It was lost under the blare of a boombox playing Los Prisionros.
Her read on my mouth remained a mystery, and all I know is she laughed.
And coincidence urged everyone to do the same under cool, desert landscapes as someone cannon balled into the pool.
One single chord rising above the rest.
Blondie.
Standing, rather that sitting. Perched at a nearby table, wine stain on a shirt some seven or so days worn after disappearing for a full week. Off to the coast. Didn’t tell a soul, and the rest of us were left to second guess if we would ever see him again.
Only in the abstract.
Blondie was forever. Gale force winds, stars and constellations in a cartographer’s map.
“Lucky!” he called out. Washed it down with the final dregs of a Ballentine pint. Spanish luster radiating with blue eyes, dirty blond tangles reaching down towards skinny shoulder blades. “You drunk, mad, fucking poet. You’re going to blind the Gods for the rest of us and realize the world!”
I raised my bottle of Gato Negro.
He laughed and collapsed into the arms of a redhead, kissed her so deep, I had to imagine the truth was buried deep within her thighs.
Everyone was waiting.
I wasn’t sure for what. Couldn’t figure the occasion.
I was seven hours shy of a 747 heading back past the equator.
Cheers ruptured the fabric of our universe.
I sent my eyes to the source. Saw Daniel Bustos and his lady emerging from the house after what looked like an intensely satisfying fuck session.
He blew kisses.
She jumped into the pool.
All those after sex fluids emulsifying.
I caught Blondie clapping, desperately clinging to another bottle.
Grinning madly.
Daniel took a chair beside me.
His hair cut short, halting perfectly before a pair of black opals.
“You need an idea, Lucky?” he asked.
For once, I welcomed the offer. Lit a cigarette and nodded.
“So it’s about a nun,” he said. Took a hit from my bottle and continued. “She loses her faith in the church, of course, they all do. But behind closed doors, she masturbates profusely with a crucifix.”
“So far, so good.”
“Finally, she gets caught by the mother superior –”
“ – Mother superior jumped a gun –” Blondie interrupted as he soared past us. On the way to tickle the interest of another group. Another collection of people so in love with the way he lit the skies.
I made mental note to sit him down and tell him I felt as much, before Daniel kept on with his story.
“ – So the mother superior sends her on a pilgrimage to a neighboring mission, several many miles south. And on the way she meets a man with one arm, and a three foot tall undertaker selling tomatoes on the road.”
I took a pull of wine. Waited.
He did the same.
“And?” I asked.
He laughed. High off fumes and the pleasures of sex. “That’s your problem, Lucky!”
Somehow, everyone had been listening to us, and their amusement cut through my ears.
I thought about diving into the pool, but something told me I would need to save that act for my dying years. But before some future date made its way into the present, Blondie swooped in. Whispered something into Daniel’s ear. He nodded. The pair took off.
Left me with Sonia’s eyes some five miles away from me.
I drank my wine, let myself feel imaginary.
Drank some more. Tried to avoid her eyes, memories of losing my virginity, no matter what I would tell the young man by the name of James Joyce, some several years later, down underground, a tale of sunrise spectacular.
They sky was turning a memorable copy of familiarity when they returned.
Carrying several copies of the daily press, fresh off the tumbler with last night’s ink.
The wait was over.
I broke my code, asked Sonia what was going on.
She told me what was what. Down in the alternate hemisphere that was Santiago, there was a test. Like the SATs only rather than have the results mailed, they were published in the daily paper. Every. Last. One, she said. Future laid bare for all to see.
“That’s fucking madness,” I told her.
And she responded by keeping to herself, uninterested in what the future held.
I watched as everyone else swarmed, picked up their newspaper leases and signed their names to a real daybreak. People hugged each other in random clusters, some grinning, some crying. Hopes dashed and dancing beneath strands of a cotton candy sky.
Blondie sat himself next to me.
I wondered where Daniel had gone, who had seen his exit.
“How did you do?” I asked him.
He grinned. “I’m going to be a historian,” he told me. Snatched my bottle of red and drank deep. Wiped his lips on his forearm. “Going to tell this county’s miserable story to the entire world, whether they’re willing to listen or not.”
“I love you.”
The words were devoured by the sad sobs of a girl in a pumpkin-colored shirt, smearing her tears along ink and paint. Typeset bundled in her fists, dry newspaper pressed to her face, secondary headline warning of waning exports.
Blondie rose, floated across the backyard.
Hugged her.
Because he knew it would all be all right.
***
We bottlenecked our way out of the sanctuary.
It was morning now, well and true.
Decorating the peculiars of my own particular moment.
We all hugged each other, said our goodbyes.
I caught ahold of Blondie’s hand, somewhere in the tangle of limbs and temporary farewells, because,
“We’ll all be seeing each other soon,” Blondie told me, bringing me in close.
He smelled like shit. Cheap red, and the rotten brine of oysters and shellfish.
I breathed him in.
“Who knows where we’ll be when we see each other again,” he said.
I took the cigarette out of his mouth, just to be the worst person I could. “Who knows?”
And before I could tell him all there was to feel, he was off.
Down the road apiece.
