin-ups on Captains arm.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  THE BAR IS empty. It is not even five o’clock. Sven leads Andrew to a table in the back. The bartender nods at him on the way in. As soon as they sit, a young waitress comes up. She is pretty, dark red hair and big brown eyes. She speaks with an Irish lilt. “Hi, Sven.”

  “Evening, Megan. Could I have a Dewar’s and soda, please, and the same for the young man.”

  Megan smiles at them both with slightly crooked teeth and strides off to the bar. Sven removes his overcoat and gloves and hat to reveal a faded vest with a pocket watch, and sun-splotched hands and a great mane of gray hair to match his bristly mustache. They sit in silence until she returns with the drinks. “Here you go. Cheers.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Sven takes a drink and settles himself in his chair. “Now then. What is your story, Andrew?”

  “My story?”

  “More repeating, eh?”

  “Well, what do you mean?” Andrew is already thinking about how he is going to tell the story of this bizarre afternoon to Sara, the hot girl from the hospital. This crazy old dude Sven is sitting in the park alone, playing chess with himself. He gets me to play with him, and then he beats me, and then he takes me to O’Reilly’s. Yeah, O’Reilly’s. And he buys me a Scotch and soda.

  “Everybody has stories. Tell me a story. What do you do?”

  “I’m a student.” Andrew decides he does not like Scotch and soda.
<
br />   “Of what?”

  “I go to high school.”

  “What do you study?”

  “Everything. You have to study everything. Remember? Didn’t you go to high school?”

  “Well, what is your passion? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “A fireman. So I can drive the truck.”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Andrew can hardly keep himself from laughing. “I can’t believe this. Okay. I think I’m interested in medicine.”

  “Well, then, a doctor.” Sven finishes his drink and motions to Megan for another. “Got a strong stomach?”

  “I guess.

  “It is a bad thing to guess about if you want to be a doctor.” Sven takes a swallow. “You need a strong stomach.”

  “What do you do?”

  Sven looks at Andrew for a second and then back down into the bottom of his glass. He speaks slowly, motioning with his free hand and pronouncing every word. “I was in Japan once, on a fishing boat in the sea. It is beautiful there, a great expanse of blue, the sky over the ocean; and in the evening it all shimmers.” His eyes focus elsewhere as he takes another sip. “This was years ago, and we went out in little skiffs to finish off the whales. We were whalers. I learned to speak Japanese. I threw the last harpoon, the coup de grâce, and it pierced the whale’s lung.” He suddenly pantomimes throwing a spear, and Andrew jumps and grips the table. “And then it flipped its tail up through the water as it was dying and knocked the boat over, and we were all in the water. And there was blood in the water from where the whale was bleeding and rolling, so sharks started to come. Now, the big boat was maybe three hundred yards off, and it started speeding over, but not before we were in a school of sharks. These blue-gray bodies swimming all about us. You would knock them in the nose with a piece of wood from the boat, but they kept coming. And some were ripping meat from the whale, and finally one got to me.”

  “So you’re the old man and the sea,” Andrew says, searching the man for scars or missing fingers.

  Sven finishes his second drink. “Well, then. It came up behind me, and I could feel its teeth tear at my calf, and sure enough it ripped the muscle right off. The water all around felt warmer for the blood, I remember it perfectly. And then the boat got there and pulled us up out of the water. The other two from the boat were unharmed. But there was no doctor on the boat, so they took me in to shore to try and get my leg fixed up. I knew it was hopeless. The calf was just gone. Back on land they brought me to the man who was supposed to be the doctor. He was really just a gardener, and he would dispense herbs from his garden or grind them into potions for the village. But when he saw my leg, he had to run and be sick. I was lucky; there was an Englishman passing through on a tour of the country, and he was a much better doctor. He fixed me up. That is why you had better have a strong stomach if you want to be a good doctor. But then you never said you wanted to be a good doctor. You just said you were interested in medicine.”

  Andrew just stares at him.

  “Well, then. Haven’t you anything to say?”

  “That’s why you limp?”

  “That is correct.”

  “That must be some scar on your leg.”

  Sven smiles and his face crinkles. He relishes the moment. “Want to see?” He brings his leg out to the side of the table and pulls up his corduroy pant leg. There is a metal prosthesis up to the knee.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “So what classes do you take?”

  Andrew decides to leave off the APs and honors from the names of his classes. “Molecular biology, English, calculus, European history, and Latin.” He counts them off on his fingers.

  “Latin. Not Laddin.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not my favorite class.”

  “Who are you reading? Caesar? ‘Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres ...’”

  “No. Catullus.”

  “Ahh. I’m afraid I don’t remember any.” Andrew glances at the old man’s half-empty glass. “So what do you do now, Sven?”

  “In Japan, the sands are black in places. Pitch black.” Andrew rolls his eyes, but Sven doesn’t notice. “You could go into the bazaars and buy or trade for anything. There were these brightly colored fish and fruits and silk. And you could go to some places and the girls would line up and you could choose them and they would take you inside and make you tea or dance and then for a couple dollars you could spend the night with them. They were so small. Such tiny hands and feet.” His eyes are clouding again and his hands are trembling; he looks hungry to Andrew. “Well, I don’t need to tell you what that was like. Been with a girl yet?”

