Blues for Zoey

by Robert Paul Weston

Why did she have to call it magic? All it did was highlight the obvious.

  “What happened?” Tracey asked.

  “He was punched,” Mom said.

  Tracey put her hands on her hips and regarded me with an almost obscene degree of sympathy. “Are you bullied at school?”

  “It happened at a party,” I said.

  “We have counselors here at the clinic.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You realize it could be serious. If the bruising doesn’t drain properly, there’s always a danger of blood poisoning.”

  Great. Scare tactics. I began to feel faint.

  “Oh my goodness! You can hardly stand!”

  Nomi shook her head. “It’s what you said,” she whispered. “Don’t talk about blood.”

  Tracey nodded sagely and I sensed her writing hemophobia in a mental file.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Seriously.”

  “Perhaps you could do something for him?” Mom said.

  Tracey nodded. “Oh, certainly. We could fit you both into the large treatment room.”

  She led us into what looked like a regular doctor’s office, only with two beds instead of one. Once Mom and I were lying on them, Tracey opened a drawer in one of the cabinets and took out what appeared to be a shiny, silver, carrot-shaped dildo. “This,” she said, holding it up, “is going to do both of you a lot of good.”

  I swear, I almost cracked up. “I don’t think this is a treatment I need.”

  “Lie down,” Mom told me. “You have to relax.”

  “How can I? What’s she gonna do with that?”

  “Your mother’s right,” Tracey said. She rested the weird-looking thing on her desk and lit a match. “Lie back, relax. You’ll be fine.”

  She flipped open the fat end of the carrot-slash-dildo. It was hollow. She lit some short sticks of incense and dropped them inside. There were holes all over the surface, cut in the shapes of stars and crescents. Sweet-smelling smoke streamed out.

  “What is that thing?” I asked her.

  “A reiki wand,” she said, as if it was the most common thing in the world. “Just relax, Kaz. You shouldn’t speak while I treat you. It can interrupt the energy flow.”

  She loomed over me, eyes closed in concentration, swishing the suspicious instrument back and forth. In the end, that was all she did: wave her magic wand, filling the room with smoke. She didn’t even touch us.

  When the incense finally burnt out, Tracey stopped. “We’ll give it twenty to thirty minutes to sink in,” she said. Then she left.

  “Now what?” I whispered.

  Mom hushed me with a finger. “Do what she said. Relax. Let it sink in.”

  I tried to relax, I really did. Just as I was nodding off, I sat up, wide awake. I was angry.

  “This is stupid.”

  “Kaz, lie down. This is the most important part.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “Please. It can’t hurt.”

  “Are you paying for this?”

  “It’s worth it. It really is.”

  Suddenly, I was choking on the incense. “I need some air.”

  I jumped off the table and stomped out of the room, feeling like my suspicions about Beauhaven had been spectacularly confirmed. At the same time, however, I was mad at myself. A part of me had hoped that everything Mom had told me about this place was true. Maybe it would work. Maybe it was a miracle cure.

  Unfortunately, that hopeful part of me had faded away, a bit like scented smoke, wafting through the holes in a magic dildo.

  27

  The Arbitrator

  “What happened to you?” A-Man asked me, dropping a massive bag of towels on the counter.

  “I got punched in the face.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “You’ve been in a war.”

  A-Man didn’t respond.

  “Thanks again for buying us beer.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Would’ve been even better if I hadn’t rolled a two.” I told him he could pick his towels up the next morning.

  “One other thing,” A-Man said. “When you see your boss again, tell him I might want to get in on another one of his poker games. I could use the, uh—y’know.” He rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers.

  “He’s downstairs. If you want, you can tell him yourself.”

  A-Man considered this for a moment, leaning on the counter. Before he could make up his mind, we were both distracted by a dark shape in the front window. It was B-Man, glaring in at us.

  A-Man shouted through the window. “Thought you were taking a walk, B!”

  B-Man didn’t say anything. He just stood there.

  “Ignore him,” said A-Man. “It’s the best thing.”

  B-Man smacked the glass so hard, the whole pane shook. He raised his hand to do it again and I thought he might smash right through.

  “Okay! ” A-Man shouted at him. “Cool it, B, I’m coming.” He went out front, and in about three words’ time, the two of them were arguing. With the washers and dryers going, I couldn’t hear what they said. I did, however, hear the creak of the stairs behind me. Mr. Rodolfo was lumbering up.

  “No-no-no-no! ” He emerged from the stairs, waving his arms, and ran outside. He waggled both his index fingers in B-Man’s face, swearing at him to get lost.

  A-Man muscled between them, doing his best to keep the peace. It was quite a scene, but eventually A-Man pulled B-Man away and Mr. Rodolfo came back inside.

  “He comes around here again—the little one, I mean—you get rid of him. Understand?”

  I nodded.

  “If he won’t listen, you got my permission to use the Arbitrator.” He jabbed a thick finger into the shadows of the stairway, where it hung from two red, rubberized hooks screwed into the wall. It was a massive crowbar. A long, heavy, kick-ass J of metal.

