Five Boroughs 01 - Sutphin Boulevard (23 page)

“Look buddy, you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think I’m here looking for a friend.”

“So why are you here? To languish away by yourself?”

“Yes.” I traced the pad of my finger on the table. “I came here to be alone and sit in a corner, so why don’t you let me do that and go back to your side of the bar?”

“I want to talk to you.”

I sneered. “To instill some New Year’s cheer? Don’t bother. I’m fine.”

Laughter erupted a few feet away. The guy’s eyes flicked to the side, and I hoped he’d take himself and his fucking Nunzio eyes away from me, but no such luck; he just smiled again. The guy was hot in all the wrong ways, and I wouldn’t be that into him if I wasn’t in such a funk, but those eyes….

“You’re a bad liar. You’ll never get rid of me that way.”

“You know what they say. He who can’t dissemble, can’t fucking reign.” He looked stumped so I explained with as much disdain as I could slur. “It’s a Roman thing. Forget it.”

“Do you normally go around quoting Romans when drunk?”

“History teacher,” I grunted. It earned me another cocked-head stare of surprise, and I bit back a retort about all Latinos not being fucking construction workers. What was it that David had accused me of all those weeks ago? Projecting? Being defensive? Whatever. It was all bullshit, anyway. “All right, well this is as entertaining as it gets so feel free to mosey on.”

“Maybe I don’t want to mosey on.” The guy picked up my empty glass. “Maybe I want to see you smile.”

“Maybe you should mind your own fucking business.”

He must have really been into verbal abuse because he said, “Maybe you’d be more open to conversation if I got you another drink.”

“You’d literally have to get me an entire bottle.”

“Consider it done.”

I started to protest but stuttered out the words too slow, and he was disappearing into the crowd before I could stop him. I looked around, craving an exit, but ultimately failing because my mystery benefactor was back before I could make a decision. He was armed with a bottle of Jack Daniels. I unsuccessfully tried to smile, but I could still see his obvious want.

It did nothing for me. Not even when he ogled my biceps and dragged his tongue over his lips. He could hit me with every rehearsed move he had, and I would still be more interested in the bottle. It was a sad testament to my situation, especially since I knew full well where this little tête-à-tête was going, but I was not drunk enough to ignore key details that were hanging my sex drive out to dry. Like the unyielding desire to forget my own name while on a brain vacation to a reality that was a lot less harsh than this one.

“How much do I owe you?

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t do handouts.”

“So what do you do?”

“Whatever you want.” My tone was better suited for a eulogy than a come-on, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was going full throttle on the eye-fucks, even though, personality-wise, I was the least impressive person in the bar. My hand twitched around the bottle, but I didn’t make a move to open it. Not my money, not mine to touch.

“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning closer to hear the faint rumble of my voice.

“Michael.”

“I’m Noel.”

“Good for you.”

Noel screwed off the top of the bottle without much effort. It wasn’t full, but I wasn’t about to complain.

“So what’s got you looking so down?”

I watched him pour. My attraction kicked in the more generous he was. Our fingers brushed when he slid the glass closer to me, and I looked away from his smoldering gaze to fill my gut with more whiskey.

“You want my sad life story?” I asked, the words coming out thick and clumsy.

“Maybe.” Noel grabbed the neck of the bottle and filled his glass. “Why aren’t you with anyone on New Year’s?”

“Because miserable people shouldn’t be around happy people.”

“What can we do to make you happy?”

That was my cue. Flash a half smile, say something nasty, maybe drop some Spanish since it gave white boys such a jump start to their cocks—I’d been playing the game for long enough to have a formula for this type of thing. But a beat went by, then another, and then Noel’s smile was fading like he was finally cluing in to the fact that maybe I was actually depressed. Poor bastard.

“Ask me again after a few more,” I said.

The smile returned. “Will do, Mikey.”

I wiped my mouth. “If you call me that again, it’s a wrap.”

Noel held up his hands, still smiling and clearly not taking the emotional temperature of my frozen-over expression. “You got it.”

It took three more drinks to reach oblivion. Once there, I only slipped into my conscious mind for long enough to experience fragments of real life.

