A Matter of Love in da Bronx (4 page)

And that's why you can ask me for money? What this time? For the doctor to give you a shot for the clap so you can go right back to the very same embrace that passed it on to you because it's so compellingly exquisite? Lincoln Jackson what is that you're talking about? If it's not for that, then it must be to wage a war against the grungy bugs that eat up through your belly button into your stomach where they bite away the lining and spit it out until the foaming rancid acid burns tiny holes in your liver until you get a bottle to your lips. You're too smart a dude to do smack.

--Need some bug juice, Sam.

Through what psychic wisdom do you get the knowledge at these very particular times that tell you I can be found alone, defenseless? How do you know Sol is not here? You know you wouldn't dare walk in with him here, and not pick up a tool and start your work. The quota for the day is two sofas, three chairs, four deliveries! Five dollars a chair; ten dollars a sofa. And clean them up good! Not a tack; not a staple; not a bit of anchored string left on. And how Sol did for you because you would get not cent one until the day's work was done. Not even the first time you did a chair, and asked for the finif to trot it home to your young'uns for milk and crackers, he had you pegged right. Not on your life! You run out and booze in down in a bar and your babies vill still go hungry vich is no never mind to me because my business it is not but if you leave here my business is not got done! How many fivers did I give you, Lincoln Jackson, for a job you left half-finished which fell on me to do and for which I was to get paid by the boss but which you collected unbeknownst to me when you caught him alone outside and said it was medicine money and you never returned the favor? My co-conspirator! The boss none the wiser! Aren't we pulling one over on me, Lincoln Jackson.

--I'll make room for you. A place to work. Lots to do. I can help you make twenty-thirty dollars today, at least, if money's what you need, Lincoln Jackson.

--Can't do it, Sam. Couldn't find my pecker if I was pissing down my laig. Don't need work. Need to git somethin in me.

--Food.

--Bug juice be better. But, ah take anything to keeps me...

--...gesticulating?

--You gots it.

Sam made only the slightest sidewise glance, but Lincoln Jackson caught it. Then, they both took turns glancing at the brown paper bag with the stains advertising its contents. For Sam, any indication that he had a growling hungry stomach was made to be diminished rather than ignored, which, if he were to plumb the cause he would be the first to be shocked to learn he was more starved for a human connection than something a dinner bell could salve. So, he offered it to him, the sandwich, although Sam had a mind to
splitting
it. The shaking, bony, pink-nailed fingers didn't share that view, effecting the spoliation in a heartbeat, nearly shoving into the eager mouth--which, though empty started chewing anyway--waxed paper, sandwich, bag and all. In between mouthfuls, giving the eye-of-a-deadfish in return for Sam's impassive stare, Lincoln Jackson smuggled out one word: Good. With the last bit of it gone, the black man carefully knuckled clean the bit of mustard in the corner of his mouth; then crumpled wax paper and bag, irresponsibly dropping them to the floor, the act of a true wastrel, indeed! Mamma Scopia would tell you about that!

--Glad you didn't want the eats.

--Oh! I didn't want it.

--Or need it.

--Or need it.

--I could use the bug juice, Sam, jes to keep me crawlin. Like I can come back when I can and do you one chair...?

He has no right to ask you to donate five bucks to his cause. He's taking advantage of the fact that he knows you. If you refused and he never spoke to you again, how'd you feel about that? If he did that, he's not much of a person to want around. I'll give him the money, though, because I like him, and he's someone facing more painwaves than I am. Sam counted out five singles and put them on the decking of the sofa he was working on. Now Lincoln Jackson, you gotta wish me a happy birthday.

Like a hungry bird after scarce seed, Lincoln Jackson's beaky, black fingers quick-plucked the ones.

--I don't wish you dat. Easy getting in this world, hard working yo' way out of it. Happy Deathday! And good luck.

The pride of beggars will have them prize highly arrogance.

--I need a little luck to turn my luck around to be lucky.

--For some of us dat never happen. A forelorn testimonial to the belated of the world. I shoots square wid you, Sam, justice soons ah can. You know dat.

--I know that.

--Here I be on the road to resurrection! Hoccum though first you be such a good person, Sam, not jus' to me, but I see you be that way with evybody.