  That was Mr. Rodolfo’s Arbitrator. His own special way of settling disputes.

  28

  How Not to Take Out the Garbage

  It was Saturday night, and as I mopped up at closing time, a few of the men from Mr. Rodolfo’s poker night began to arrive. They rarely spoke to me. I figured that was because they were all men similar to the Brothers, men who had emigrated late in life and were therefore weak when it came to English. I thought A-Man might show up, but he didn’t. Eventually, when all the poker players were safely ensconced in the basement, I flipped over the CLOSED sign.

  The final thing on the to-do list was to empty the trash cans, then haul the bags out back and toss them in the Dumpsters. Just as I stepped out the back door, however—

  VVRRAAAWWWWN!

  Some shithead in a black sports car came racing up the alley. He shaved it so close, his side mirror bumped one of the garbage bags. The plastic twisted around my finger and I thought it might be torn clean off.

  “Fucker! ” I yelled at him. You think he stopped? No way.

  I was so pissed I dropped one garbage bag and threw the other one after him. But he had his foot on the gas. The bag sailed through the air and came down with a pop, right on the pavement. It burst open and melted into a puddle of candy wrappers, dryer lint, and used Downy sheets. In the silence after the car was gone, just as I was putting the stuffing back into the bag, I heard music.

  It was faint, far off, but I recognized the melody. It was Shain Cope. “Colt’s-Tooth Blues.” Maybe someone in one of the apartments was playing the song. I thought, shit ! I’d left the CD at Toph’s! I had completely forgotten about it, probably because I’d left the party half-conscious. Sooner or later, Dave Mizra was going to want it back.

  I stood there like an idiot, listening. There was something different about this version. It was Shain Cope’s song, but not the one on the album. The piano intro had been replaced
with something like a violin or a cello, and when the singing started, I was certain. It wasn’t his voice. Shain Cope sounded almost demonic. This, on the other hand, was the voice of an angel.

  29

  A Ghostly Relic

  Even with a whole building between us, I knew it was Zoey. Back in the laundromat, I switched off the lights. I didn’t want her to see me. Not yet.

  Through the front window, I saw her, right where I expected her to be, sitting on a bucket in front of Dave Mizra’s place. She had her rood rattler propped against one shoulder like a double bass—which suddenly made sense. One half of the thing was wired like a harp, while down the center strut there were strings like a guitar. It was that second set of strings she was playing, with a long bow. She sliced it back and forth to produce slow, melodic groans, sounds that lay somewhere between a cello and a musical saw.

  Her other hand manipulated the rest of the thing. She blew sad notes out of the horn fastened to the horizontal strut. She tapped at the junk swinging from the crossbar or pummeled the base against the pavement, thumping it to make sounds like an uprooted elm tree trying to dig itself back into the earth. It was the strangest one-girl band in the world, and on top of it all, she started singing:

  You wish that she were still around

  You wish that she were here

  I thought I was a poet once

  I’m just a profiteer

  If only I were beautiful

  Like something rotten on a beach

  That stuff has got a kind of grace

  Nobody ever sees

  In the lamplight of Steinway, with Zoey’s hair falling over half her face, the instrument looked like a ghostly relic, something dug up and reconstructed by a maniacal archeologist. It was a creepy scene, but it went perfectly with the music.

  There weren’t many people on the street, certainly no one standing near Zoey. Even the building ignored her. Dave Mizra’s shop was locked up and dark (just like the Sit ’n’ Spin). However, I noticed a lone light glowing in a window one floor up. A figure—it must have been Dave Mizra himself—was silhouetted behind the pale curtains.

  Zoey must have known he was there, because every now and then she glanced up at the window where he stood. It was like she wanted to make sure she had an audience, even if it was just one person. In truth, it was two.

  She only played for another couple of minutes, not really keeping to the song, just riffing on the tune. Finally, without quite getting anywhere, she stopped. She stared down at the pavement, looking a little sad, and then began packing up her things. After that, taking me by surprise, she glanced across the street, right into the window where I stood in the dark.

  She couldn’t have seen me, but I took a step backward anyway. She slung her big denim purse over one shoulder, hefted the instrument over the other, and came across the street.

  Seeing her headed straight for me, I panicked. I ran to the counter and ducked behind it. What would she think if she saw me? Standing in the dark, watching her? She’d think I was a creep.

  I figured she would just walk past, but instead she stopped right in front of the window where I’d just been standing. Gently, she lowered her instrument and leaned it against the glass. What was she doing?

  She took something out of her purse, something slim and shiny, and slipped it through the mail slot. It clattered on the floor. Then she walked off.

  As soon as she was gone, I crept out of my hiding place. Lying on the tiles was the Shain Cope CD, the same one I had just been stressing about. Zoey must have rescued it before Toph threw her out of his house. I opened the door.

  “Zoey! ”

  She was just about to cross over Emerson.

  “Thanks for this!” I ran after her, waving the jewel case like a flag of surrender. “I really needed it back!”

  “No problem.” She looked past me, at the darkness of the shop. “Thought you were closed.”

