by Mara White
After five or six trips, Mozey comes in and leans over, hands on his knees, his breathing is accelerated, and I watch him cautiously.
“Are you okay? Is it your asthma? There is a lot of dust.”
He nods and stands up straight, his hands moving to his hips. He goes to his backpack, which is sitting on the couch we’re about to throw out, and he unzips it and removes an inhaler, breathing in a deep pump.
I’ve spent the last ten minutes in front of our non-working fire place drawing squiggles in the dust on the mantel full of rectangle ghosts left behind from now packed up, framed family photos.
“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, wheezing, and I feel suddenly concerned for him.
“Are you okay? Sit down! Can I do anything?”
“For one, you could stop ignoring me. Sit with me,” he says, patting the couch next to him.
“Is it the dust or the exertion?” I ask.
“Both,” he answers, and I realize that now he always directly answers my questions. “I have an idea to make you feel better. You said they’re just going to demolish the house, right? As soon as it’s reclaimed by the bank?”
“Yes. But I don’t like your ideas.”
“I haven’t even told you what it is,” he says as he takes another puff and holds it in his lungs with his broad chest inflated.
He rummages in his backpack and pulls out a can of spray paint. He shakes it vigorously, pops the cap off and then hands it to me.
“What’s this for?” I ask, my heart picking up a gentle thrumming, a light skipping beat. Mozey is always full of surprises, and it thrills me like a kid.
“Tell them how you feel. Get it out. Because I can tell that you’re hurting.”
I look at him, and my heart soars. I like him so much I want to kiss him. And I’m so turned on by the way he’s looking at my mouth I really want to kiss—kiss him. I stand and walk awkwardly to the wall. I shake the can again and write a giant “FUCK YOU!” right above the mantelpiece where a mirror used to hang.
Mozey nods his head at me and takes off his shirt. He’s still smiling and giving me a thumbs up as he wads up the shirt and wipes the sweat and dirt off of his muscular body.
I’m dumbstruck, staring at his chest. He’s ripped. He’s perfect. No, he’s better than perfect. He’s exactly what a man should be. I want to lick every single little square inch of him. I want the rest of his clothes off. I want to roll around with him naked. In the dust, in the dirt, stick a red tag on us: I don’t care. I’ll roll with him anywhere.
“What else?” he asks, and I rip my eyes away from the breathtaking body in front of me. I turn to the adjacent wall.
I’m turned on. I’m hot. I’m furiously angry and sexually frustrated. There is something I want to write, but it makes me feel selfish and stupid. But I still want to write it, and this is my chance as far as last chances go.
“I support my parents, and I’m only twenty-five!” I write the numbers huge. I feel an enormous emotional release. I’ve actually never said that out loud, but it’s what I think and feel all the time. I never say it because I don’t want to shame them.
“Here. Can I show you something?” Mozey asks and approaches me from behind. He puts one hand on my shoulder and lines himself up behind me, wrapping his large hand around my small one. He presses down on top of my finger and a stream of black paint rushes at the wall. He moves us forward toward the wall taking gentle steps behind me.
“Are you part of that portrait project? The one against the narco-traficantes?”
His body tenses slightly. He releases the nozzle. Now it’s his turn to ignore me.
He begins again moving us closer to the wall. The stream of paint gets more opaque and wetter and the line goes from blurred to making a perfect circle as he guides me. Then he pulls our arms back and moves the can fast, zigzagging back and fourth. The paint becomes faint spatters making a color graduation as he passes back to the original lines. It almost looks like a gray sunset. It’s striking but so simple.
“So there is a technique to it I guess, huh?”
I’m talking, but it doesn’t matter what I’m saying. Because everything at this point is feeling. Only feeling. We’re touching. Mozey and I are so close and everything is touching.
His naked chest against my back. His exhale on my neck so very close to my ear. The length of his arm against my arm, his hand wrapped around mine, holding my finger on the tiny nozzle of the can. I can smell his sweat with its distinct undertone of cedar. And his breath, slightly chemically from his tokes on the inhaler. His heart beats so close to mine, and I want nothing more than his arms to wrap around me, his warmth to shield me and at the same time seep all the way into me.
I stand rigid and hold my breath, praying he’ll walk away and in the same heartbeat praying he’ll never leave me. Then I feel his rock hard erection press into my butt cheek. He’s big. He’s hot. I want to touch his cock. This is so not okay. My mind snaps to my job and my professional duties.
I jerk away from him and grab the can and throw it in the empty fireplace. I turn to him to scold him for pushing the boundaries. But his back is already turned to me, and he’s rummaging like a madman though his backpack. He looks at me ripping the cap off a red can then he shakes it so hard, I can see his arm muscles ripple. He shakes the hell out of the can all the while staring at me, then he charges toward the wall brushing me back with his arm.
“Stand back,” he says and takes his can to paint.
His arm whizzes fast enough to blur and his lines are superb. He’s got that easily recognizable cholo street style that adorns so many bridges and storm drains all across LA. It’s beautiful what he does, and he’s only writing words with a single color. I already know the man can work small miracles with a canvas.
