Saint And Sinners (69 page)

“I became even
more
attached to you. As each month passed, the more protective I became over you. It
felt like my fucking job or somethin’. I would think about you, wonder if you were
okay in school. Before I’d blaze up, I made sure you were safe, secure. I needed to
know you was straight before I got high, got to feel out of it for a while.” He cracked
a sad smile, his eyes glossed over, as if reliving whatever the hell he’d seen. “Then
I felt something going on, to make shit even more complex, you dig? You was attracting
mothafuckas alright, but I kept saying ‘hell no’ to that, you know? Because at one
point I started feeling something bad around you…something
evil
.”

Bomb paused for a long while, his eyes growing darker as he glanced out that window
again, then back up towards the ceiling. The cigarette dangled out from between his
fingertips as he seemed to drift into a secret daydream, leaving Saint all by his
lonesome. Then, just like that, Bomb returned to speak clearly, succinctly, walk the
path with words.

“Now, my mother went bat shit crazy.” He laughed—a sound that held no joy. “You know
about this. We already discussed that. You also know I don’t like talking about my
mother, you know that, too…but, before she lost her fucking mind, she would tell me
amazing
stories, spiritual stories about Mary, Joseph, Jesus and Moses. My mother was religious,
Saint.” He waved his hand through the air as a new, genuine smile budded over his
face while he reminisced. “She wasn’t no zealot, but she had a strong faith, you know?
She was Catholic…prayed every day;
every
damn day I’d hear my mother praying all the time.

“Her prayers never got answered, man, but she kept on anyway. Like, God never made
my papa do right… God never got us out the fuckin’ ghetto, so, when I’d hear all that
angel bullshit, and God will deliver and all that otha shit, I’d think, ‘What God
need angels for? He already ain’t helpin’ nobody! He don’t need no damn assistants,
he sleep on the job, ain’t like he busy helping mothafuckas out so much he now need
backup.” Bomb laughed loudly, a sound born of deep, twisted, tangled pain. His upper
lip lifted in a sneer, and the room absorbed his mood—cold. “Anyway, my mother would
only pause to tell us to turn down the television.” He looked back up at the ceiling,
working his jaw muscles as if trying to fish a piece of meat of from between his teeth.

“I know a lot about religion ’cause of my mother. I know about angels and demons,
and Jesus’ resurrection, too. She read the Bible every morning, and sometimes, when
I didn’t have shit else to do, I’d read it to her while she ironed our clothes, so
she could save time. Before I knew it, I’d read that thing cover to cover at least
three times. It was written in Spanish, passed down from my great grandmother. My
mother’s English wasn’t too good, so I’d read it in English to her, too, to help her
get a better hold of the language. I’d translate as I went along. She liked that,
she liked that a lot.” He cracked a grin, and then it faded as he appeared to fall
into some deep hole, his thoughts turned ugly. He must have swam in them unwillingly,
rolled in their muck.

“Saint.” He took another puff of his cigarette. “She told me about dark spirits, too.
Demons, as you said… She said those dark spirits stole my father’s heart away, made
him not love anyone anymore.” He glanced back at the window, his brows bunched. He
looked down at his cigarette, flicked the pearly ashes into a nearby ashtray setting
on the table. “The demons though—yeah, that shit is real.” He smiled and shook his
head. “There were these cocksuckers around you as a little boy… people I knew were
up to no good, snoopin’ behind you, hanging on like testicles ’nd shit. There is nothing
normal about a well to do pimp asking where some little fucker is, a little boy. Why
would he want to know?!” He clicked his teeth; his tone grew angrier, yet once again
his mood changed like a remote pointed towards a television screen. “A lot of people
did that shit. I’d ask, and they’d say they didn’t know… I began to believe ’em. Maybe
they didn’t know, but they always smiled a bit more whenever you were around.

“There were drug addicts, like me, standing outside your apartment sometimes. I’d
make them leave… I knew what they wanted. Most of ’em was at death’s door. They’d
look up at your apartment window like they was waiting for your ass to fall from the
fucking sky and bless ’em or some shit. I started to watch you even better then—real,
real close.” He sucked his teeth and rocked back in his chair. “I had to admit for
sure now, something strange was going on. We could go almost nowhere without this
phenomenon happening to you.

“You did not appear to notice, though. That is what was so fucked up. You were a smart
little boy, man, intelligent as hell.” Bomb tapped the side of his head, a serious
expression across his face. “You were mad curious, had a bunch of questions all the
fuckin’ time. You took everything in…but this?” Bomb shrugged and shook his head,
his bottom lip pushed out. “This went
right
over your damn head for some reason. I felt like I was going crazy. Fuck it, let
me give you an example.” He leaned forward and took another puff of his cigarette,
seeming amped up all over again. Saint remained quiet, loath to derail the man’s train
of thought.