--It started out I treated everyone like this was their last day on earth. And then I changed to it being my last day on earth.

--You be sainted you be. With his eyes so wide his eyelids replaced his forehead, he took his strange splayedangle amble to the door where he waved weakly, and wrestled the knob to a half turn giving him an open door through which he started on his quest. Gone.

Sam considered the strange turn of events. Lincoln Jackson was there for less than three minutes--long enough to affect the rest of his day--as if Sam had to make a short detour that carried him miles around to his goal. For one thing, it was different for reasons dealing with Sol and Lincoln Jackson being in the same place at the same time. For another, he had borne up the minutes without breakfast, but how not to contemplate the millions of seconds without lunch, too? And supper? God! It came down to finances. The budget he was allowed by his parents from his own weekly salary could, with care, carry him from payday to payday. The way it worked was what Sam didn't spend one week was merely included as part of his allowance for the next. Why not? He was the consummate altruist. He was giving them his all, why stain the Holy Grail for a pittance? The home comptroller really didn't need so miniscule a contribution which really would've added to his meager pleasure--and extra cigar, another Pepsi, perhaps--a case of a venal flaw compounding a too-pure flawed fellow. Thinking of his actions so far, he jerked his shoulders, tightened his lips, raised his eyebrows, semaphores to the gods that be, translated as, "Whatthehell!" A passive resignation accepting his shortcomings and weaknesses. He checked his wallet, and searched his pockets. His financial worksheet was not impressive. He had enough money for the movies, for a cigar to enjoy on the way home, for a hot dog at the deli with everything on it, and a donut and Pepsi tomorrow morning. Would it be wiser, more prudent, to have for lunch the wurst? Or have it for dinner best? He'd see.

But, by no means would he go into his reserve. No, sireeee! Not the way he had to put the twenty bucks together! First, he came to an understanding with Sol that all the "lost" change he found in the furniture he could keep. Then, it was months and months of nickels and dimes and quarters exchanged for dollar bills, changed to five, changed to tens, changed to a twenty, which was neatly folded and tucked away in his wallet. His cache. Mad money. Once he had that, the change from then on went to much needed summer Pepsies, a slightly more expensive cigar, an extra beer on Saturday nights. In all the years he had the secreted twenty-dollar bill, he never once came close to an occasion where he even thought of using it. He sure wasn't going to break it today just for a second hot dog of the day. He'd bull it through until he got home for the pasta Ma said she'd keep warm for him, if he was lucky and Mom remembered.

Whatever, the immediate concern wasn't an empty belly as much as it was Sol. It wasn't that unusual for him not to be in the shop, in fact he was out quite a bit. At times Sol would come in later than usual, and come and go as he pleased--it really wasn't any of Sam's business. For Sam, he could be out making deliveries, or talking to clients, or seeing some bimbo. As long as Sam had work to keep him busy, he really didn't care what the man did. Today, he'd wait until noontime, put on his semi-wet clothes, go to the deli and call his house. In the meantime, to work. Sol's quota for the day was impossible to meet just for starters, but with all the delays it was a lost case considering he had some of the chores to do that Lincoln Jackson usually was assigned. Course, there were short cuts. There were times when Sol would tell Sam the client had hustled him down quite a bit on the price, or some rhubarb over the material, and Sam's time on the job should reflect the cut-rate price. One avenue, in such cases, was to shave the amount of time to clean up the piece, the tacks, the staples, removing only just enough of the old material to allow him to recover the piece. Through deft padding and layering of cotton, the new material was put on right over the old. Sam overhold material was left on to make the new material last longer, just like putting a pad under a good rug. She was satisfied. Sol was satisfied. And Sam was content to have the work.

There were no short cuts for the work waiting for him today. All the furniture was standing around, stark naked, waiting for his ministrations. Whenever Sol came in, it would be best for him to see him busy.

...Son of a gun! Why didn't I tell Lincoln Jackson I'd give him the fiver if he went to get me a donut and Pepsi? Could bought him one, too, and still had my birthday salami sandwich on white Italian bread with mustard. Hamm! Smelled so good! Makes my mouth water just thinking of it. Shoulda bought him a dog, but! How can you ask a deadhungry man like that to wait even a second? Did you see him demolish the sandwich? Three bites? Two? The five bucks I gave him? I'll never see it. What the hell. Have had to meter out the pennies all my life, makes me feel human to splurge like that. Not for some crazy thing. Like what? Hard to say what's crazy until you do it. Yeah, but what if Lincoln Jackson uses that fiver you gave him for bug juice, and that's the one drink that does him in? So? As the fish said about the whale, am I my brother's kipper? That choice--buying booze-- is Lincoln Jackson's choice, not mine. No need to get moralistic just for your own morale.