He takes a step back, surveying his work, his arms crossed in front of him, his chest heaving, and his dark eyes burning.
It’s difficult for me to decipher as it’s highly stylized, but I squint and see my name and then make out “This is Lana’s home she grew up hear!”
My eyes swell with tears that spill over the rim. I’m crying again in front of him, and I want to tell him that I never cry. That I’m the strongest girl he could ever, ever meet. In junior high school, I fell during a track meet and dislocated my knee. I broke two of my fingers when I tried to break the fall. How many tears did I cry that day? Not one. Not one single person witnessed a teardrop fall from my face. I held it all in like a champion. For fifteen proud minutes, I was the school hero, the star of the track meet.
I nod my head and sniffle, and he smiles at my reaction. His smile starts me laughing, and soon I’m doubled over, laughing so hard it’s giving me a side ache.
“What’s so funny?” Mozey asks, looking at me like I’ve lost it and concern washes over his momentary enjoyment of my initial reaction.
“I love it so much, Mozey. I love it—” but now I’m snorting and choking.
“What the fuck, Lana?”
“You spelled ‘here’ wrong,” I get out, and I can hardly stand up straight. It’s too much emotion, and I’m too vulnerable. I’m not used to so much feeling. “You spelled hear,” I say and cup my hand to my ear, but I’m choking on laughter and tears, and I can barely speak.
“Fuck!” Mozey laments and then steps to the wall in anger. “Well, English isn’t my first language,” he says, putting a hand on his hip and shaking the can really hard.
“It so is, you liar.” I’m still doubled over, roaring with laughter like I’ve completely lost my mind.
He squeezes in an “in” after the up and then adds a quick coma. He writes a “ya” in and the finished product reads, “This is Lana’s home she grew up in, ya hear!” He’s a quick study, I’ll at least give him that much.
I nod my head again a
nd smile while tears slide down my face with so much emotion. This is quite possibly the sweetest and simplest gesture that’s ever been given to me. This beats the prickly pear and maybe even showing up in Michigan unannounced to help me and my parents. He’s giving a voice to my feelings, laying bare the personal injustice.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so understood or so completely accepted before. I look at him; eyes wide open with equal parts fear and devotion. I’m naked in front of him, I’ve NEVER shown anyone this much of myself.
He steps to me and grabs my waist and then plants his mouth quickly over mine. Mozey’s movement is so fluid and graceful, I didn’t see it coming. It’s an instant of perfection, of utter and complete bliss. His mouth is heaven and his kiss is filled with sweet longing and so many promises. My whole body is supercharged with desire for this man. I’ve ached for these warm lips since he stepped foot in my office, but it’s all so wrong and it hurts me to admit it. I shove him in the chest and step back from him with anger.
“Don’t kiss me!” I yell at him. “I’m supposed to protect you from people like me!”
He glares at me and then looks down at the floor. I’ve crushed his feeling and his ego, and now anger is quickly setting up store.
“Don’t kid yourself, Lana. Don’t pretend you don’t need me or want me! I can see right through your act. I can feel you. I want to know you. Just, please let me in.”
“I was doing fine on my own. In fact, I was doing much better before you showed up. Why don’t you just go back to LA?”
I put my hands on my hips and his find their way across his chest.
“How dare you put me in a position where I could lose my job. You know now more than anyone just how much is riding on this!”
“You want me to go?” he yells, stepping over toward me with so much energy I pray he’s not violent. Could he be capable of hurting me? Reason one why you should never, ever mess around with clients.
He lifts the can and at close range, releases a spray of red paint right to my chest. He creates a red circle with the steady stream of paint, then he quickly releases, and we both watch as the drips run down my white shirt. We’re overcome with emotion and both of us are breathing hard. Our two chests heaving in syncopation like fireplace bellows on a mission to entice the flames to lick high— and even higher.
“Lana,” he says with all seriousness, pointing to the spot. “Right there, Doc, that’s where your heart should go.”
I’m furious even though I know through the heated flash of my anger he’s right. I march to the fireplace and retrieve my spray can. Without a moment’s pause, I move in and go for his chest. He’s not wearing a shirt, but it doesn’t deter me. I brandish him with a black “X” across his entire chest.
“Yeah, well you’re off limits,” I say. “In fact, give me that!” I grab a red tag and stick it on his shoulder. “That’s the garbage tag, Mozey. Why don’t you take yourself out!”
Mozey slaughters me with his eye contact which is half-tortured kid searching for love and half-lusting adult wanting to fuck. His face only confirms to me I did the right thing. He is way too vulnerable. You can’t mess with shit like this. It’s more than dangerous. It’s toxic.
He strides to the couch and grabs his backpack and guitar. He throws them over his shoulder and storms out of the house. My eyes follow him to the door, and I see Alexei standing there, fast food bags in hand and a two-liter of Coke under his armpit. His mouth is open his eyes are wide. He blinks, taking in the room and my paint stained shirt.