  Andrew takes out five dollar bills from his jeans and leaves them on the table. “No. But I think I better be going.”

  “Where’ve you got to go? Sit down. You didn’t even finish your drink.”

  Andrew looks at the old man. “Sorry, Sven. I’ve got to go. Nice talking to you, though. Maybe we’ll play another game of chess.”

  “Fine, then. Leave.” Sven takes another swallow and resettles himself and looks at a painting on the wall. Andrew turns and walks out, and Sven watches him go. “Watch out for the old guy,” Andrew says to Megan on the way out.

  “Don’t worry, love, I do.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  WHITE MIKE IS beeped again right after Molly leaves. He knew it was coming. He has an ounce to sell to some kid up on Eighty-eighth Street and East End Avenue. He doesn’t feel like going out this early, but it’s a whole ounce, and shit, you know.

  He takes a cab up there, does the deal, and decides to walk back down to another beep on Seventieth Street. As he is passing Seventy-seventh Street on York Avenue, he sees a construction site fenced off by yellow tape. There are no workers around, though. No tools, no trucks, nothing. In fact, there is nobody around.

  White Mike walks into the site. There is tape tied to sharp iron poles surrounding a hole with a ladder going down into it. The hole is well lit and looks dry. White Mike finishes his examination of the hole and goes to continue on his way, but his backpack catches on one of the poles and rips. The bottom opens up, and the ounce of weed, in a plastic bag at the bottom of his backpack, falls out and slides into the hole.

  “Shit.” How weird is this.

  White Mike looks around and, seeing no authority figures, ducks the tape and climbs down the ladder. A strong smell hits him as he descends, some mixture of sulfur and damp concrete. The hole is not as dry nor as bright as it looked from above. A couple feet away from the ladder on either side, in fact, it is dark enough so that White Mike is forced to bend down and search for the ounce with his fingers. There is steam coming from the walls, and it is humid like the streets in summer.

  In the darkness, as he searches, a rat scurries away, bumping his foot. This scares him, but then he feels his heel on the Baggie and picks it up and climbs quickly back up the ladder.

  Chapter Fifty

  CLAUDE IS IN his room, stripped to his underwear, practicing with the double-edged sword. He has taken it to a back corner of the room, where part of the wall is now chipped away and gouged. Claude spins and feints and then slashes out with the sword, and another chunk flies out of the wall. Claude examines his blade for nicks. Later, he sits on the edge of his bed with a whet-stone, sharpening.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  TWILIGHT IS DESCENDING, and White Mike is walking home through the clear cold air. He speeds up as he hears a screaming; a wailing. He can’t make it out at first, this rasping howl. It is coming from around the corner in front of him. He hurries forward, and as he is passing the corner, the screaming is so loud he flinches. It sounds painful. He turns his head and he sees that it is Captain, and suddenly he can make out the words.

  “I AM THE STRONGEST.”

  Captain is just at the edge of the building at the corner, and there is blood running off his hands where he has been draggi
ng them along the stone wall. The snow underneath him is red and yellow from his blood and dog piss. Captain is not wearing a shirt, and his nipples stand distended from his huge chest. Every muscle in his stomach is perfectly defined. He jumps as he drags his arms, corded in fury, along the wall. He slams his head against the wall and slips as he lands. Blood comes down his face. White Mike is frightened, and the feeling is unfamiliar. Captain keeps screaming, writhing shirtless on the ground now in the piss-blood snow.

  “I AM THE STRONGEST. I AM THE STRONGEST. I AM THE STRONGEST. I AM THE STRONGEST. I AM THE STRONGEST.” He catches sight of Mike and rises, stumbling toward him. “I KNOW YOU. I AM STRONGEST. STRONGER. STRONGER. STRONGER.”

  White Mike dials 911 on his cell phone. People hurry past the screaming black man bleeding on the ground, trying not to see him. When the medics and police come and take the Captain, they thank White Mike and assure him that everything will be okay. They ask him if he’s okay.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

  Part IV

  Monday, December 30

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  ANDREW SITS IN the kitchen and looks at the paper and eats crackers and drinks orange juice. He tells himself he is ready to call Sara Ludlow. He put it off all yesterday, but today he is going to call her. Just needs to get her number. Andrew figures the other kid, Sean, her boyfriend or whatever, is probably out of the hospital by now, so he will call him and get the girl’s number and call her like he is just calling to get his CD back.

  A West Indian accent answers the phone and tells Andrew that the young master is asleep.

  Andrew switches rooms and drops himself on the couch with the remote. He channel-surfs for a couple of hours, switching between the networks and their sitcoms and Comedy Central and MTV and VH1, on which he watches the Hundred Greatest Artists of Rock and Roll. Where’s Sublime? When the countdown is finished, he calls again and this time gets Sean.

  Andrew looks at the number he has written down. Now he has to call the girl. It is absurd for him to feel nervous. He sits down and looks at the paper again and has another glass of orange juice and some more crackers.