Saint And Sinners (67 page)

S
aint leaned forward
and rested his elbows on his knees. He’d been back in town for less than a day, and
found himself wanting to be around his older brother. The fast moving man hadn’t even
noticed him as he bounced around the ring, his back turned towards him while he spoke
roughly in Spanish.

“
Asi es la cosa¡
” (It is how it is) “
No te panikees ¡
” (Don’t panic.) “You gotta keep movin’, man. When you see him coming, don’t freeze
up like that!” Bomb’s blue-black ponytail bounced about like a little dot following
along the bottom of a TV screen for a song. He was training a guy; Saint enjoyed every
minute of the spectacle. Bomb grabbed the boxer’s arms and pressed them together.

“Now, just be still for a minute. You have to look at my posture, where my eyes landed,
what I looked at a second ago, and what I might look at in the next moment! You gotta
see what I’m going to do before I fucking do it!” He let go of the guy’s arms, letting
them drop abruptly.

Suddenly, the boxer seemed to lose focus and gleamed at Saint. A smile crept across
his face, as if he knew him. Noticing his distraction, Bomb swiftly turned around.
His mouth dropped open, and he just stood there for a moment. If Saint didn’t know
any better, he’d swear the man was fighting back tears at that moment.

“Little Phaaaaaaarrrrrrrraaaooooooh!” He jumped out the ring so fast, he was a blur
of black and blue fabric as he barreled towards him. Saint quickly got to his feet,
bracing for being run over by the man, who wrapped his strong arms tightly around
his form, hanging on like the heavyweight that he was. “Everybody!” Bomb called out.
“This is my little brother, Saint!”

“We know who he is.” One of the guys grinned and rolled his eyes. “You talk about
him all the time.”

Saint smirked and looked back down at Bomb.

“Your picture is in my apartment,” he explained sheepishly.

“…Right next to Jesus!” another Puerto Rican called out, causing laughter to erupt
in the place. Bomb shot up the middle finger then turned back towards Saint. “What’s
up, man?! What’s going on? Have you eaten yet?” he asked excitedly as he glanced at
the clock on the nearby white dingy wall. “It’s almost lunch time. I can make you
a little something up in my place.” He pointed towards the stairs.

“That sounds like a good idea, Bomb. I’d like that.”

He followed the swift moving man past the ring as he called out, “Take a break! I’ll
be back to knock some sense into you later, Estefan.”

They climbed a short flight of steps, the smell of fresh paint permeating the air.
Bomb’s long ponytail swayed down his back. Saint was pleased to see he’d put on a
little more weight. His face appeared less drawn in and angular, his mannerisms more
exact.

He looks so much younger now…

“I just painted the staircase a couple days ago,” he said. “I painted my apartment,
too. They cut me a break on my rent if I repaint the entire place, so that’s my next
chore…get the main boxin’ area.”

Saint took special notice of the practically brush-stroke-less job the man had done.
It was damn near perfect. No drip marks, perfectly trimmed and lined up like an excellent
fade.

“Ahhh, we’re here! Home sweet home.” Bomb grinned as he reached into his pocket and
pulled out a set of jangling keys. Saint waited patiently, rocking back on his heels,
his hands plunged into his dark jeans pockets. Once the noisy wooden door swung open,
he couldn’t help but crack up laughing when the overpowering scent of lemon Pine Sol
and some less recent wild cherry incense smacked him in the face with memories of
what once swirled.

“You nasty ass old man!” Saint chuckled upon taking notice of all the artwork of naked
women elegantly displayed on Bomb’s living room wall. They were professionally matted
with gorgeous glossy wooden frames wrapped around paintings and large photos of naked
Latina women doing the
most
. Some were bent far over, glancing over their shoulder with their big, yellow ass
cheeks spread wide as fuck, revealing swollen pussy lips that glistened with baby
oil. Others played with themselves, licking out their tongues seductively, a mischievous
twinkle in their dark brown eyes.

Bomb laughed lightly. “Since this whole sobriety thing man, I don’t get laid as often.
Can you believe that shit? I thought it would’ve been the opposite. Some people don’t
wanna hang with me no more, man. They say I’m no fun now that I stopped getting high.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I used to get pussy all the time but most of them were
on some shit, too. So, I guess they have no more use for me…”

“Bomb, it’s not the quantity of pussy, it’s the quality.” Saint laughed, causing the
former stud to do the same.