A flash of a graffiti-covered bathroom. The feel of lips on my neck and a hand down my pants. The sound of my breath scraping out in low gasps. Whispering Nunzio’s name. Being so sure it was his wavy hair hanging in my face, his sweat that I tasted, his hand bringing me to the brink and making me hyperventilate as I tried to keep quiet. But it wasn’t. And it was all wrong.

I
WAS
ripped out of a persistent doze by a frail hand shaking my shoulder. My eyes snapped open. Daylight. Concrete. The curb outside St. Luke’s.

An elderly black woman thrust a five dollar bill in my hand with a sympathetic frown on her face.

“Here, honey.”

I blinked at her, swallowing the wretched taste in my mouth, and shifted alongside the rough texture of the wall. “I’m not—” I swallowed again, nearly gagging. “I’m not homeless.”

She gave me a thorough once-over and leaned on her cane. Her skepticism was warranted. I’d woken up in the ER wearing a coat two sizes too small with no wallet and a cracked phone. I hadn’t bothered to look in a mirror.

“I’m just hungover and waiting for my brother,” I tried again.

“Hmph. Take the money and get some coffee.”

She shook her head and toddled away, muttering about grown men acting like children. I tried to stumble to my feet to return the money, but she managed to beat me in speed and was halfway across the street before I could steady myself. I watched until she disappeared into the already bustling streets of midtown Manhattan.

I wanted to check the time, to see how long it had been since I’d called Raymond, but my fingers were stiff from the cold. I tipped back my head and waited with shut eyes and a sluggishly operating brain.

Raymond showed up nearly two hours later. He double-parked on the street, barely waited for me to buckle in before peeling off again, and didn’t apologize for making me wait.

A quick glimpse at his profile showed a clenched jaw and a steely gaze that would have made our father proud. With the exception of his long hair hanging loose and tangled—and him looking younger than usual—Raymond was the spitting image of Joseph Rodriguez. I wondered if he realized it or if it bothered him.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

He said nothing, looked more pissed off, and I added ruining his New Year’s Day to my carousel ride of regrets.

I dozed off again, but the drive to Queens was over quickly, and the nap did nothing to help my pounding head. Raymond killed the engine and exited the vehicle before kicking the door shut behind him with a resounding boom. The world trembled around me.

“Jesus.”

I clutched the handle to the door. It took a full minute of convulsive swallowing and deep breaths to beat back the pain and follow him inside. I shaded my eyes to escape sunlight that was more aggressive than it had been a half hour ago and hurried into the dark interior of the house. As a kid I had always hated how gloomy the house was due to the constantly drawn shades and sparse windows, but now I was grateful for my brother following the tradition of living like vampires.

“You aiight?”

I closed the door. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, right.” Raymond stood in front of the staircase like a human blockade, preventing me from taking an easy way out of the confrontation. “Are you even going to tell me what the hell happened to you?”

“I don’t know what happened to me,” I croaked. “I woke up in the hospital. I drank too much, passed out, and someone called an ambulance. I don’t know if I lost my wallet or if it got stolen.”

“And your coat?”

I had no idea how I’d come to trade my Pelle jacket for a piece of shit that looked like it’d come from the bargain bin at Jimmy Jazz.

“No clue, Ray. No fucking clue.”

Raymond unzipped his coat but didn’t shrug it off. Beneath it, he was wearing the same outfit he’d left the house in the night before. I’d likely dragged him out of some girl’s bed by calling him at seven o’clock in the morning.

“Sorry if I messed up your morning. Were you with that girl….” I wracked my brain for her name. “Crystal?”

“I don’t give a shit about that. I’m worried about you.”

So much for diverting the topic.

I tried to kick off supported myself against the archway. “Don’t. I had some guy buying me drinks, and it got out of hand.”

“What guy?”

“Just some random guy at a bar.” I clumsily yanked at my laces, grimacing when my fingers came away damp and covered in grit. “I fucked up, but it won’t happen again. I don’t usually get that wasted in public.”

“You’ve been fucked-up for the past two weeks, son. It don’t matter if you haven’t been doing it in public every time.”