He put his wild hair into a ponytail and turned the corner, same time as a tabby cat popped right back around, darted through the hole of a chainlink fence. I turned to ask Sonia if she had seen it too. Just to make sure I wasn’t going mad, only four hours before my flight.
She was long gone. A familiar sight, out of sight.
A random girl reached into my existence and kissed me.
I murmured something into her neck, and then she was gone.
So I turned my back to them and made my way up the street. Escorted by graffiti and stray dogs. Watching the sun rise over mountains caked in eternal snow. I lit a cigarette. A slow shuffle leading me towards another suitcase, another unbecoming ticket to the rest of the world.
“Things are looking up for all of them,” I said.
A passing man dressed in a grey jump suit heard me.
Figured me for a tourist.
“En esa direccion,” he said, pointing down the street.
“Gracias,” I replied.
Left the surprise of my perfect diction to leave his ears ringing
as I wandered.
Asking myself where Blondie would be the next time I saw him.
Poison Your Mind.
Carmen didn’t know why, but maybe it the way he went about purchasing his pornography. He would walk into her store at the same time every other weekday. Distinct from the quitting time crowd of maids, cooks, domestics, hard hats and municipal workers of Sunset Park. Wasn’t just that he was white and wore a suit. It was her children who were more spellbound by his six-three stature, lanky appendages and impeccably parted hair than she was. Carmen would secretly watch as he breezed
over to the magazine rack in back. Never made a production of it. Didn’t leaf his way through Entertainment Weekly, GQ, then graduate to racier material like Maxim or FHM, only to happen across the truly blue. No pretense. His browsing was immediate and unapologetic. Approaching analytical. Time and again, he would raise his tired eyes and stare into space. Erase himself from his surroundings for half a minute, then settle. Untouched by the amused eyes of those lining up behind him as he offered his selection of triple-x for scanning, payment, bagging. Carmen would make casual conversation. He would reply politely with the same overworked air as anyone else, only he seemed to be missing the quiet relief that came with clocking out. She would watch him leave. Tell whichever one of her kids was on shift to shut up, that he was a good customer and not a real live wooden boy.
Carmen was thirty-six, ran her own business, and had nobody she could trust with this fascination.
***
“Hello.”
He twitched, startled. Tore his eyes from a distant thumbnail of Lady Liberty. Hands fleeing his knees, pressed flat against the bottom boards of the bench. Green eyes wide with a silent claim of innocence.
Carmen had grown up with four brothers in a two-bedroom apartment. No stranger to what boys did, all those times walking in on telltale laps covered with blankets, t-shirts, the occasional sock. Why she was receiving the same panicked treatment from him, that was something of a question mark. Everyday encounter. Nothing salacious in the panorama. And still, there was that split second of guilty candor before a casual expression won the day…
“Oh, hi,” he said. Lines around his mouth deepening in a shy smile. “Day off?”
“It’s the Fourth of July,” Carmen said. “Store’s closed.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course it is.”
“Independence Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas Day. Close early on New Year’s Eve, open late on New Year’s Day.”
“Yeah, I just… Some of the other stores were open.”
Carmen raised her arms over her head. Enjoying an unseasonable breeze that snaked beneath her sundress, upwards along her neck. She nudged his bookbag with the tip of her sandal. “You’ve been shopping around.”
He glanced down at the black plastic handles sprouting from within. “Yes. Sorry.”
She shook her head. “No, sorry. Me. I’m sorry. That was not – I’m not used to the world outside the store. I’m not used to conversations.”
“Me neither.”
“Not used to outside?”
“Not used to anything.”
“So should I ask? If I can sit? Take a seat?”
He moved from the center of the bench. Far left, hips pressed close to the iron armrest.
Carmen sat down. Instinctively taking her half out of the middle.
He slid into a slouch, as though looking to join her at five-foot-one.
“Marshal, right?”
He fell into a state of momentary distress. Stammered his way through various affirmations.
Carmen made quick work of her reply: “Sorry. Again. Your card.”
“Huh?”
“Your credit card. Sorry, I always forget that regulars don’t realize that I see them as often as they see me. You always pay with a card. That’s how I know your name.” She laughed. “Sorry… Marshal.”
“It’s ok.” He shrugged. “I forget, still. The business learns more about the consumer than the consumer will ever know about the business. That’s the sad story of data, demographics. Won’t be long now before search engines, online stores, all of them can tell us more about the customer than they even know about themselves…” He nodded to himself, agreeing with the premise.
She watched him debate this for a while. Then told him, “My name is Carmen.”
He was about to introduce himself. Remembered it had been taken care of.
She dug into her purse and retrieved a pack of Twizzlers. “Want some?”
He shook his head. She took a bite out of a red braid, swept a few curls from her forehead. “Sure?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Of course you should. It’s the Fourth of July. And it’s 2003, so we should be glad we’re all still here. Celebrate.”
He took a deep breath. Glanced from the package, back to her face. His eyes were painted black by the decision he faced. The most mundane of crossroads. He ventured a weak smile. Reached out with oversized hands, plucked a Twizzler. Tried to. Pieces all stuck together in the summer heat, and he withdrew far more than he had intended.