“Guess I gotta get me a new approach or something.” He paused, reflective.

The wind slowly blew from a partially opened window, and the muted sound of traffic
and life seeped in, reminding Saint they were not alone.

“I’d like to have a relationship, actually. But, I dunno.” He sighed. “I still might
not be ready for the whole commitment thing. Anyway, I gotta get my pussy some kinda
way,” he joked. He pointed to his small red kitchen table, encouraging Saint to take
a seat.

“I get it, I can understand that.” Saint offered a warm smile as he walked past Bomb,
rounded the corner from the small living room that blended into the kitchen. His feet
sank into pale, pink carpet before he entered the small dining area. A tiny off white
gas stove set with minor rust stains around the eyes stood on one end, while the oversized,
eggshell white refrigerator overwhelmed the other half of the tight quarters. On the
wall above the sink hung a big white cross with gold flakes all over it, possibly
glitter, and underneath it, several unlit red candles sat crammed on a spice rack
shelf, many of the glass bottles empty or covered in a thin layer of walrus gray dust.
Across stood a skinny oak wood pantry closet door on which hung a small calendar,
secured with a piece of silver duct tape. Above the calendar—a painting of Jesus Christ
and right by it, a small picture of Saint that looked photocopied from one of his
books.

I can’t believe this man put my photo right there…

Saint smiled proudly.

“Get comfortable, man. I’m gonna make you some fried bananas, red beans and rice,
and pasteles!”

“Not the pasteles!” Saint teased as he continued to look around the place.

Pasteles! Damn! I haven’t had those in ages…

“That’s right, little bro.” Laughing, Bomb grabbed an old concrete-colored frying
pan that looked as if it had been frying bacon since 1903. The man began to pour vegetable
oil into it. “If I hadda known you were coming, I would have made a huge ass meal,
man,” Bomb said huskily, grinning wide. “I would’ve invited a couple of the guys up,
too. But at short notice, this is the best I can do.”

“No problem, I’m grateful. I hadn’t planned this or anything like that.” Saint clasped
his hands together and watched his brother get busy, throwing down some cookery skills
he took pride in.

“Oh, wait.” Bomb quickly wiped his hands on a yellow towel hanging by the sink that
was chock full of dirty glasses and plates, and opened the refrigerator. “Let me get
you something to drink. Let’s see, I got coconut milk, spring water, this virgin piña
colada shit I made last night—it was pretty good—or I could put on a pot of coffee,
your choice.” Bomb turned and looked at him, his eyes wide and clear…the whites so
pure, they looked like the cocaine he used to snort up his flared nostril, rather
than his customary ruddy from yesteryear, more the hue of a freshly caught salmon.
Saint could not recall the last time he’d seen the man’s eyes like that. The man’s
had been a complete transformation, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Let me try that piña colada stuff you made, man.” Saint stretched his legs and leaned
back in the seat, which squeaked under his weight.

Bomb grabbed an ochre pitcher from the refrigerator, a large crimson glass and poured
the thick mixture into it. He slammed it on the table in front of him, then jumped
back into his cooking, a definite bounce in his step.

“So, how’s the fam and everything, man? L.A. still treating you good?”

Saint was astonished. “Bomb, did you not get my email? Man, I tried to call you a
couple times weeks ago, but it kept going straight to voicemail, so I wrote you.”

“Awwww, man!” Bomb tossed an annoyed glance from over his shoulder. “The computer
is on the fritz. They gotta get a new one…got some sorta virus, they say. I guess
some hooker fucked it,” he joked, causing Saint to smirk.

“You were the first person I called after my father once I got here… Bomb, look at
me for a second.”

Bomb turned to him, a large, perforated spatula in his hand and a brown spotted banana
peel in the other.

“What’s up? What’s the problem? Xenia leave you?”

“No man, I moved back home! I live here now!” Saint smiled.

“I used to be a
tecato
(junkie). And now, I ain’t so sure I’m not high again after hearing this! Stop fuckin’
with me, Lil’ Pharaoh.” Bomb scowled, believing Saint was pulling his tail, no doubt.