“Okay. What do you want me to say to that?”

“Nothing. I just want to know when you’re going to snap out of it.”

“Snap out of it?” I scoffed. “Sorry my grieving period hasn’t been brief enough for you.”

“Don’t try to twist my words and start a fight.” Raymond shrugged his coat off and slung it over the banister. “Do you want me to just leave you the hell alone and let you do your thing? Is that it?”

I stared up at him. my shoes and nearly lost my balance. Throwing out a hand, I

“I don’t want you to leave me alone.”

“You sure about that?”

I was short on patience and reliable wits and wanted to end this pointless back and forth. “Ray, you’re not going anywhere and neither am I.”

“Hmm.” Raymond seemed to relax, but he wasn’t even attempting to rock his usual smart-ass indifference. All the hallmarks of worry were etched into his face. “I know you think I don’t get it, but I do. You feel guilty about the way things were, but it’s not your fault he died, and it’s not all your fault that things were shitty before it happened. Just… stop doing this to yourself.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“I ain’t saying it’s easy. I’m just saying—” Raymond gestured at me. He lost his stride and deflated. “I’m just saying… that I want you to be okay.”

“And I’m saying I
will
be okay. Just give me some time to get my head together.”

It was painfully apparent that Raymond didn’t want to rely on my word, but he didn’t have a choice. With all his ammo spent, he stepped aside and allowed me to begin the laborious climb up the stairs. By the time I was in my room, I was achy and winded like an old man.

Collapsing on my bed was easier than dealing with the fallout of the previous night.

I knew I should cancel my credit cards and see if I could replace my phone, even though it was still technically functioning, but the urgency to take action against identity theft was nil. Booting up my laptop to search for customer service numbers seemed impossible to accomplish when I couldn’t even handle sitting upright, and the idea of explaining the situation to a sales rep was a nightmare.

My apathy was almost startling. I knew it. I could identify it. But making myself react to it was a different story altogether.

A lot of things needed to happen but I had no drive to get on top of any of them. For example, I knew we had to get the hell out of this house. We needed to sell it, start over, and escape the remnants of dysfunction that hung in the halls like cigarette smoke.

Whoever said home’s where the heart is had not come from a home that consistently ripped out their fucking heart. For us, home was miserable, and being bombarded with visuals of my parents’ belongings on a daily basis only emphasized that misery.

I was also very aware that my little brother and I were following all the wrong family traditions.

Between Raymond inheriting our father’s lack of motivation and me inheriting his propensity for drinking, we were doomed. I could see so clearly where we would end up—him collecting benefits or doing odd jobs for the rest of his life, me alone and wizened from bitterness and liver disease—and it was horrifying. Enough to make me want to throw myself out of the bed, drag Raymond to the dining table, and have a serious sit-down about the state of our lives.

But I didn’t. I just looked at the ceiling and thought about it, and then let another realization settle over the others like a suffocating veil.

I had to teach tomorrow.

I had to get up, prepare lessons, commute to Brooklyn, and pretend that I was a functioning adult in front of a hundred teenagers. I had to hide that I was a mess and be a role model. And I had no idea how I would accomplish that task when I couldn’t even face my little brother or best friend.

So I didn’t.

I thumbed out an e-mail to Price using the cracked touch screen of my phone and informed her that I would be taking some time off to handle my father’s
estate
(read, debt), and for bereavement. I also reminded her that I had only taken three days off when my mother had died the previous year.

I didn’t bother to check for grammar or the appropriate amount of vague information versus actual facts, and planned to count on the obscene amount of personal time I’d accrued over the years, and the union, to cover my ass.

For now, real life could wait until I was ready to confront it.

January

J
UST
PAST
five o’clock on a Sunday and the craving for a smoke hit me so hard I talked myself into getting up and going to the store for cigarettes. I was ready to fork up the twelve bucks for a pack, accepting that I was about to become a smoker again with something akin to relief. Getting dressed and walking three blocks to the bodega was a task I wasn’t sure I could accomplish after two weeks of existing in a daze. I wondered if Raymond would brave the arctic January wind so I wouldn’t have to leave the house.