  “I was, uh, downstairs.”

  Now that I was standing in front of her, I didn’t know what to say.

  “Your friend’s an asshole, by the way,” she informed me.

  “Topher?”

  “Who else?”

  “He wasn’t always that way. It’s kind of a long-term project.”

  She let the instrument slide down her body and peered into my eyes. “How’s your face?”

  “Better than it was. You should’ve seen me a few days ago. Actually, no. Forget that. You shouldn’t have.”

  “Did you hear me play just now?”

  “Only a bit.”

  She smiled hopefully. “What did you think? Kind of a weird sound, huh?”

  “I think it sounded amazing, like a whole band.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard work. Makes me hungry. You know a good place to eat around here?”

  “You ever been to What the Pho?”

  “That’s a restaurant?”

  “Pho. Vietnamese soup.”

  “Never had it.”

  “Seriously? You should try it.”

  “You wanna take me?”

  “Oh. Yeah! Okay.”

  I turned to head up Steinway, but Zoey hesitated. “Will they let me in, you think? Most places don’t like it when you show up with a giant cross—especially one with bones hanging off it.”

  “I could help you carry it home. If you live nearby.”

  She shook her head. “Our place is, like, way across town.”

  “Oh, okay.” I was kind of hoping we were neighbors. “We could lean it on the wall outside. You’ll be able to see it through the window.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Are you kidding? No way. I made this thing myself. It took forever. I gotta keep it safe. It’s really important. To me, I mean.” She took a step toward the laundromat. “Could I stash it in there?”

  “My boss wouldn’t like it.”

  “Not even for a little while?”

  “I don’t know … ”

  I looked up and saw the lights on in our apartment. We could certainly stash the rattler up there, but (a) how would we hide it from Mom and Nomi, (b) both of them would probably want to meet Zoey, which would be weird, and, of course, (c) I was basically ashamed of where I lived.

  “But you’re closed,” Zoey said, citing the obvious. “Your boss isn’t even there.”

  “Actually, he’s downstairs.” I explained a bit about his poker nights—how on Saturdays, a bunch of guys came by and played cards for money.

  “As long as he knows that’s illegal.”

  “What is?”

  “Um, organized gambling ? For money? In a place of business?” She shook her head. “Totally not allowed.”

  “Is it just me, or is that a weird thing to know?”

  She shrugged. “So can I stash it in your work or not? Otherwise, I’m going home.”

  “If he found it, my boss would go crazy. He saw you outside once and he thinks you’re … well, ‘a freak.’ His words, not mine.”

  “What does he know? I’ve not even met the guy.”

  “It’s just the way he is.”

  “If we come back and get it later, he’ll never know.”

  “I don’t know … ”

  “Okay, whatever.” She hefted the instrument onto her shoulder again. “You wanna keep your job, I get it. I’ll see you around.”

  “Wait.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If we’re really, really quiet, we can hide it in with the dry cleaning.”

  30

  What the Pho?

  What the Pho had much the same layout as the Sit ’n’ Spin, except instead of washers and dryers, there were tables and chairs. It was a long, narrow strip of a room, with a big window up front and an open kitchen in the rear. The place was decorated with old posters that looked like they had been stolen (not without violence) from a defu
nct travel agency. Two flat-screen TVs were bolted to the walls, running a perpetual loop of Asian soap operas.

  Zoey thought the place was cool, but she had no idea what to order, so I requested a basic bowl of pho for us both.

  “How come it’s so red?” she asked, poking the meat with her chopsticks.

  “It’s rare beef.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “You’ve eaten sushi, right?”

  “Yeah, but that’s fish.”

  “And it’s raw. But it’s good, right? This is just rare.”

  “Rare.” She poked it again. “I think that’s worse.”

  I looked around the restaurant. “Do any of these people look sick to you?”

  “He does.” She pointed to a stooped wreck of a guy staring at the televisions.

  “That’s not sick, that’s just … old.”

  She returned her attention to the bowl. “Okay, so what’s this?”

  “Tendon. A little chewy, but good.”

  “Do you always take girls here? I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

  “For a girl who plays music in the street, you’re not very adventurous.”

  This comment was greeted with silence.

  “Just try some,” I said. “Trust me.”

  She did.

  “Wow,” she said. (Vindication!) “Why have I never had this before?”

  “Questions I can’t answer.”

  We started eating. I took the opportunity to stare at her mouth. Watching her slurp and chew like that—what can I say? It made me want to kiss her.

  Halfway to the bottom of the bowl, she asked, “Why does your boss hate me so much?”

  The mention of Mr. Rodolfo brought me back to the real world. “He has a narrow definition of what it means to be normal.”

  “Ick.”

  “I know.”

  We went on eating in silence for a while. On the TV in the corner, it looked like a Chinese soap dubbed into Vietnamese. You didn’t need to speak either language to see that the words didn’t match the actors’ lips.

  “Do you come here because you’re Vietnamese?” she asked me. “I don’t know much about Vietnam—obviously—but you look like you might be.”