“I’m not!” Saint laughed and leaned forward in his seat. “I’m dead serious. I wanted
to move back to New York, so, I established a new branch of my company here and brought
my family, everything. There is also something else, but…” He hesitated, finally deciding
to gloss over his last statement. “Anyway, no, this is not a game, man. I’m keeping
it one hundred with you. I even said in the email that I was coming to see you. I
wasn’t sure when, but it was going to be soon. You didn’t write back; I figured you
were busy. I even tried calling again… I guess I should have just stopped by.”

“This is fucked up, man.” The gravel in Bomb’s esophagus thickened further as the
guy seemed to lament over Saint’s words, growing increasingly irritated. “I got a
new cell phone, you know…but I didn’t get any damn messages.”

Saint threw up his hands in surrender and shook his head. “What can I say? Well, you
know now, and I’m here.”

“Yeah…” Bomb reached into a terracotta cabinet above his head, pulled out two orange
plates and continued to cook. “You here. So, what’s going on?”

“Life, man. Things are fine.”

“I’m waiting to hear what’s going on,” Bomb repeated, his tone slower, more serious.

Saint sighed and tossed his hands behind his head, locking his fingers as he teetered
backwards in the chair. “Awwww man.” He yawned. “Just some shit, as usual. I can go
no more than a year it seems, without some crap poppin’ off.” He ran his hand over
the back of his neck, then crashed forward, bringing the chair down with a thud.

Bomb remained quiet for a few moments, just kept on working, reaching for various
seasonings and sprinkling a dash of this, a touch of that.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to be a bit afraid of someone, and you love
them, you respect them, owe everything to them?”

Saint swallowed, feeling his skin suddenly flush with warmth.

“Do you know what it feels like, Saint, to know you practically raised a mothafucka,
and the more kindness he shows you, the more you fear him? ’Cause you don’t understand
him…but you sorta do. You wish you were still high, ’cause then, you could just go
on pretending you didn’t know he was different, that he was something else. He is
what he is though.” Bomb shrugged, then stilled, as if caught in a bubble of a daydream.
“You always knew that skinny son of a bitch was strange. You knew he had something
in him, and whatever it was, you wanted to get close to it, be a part of it, wrap
yourself up in it, die in it.

“Whatever he had, it was better than any shit you snorted, shot up, drank, inhaled,
burned, smoked, toked and slurped. Better than any drug out there, and you figured,
if you stayed close enough to him, his good luck might rub off on you and you might
grow up and be somebody important. Whatever he had, you might be blessed, too. But,
I didn’t grow up to be nobody important.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I grew up to be
a nobody…until that
same
skinny mothafucka walked back into my life, and changed that for me. Then, you realize
that, no, the blessing was just taking care of him, making sure he stayed out of trouble.
Yeah, that was the blessing all along ’cause he is important. He means something to
the world. He has a
big
purpose and if that purpose gets messed up, the whole fucking world would get messed
up, too.” The man groaned loudly when he opened the refrigerator, as if some of the
worst news he’d ever received had presented itself. He retrieved a pint of milk then
slammed it back closed before returning to the stove.

“…I can’t say that I know what that feels like, Bomb,” Saint offered, not even sure
where to start. Before he could continue, a sharp pain belted Saint’s gut like a whip
to a horse. “Oh…shit.” He gritted his teeth and ran his hand along his clenched abdominal
muscles; a burning sensation roiled his insides as the pain grew worse and worse,
rendering him temporarily speechless.

“
Hermano!
” Bomb dropped his spatula on the counter and raced towards Saint, pulled him up under
his arms like he weighed nothing and lifted his face. “Saint!” He gently smacked him,
his calloused hands hitting his cheeks over and over as if making flatbread. Saint
felt his eyes roll to the back of his head when his guts clamped on him again, impaired
by the pain of something that had no name and no clear direction.

“Oh…God.” He swallowed. “I don’t know…what happened, Bomb.” He exhaled and slumped
back in the seat, falling from Bomb’s grip like a slippery glop. Bomb’s dark, thick
eyebrows gathered, making him look mad as hell, though Saint knew that expression
meant worry. His brother didn’t know how to wear a face of fear and concern, and this
was the closest he was going to get.