No matter, I'm still hungry. Now say it, hungry goes away as I work on my quota. Hungry goes away...

In the semi-hypnotic state of the craftsman who has mastered his art, Sam dressed, stretched, tacked, stapled, pinned, and sewed the material in place with time passing as unnoticeably as water around his ankles if he were standing in a brook. He was hunkered down tacking paper tape to hold the skirt to the couch when he heard the door open. Must be Sol. He shed the automaton's mantel perking up his ears, waiting for the familiar--You here!

--Yoo-hoo! Mr. Youchah!

A customer? So early? What a different day this was, indeed! In all his time, Sam rarely addressed a customer. Sol took care of all clients in every respect. Selling was the cash pump of Ah business! It couldn't be entrusted or delegated to anyone else. If Sol was going to lose a sale, or make more profit, the owner was entitled to take full credit. Only when Sol needed a testimonial in some regard--the workmanship, the material, would he call Sam forward so Sol could authoritatively establish his own case by being the ventriloquist:--Esk him yourself if you vant to know vat a terrible difficult it vas to do your piece! I don't make on it a penny! Sam never needed to nod his head in agreement. Besides, he was awed by the whole procedure, which he recognized was part of doing Ah business.

--Yoo-hoo! Mr. Youchah!

Sam tried not to ever visualize his appearance, never turning to look at his reflection in store windows which he saw lots of people do. Not even in his best moments. And, at that second, he couldn't help thinking of how he looked, what sort of an apparition he would present. He was mortified at the thought, then with the sound of heels approaching on the cement floor, with discovery imminent, he felt like the Pathe News radio tower sending out signals from the blood rising to the very top of his head caused by the embarrassment he felt.

He grimaced. Swallowed. And stood.

In barefeet, in untied wet shoes, with rolled-up cuffs; in undershirt that showed the heavy, black curly hair on his chest, on his back, under his arms, and flagrantly displayed his wider-than-his hips belly, he just plainly died. In his heart, he died.

It wasn't the mother. She acknowledged him civilly, curtly, plastic snood over smartly entrenched hairdo with camel's hair coat and matching alligator purse and pumps. Where was Mr. Youchah and how soon will he be back, and I had an appointment and how disappointing and I can't come back and will you look at this seam and can I have my other settee picked up because no one else can work with silk like Mr. Youchah and his work is impeccable and I have all my wicker in the garden to do and on and on she went as if she stopped talking she would foreverafter be silenced.

It wasn't her.

It was the daughter.

It was her. Who else? Kathleen Whatshername. The movie star. It wasn't really, but the same qualifications. Beautiful. Honeyblond. Standoffish. Remote. Gorgeous! She totally ignored him. Small compensation, no matter how he looked. He could be swinging from the lights, nude, and he knew she wouldn't as much as glance in his direction. He had read where the very wealthy treated servants as antithetical prosopopoeia, soulless poles, non-beings, and would appear before the hired help in the nude, perform in the bare, or act out all in the brassy, the while titillated by the eyes upon them. He just wanted to lock onto her eyes for a split second, to possess that much of her, but she would have none of it.

The mother was on stage now for Sam's benefit, searching for the silent applause of his looks, his attention to her. He did respond, indeed, but Sam had vision only for daughter who was infuriating with her air of passionate detachment. Yet, aware of him she was. He knew it.

Aware he was captivated by her. Aware he followed every movement as she pulled the kerchief away and fluff-bounced her hair. Aware her aimless pattern was a madding premeditated arousal dance. Aware of his mounting desire. Although her eyes alit on object to object, she knew he was there, not once bringing him so much as in the furthermost periphery of her vision, knowing his eyes were full-bore on her performance. She knew exactly where he was, of course. Else how could she have so carefully avoided looking at him, giving him satisfaction, deliberately frustrating him?