“How long you been standing there, Lex?” I ask him, still panting from all of the emotional exertion.
He turns and looks out the now wide-open front door. We can barely make out Mozey as he charges away down the street. Lexi looks back at me and shakes his head in confusion.
“Holy shit, Lana. You didn’t tell me you were in love with him.”
Chapter 13
Lana
And just like that, it ended. He walked out of my life just like he entered it. Without a lot of fanfare, but with integrity, grit, and a heavy dose of sexy. He’s a man who executes living life with determination and precision. Mozey Cruz was a gem: rare, precious and so very stunning to look at. But he was never mine to begin with.
Maybe you’re wondering how the story can possibly end here. Or perhaps you’re thrown off by me speaking directly to you (again). But I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m honest. I appreciate transparency and keeping things out in the open. I want to tell you everything that happened so you can judge for yourself whether or not you think I’m a bad person.
A lot of time is about to elapse, and I’m sure it will piss you off—so maybe a fair warning will make it less disorienting. You see, I can’t keep going here because you’d probably die of boredom.
There was no way for me to undo the professional relationship between Mozey and me. Yes, of course I imagine what would have come to pass between us had we met under different circumstances. It would still have been an awkward age difference, but who cares? We would have been fabulous. Scorching. We probably would have been perfect.
But as a social worker and someone who cares about kids, I could never live with myself if I were to look back on a situation and feel like I had caused him distress or added to his pain. It may not seem like that now, because you know the story, but believe me when I tell you, troubled kids are chronically attracted to authority figures. They seek approval from adults like moths to a flame, and I would NEVER take advantage of that, especially for someone I cared about as much as I cared about Mozey. I would never take someone’s vulnerability and use it to my own gain. That’s exploitation, an evil I have dedicated my whole being to fighting.
Was I attracted to him? YES! Was I in love with him? Maybe. But attraction isn’t sustainable, and Mozey was too young to understand how you change as you grow and that relationships can’t be fed on passion alone. He made it clear to me that my advances, were they offered, would have been eagerly accepted. But if Mozey were to love me, it would have to be him loving me for who I am and not at all influenced by his need to please me. Because that wouldn’t be real love—that would be acting out a twisted role-play.
Even though it’s been three years and Pathways has since folded, I can still tell you more or less what’s happened to Mo. The reason I’m able to do this is still surprising—even to me. I’m sure you noticed how well he blended right into my dysfunctional family. Well, remember how I said Lexi couldn’t make friends? How he was too strange and awkward, and had never been capable of making or keeping them? Turns out there was one guy who had the patience and dedication it took to befriend him.
Lex and Mo stayed in touch even though I forced myself out of the picture. Somehow he warmed to my brother’s strange ways—such as syphoning happiness from watching arrivals and departures at bus stations at three in the morning. Mozey thought Lex was quirky and loyal, and he understood his good heart. Quite possibly the only person on earth to take the time to figure out that part. The only person, ever, besides me and my parents.
Alexei got Skype, and they chatted often. Mozey sent him art pieces that still hang in his apartment. Lex even came out to LA for a visit. He stayed with me and one day had lunch with Mozey, but I declined the invitation.
Growing up in Detroit we never really fit in. We weren’t the only immigrants in school, weren’t even the only Russians, so it wasn’t our background. We had enough money to wear trendy clothing, ride bikes and have the right kind of toys, but despite our ever-ready assimilation, Alexei was a die-hard weirdo and I was a wallflower.
I guess it didn’t help that my mother always covered her head in a scarf when she left the house and yelled at us in Russian. That she fed us the food she’d grown up with as a child, we didn’t get Oreos or PB&J in our lunch. We ate imports from The New York International, the local,
Russian grocery store—things that terrified other kids. Or that my grandparents often picked us up from school looking like they had just stepped straight out of communist, post-Stalinist Russia.
What’s even funnier to me is how Mozey, a Mexican kid from California juvie, managed to blend in so perfectly with my displaced and dysfunctional family. When he showed up with his gutsy, surprise visit to help me, what he really helped me realize was that hard lines of separation were in fact, completely mutable. Just because it had never happened before, doesn’t mean that we were condemned to be ostracized from everyone forever. Community is organic and can happen among strangers. Community can be born out of circumstance—it really happened with Mozey; we all became kindred spirits. He was one of us. He was part of my family.
I think the real reason I was always so passionate about social work was because I felt a connection to any poor soul who had ever been written off as a an outsider. Hardship comes in all different forms and measures, but the inadequacy it breeds all tastes the exact same flavor. A sour syrup that makes you gag when you swallow (especially when you’re little). Often I could only feel “good enough” when surrounded by people who were also deemed “not good enough” by others. Because there might be nothing worse than feeling like you can’t fit in—that you aren’t qualified to jive with everyone else, those who are all off somewhere jiving joyously together.
When Mozey walked into my life, he understood me. Then he walked into my family disaster and became one of us. It wasn’t a process or a struggle; it was instantaneous and it was natural. It hasn’t happened again since, and it probably won’t ever. It was a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and I royally blew it.