“Shit,” he said. “Sorry.” Recognized the profanity. “Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to swear like that.”
“Shit happens,” she said. Reached out to help him untangle the mess. Their fingertips brushed together, sending his back against the bench. The nest of rat tails fell to ground.
Got him apologizing all over again.
“It’s ok,” she said. “Here…” She removed a single strand, and held it from the furthest tip. Plenty of space between their hands as he accepted, began to chew. Nodding in the same way that refugees did to accent appreciation without the available words.
Carmen figured she would let him eat in peace for a while. Got bored with that, couldn’t help it. A little mad, giddy, incoherent with the rush of a day free from responsibility. Remembering possibilities.
“So, what are you doing?” she asked.
“Oh…” He swallowed with a dry click of his tongue. “I work in advertising.”
“Interesting,” Carmen said, willing to let the misunderstanding slide. “Don’t get too many of you in Sunset Park.”
“Too many of who?”
“Ad guys. The old professionals are all living in the Heights, Park Slope. The young rich ones are all off the L in Williamsburg. Neither one of them have made it this deep into Brooklyn yet.”
Marshal twitched a smile. “Call me a pioneer.”
“Not really what I meant, anyway.”
“What’s that?
“I meant, what are you doing? Today?”
Marshal shrugged. Stared back out at the Statue of Liberty. Shifted his sights towards pair of five year olds. Girl, boy, tussling in the grass. He smiled for a moment. Then his mouth turned upside down in a revolted sneer. Turned away as though witness to drive by, finding a human ear on his doorstep. “I don’t know.”
“It’s the Fourth of July.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Nothing to do? No friends, family, some event?”
“You?”
“My day off. Kids are at their uncle’s. I’m not. Freedom. Independence Day.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Want to do something?” Carmen asked. “Like go have some food? A drink maybe?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know?”
“Me,” he said. “You don’t know me… I could be anyone. I could be a murderer or child molester.”
“Are you?”
He thought about it. “No.”
“So?”
“But I could be. Any one of us.”
“Even me, then. Is it me?”
“No.”
“Dinner then.” Carmen kept on, refusing the dodge. Smiled awkwardly through a set of misaligned teeth she had never seen the point of fixing so late in life “Or a drink? I got nothing else. That’s it.”
“Why?”
She hadn’t planned on it. Off guard to the point where her reply was on automatic. “I’d like someone else to know it was a good day. That’s not going to happen if I’m sitting in my apartment eating leftovers. I need a witness. I want to be watched while I enjoy myself.”
Marshal crossed his legs. Jaw tightening slightly.
Trying not to look at anything, succeeding in looking everywhere at once.
“That’s not really what I meant, anyway,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“I meant, why me?”
“Because
you buy your porn from me,” Carmen said, charging through irrational honesty. “And that’s got to have us well past the crap that everyone has to hide from each other on a first date.”
“I don’t really date.”
“On a first whatever.”
“And there is...” He looked sad, then pleased. Then sad. “There is a lot more to anyone than just a couple of skinny mags every other day or so.”
Carmen put the Twizzlers away. “Good. You can tell me about it over some food.”
Marshal nodded. “Maybe. Maybe this time.”
Didn’t matter what it meant.
The park sloped down into Fifth Avenue, packed with all that Brooklyn wildlife. Sun dipping in the west. Casting long shadows as fairground sounds mingled with the brash perfume of braised pork, sugar, bitter citrus, premature fireworks, and Carmen had her answer.
***
They sat indoors at a taqueria on Fifth.
Carmen eagerly savaged a pair of tacos al pastor. Hungry enough to let her observations slide. Ignoring that Marshal had hardly touched his tostada. That he would frequently stare off to some random corner or another. Spaced, biting his lower lip. Some kind of longing in there.
She wolfed, doubled down. Swallowed hard, happily. In-betweens colored with her life’s story. Happy to tell all, her voice towering over the sound of sizzle, Pachata, and the blast of an upright fan.
Took a swig of Dos Equis. “You listening to any of this?”
“Yes,” he said. Gave his tostada a fake taste of his fork. “I know it seems like I haven’t.”
“There have been times.”
“Born in the Republic. Two years old when you moved to Texas. Five when you moved to present day Spanish Harlem. Seven when you moved to Sunset Park. Married at eighteen. First child at nineteen. Second at twenty-two. Which you frequently pointed out is strange for a supposed Catholic. Which you credit only as a credit. Husband died when you were twenty five from a case of late-onset type 1 diabetes. Left you his business. And left you wondering if maybe your children –”
“You were listening, I got you already…” She took another swig of amber. “My God. Hearing my history told back to me, it’s all so boring.”
“It isn’t.”
“You could at least bore me with your own details.”
“They aren’t interesting.”
“So get to it.” She had a swig of Dos Equis. “Gonna be done with my food any minute now.”
“I’m a special content reviewer.”
Carmen swallowed. “I’m already bored. Good. Give it to me.”
“You ever seen a commercial, ad in a mag, and thought to yourself, what were they thinking?”
Stories From a Bar With No Doorknobs Page 40