“One time, we were on the train right, and we were sittin’ in the back. I think I
had to stop by and see someone, and I took you along wit’ me. Anyway, some old lady
came up to us, some bag lady, dirty and stinking with cloudy eyes, like she had glaucoma.
It looked like she could barely walk, and she gripped some paper bag real close to
her, like it held her whole fucking life in it. I could see roaches ’nd shit crawling
all over it. I saw her nasty ass approaching and told ’er to beat it, that I didn’t
have no money. She ignored me and stretched out her dirty hands to you. She was hell
bent on touching you! I pushed her and she fell down. I mean, she fell hard, Saint.
But instead of reacting to the pain of sinking to her knees, she grabbed at your damn
feet, crying and whimpering like some damn starving puppy. Then she rose up and gripped
you, tried to kiss you on the cheek. She was begging you for healing, like you were
Jesus or somethin’! You were scared…started crying ’nd shit. I had to pull a damn
knife on an old lady, man! I felt real bad about that, real bad. But, in all that
commotion, to this day, I remember what she said…”

Saint glared at Bomb for a second or two, debating on taking the bait.

“What did she say?” His voice cracked, as if he were sixteen all over again.

“She got up real slow, lil’ brother, gave me a dirty look and said in Spanish, ‘He’s
an angel. He’s a
real
life angel.’ She pointed at you and glared at me, like she was telling me some shit
that was real important. I never forgot it… I knew what she meant, but it made no
sense to me. You were flesh and blood. I was taught Angels had wings ’nd shit…at least
that’s how they showed it in the books. Besides, wasn’t no signs of angel activity
in the fuckin’ South Bronx. If so, their asses were asleep, constantly off the fucking
clock, right up there with God. No one was protecting us, guarding us, helping us…

“I looked at you, Little Pharaoh, and there was no halo over your crazy hair-covered
head. Your hair grew so damn fast, it’s like you needed two haircuts a week ’nd shit.
I was payin’ for some of ’em after you complained your folks ain’t have no money to
get your dome taken care of and your mom was too tired to cut it. Plus, you said she
ain’t do it right.” He toked his cigarette, blowing out more smoke as he drifted in
memories. “…And then it was like you’d show up a day or two later, and your hair was
long again…but that ain’t the point.” He laughed, slapping the table lightly. “You
was a little muchacho, not an angel. You cussed like a grown ass man.”

Saint hung his head and grinned.

“You wanted to look at naked girls and drive big cars like the pimps,” he said, chuckling.
“You wanted to dress like the drug dealers and join the Savage Skulls. You were just
a normal little boy from our hood in so many ways.” Bomb smiled, a sad smile…

“I was… taking drugs before I met you Saint. My drug use got much worse, though, after
I had self-appointed guardianship over you. I couldn’t handle life, couldn’t deal…but
you were everything to me.” Bomb swallowed; his sincerity poured under, over, inside,
below and above as he placed his hand over his heart, declaring it true. “Because
people
loved
you, man…and because they loved you, that meant they loved me, too. You always thought
it was the other way around. For some reason, you thought I was so fucking wonderful.
You’d tell me that all the time.” Bomb smiled as his eyes glossed over. He leaned
back in his seat and gazed up at that ceiling as if to say a silent prayer.

“And, I saw more and more bad people trying to get a piece of you, get close. Good
people, too…but the bad people stuck out the most to me. You know…a little boy like
you wasn’t no fun to hang with, or shouldn’t have been—but you had this energy, this
pull, this magnetism. I realized at that moment, my mother was right, man. There
was
such a thing as angels, and not only that, sometimes the person you least expect
is supposed to help these people out in this crazy ass world. I realized at that moment,
that person was
me
!” Bomb pointed at himself, his bottom lip quivering, as his chair slammed back down
on the floor.

Saint resisted the urge to interrupt, to tell him how much he loved him, appreciated
him, needed him…

“I didn’t let your little ass hang with me, like I thought all these years, Saint.
Not until I got clear-headed, did I
really
understand what happened between us. After you forced me into sobriety, saved my
life, I had a lot of time to think. I thought about shit I didn’t want to get into.
The meetings encourage it, too. My counselor is all for it. And with all of that,
things became crystal clear. Nah, I never let you hang wit’ me, little Pharaoh. No,
you let me hang with
you
.” A tear fell from Bomb’s eye. He quickly swiped it clean.

“Wow, Bomb, shit…” Saint ran his palms over his jeans, heating them. “I don’t even
know what to say to all of this. I’ve been sitting here listening to you and…damn,
man.” Saint shook his head as he stared across the table at the man. “I think this
is our first time having a conversation like this. This damn candid, this real. I
feel like, after all these years, right here and now, you are really letting me in.
Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed this. I think you needed it, too.”

Bomb nodded.

“And you’re right. I wasn’t aware of people coming around me like that,” Saint added.
“I mean, I know
now
. I can see it, it still happens, but back then…”—he vigorously shook his head—“it’s
like it wasn’t close to me. Like it was there, but blocked from my view. I think,
considering how aware of my surroundings I am, in part, that is
also
thanks to you. This is all rather bizarre, I suppose.” Saint shrugged and sighed.
“Maybe it’s like being a person, having skin. It’s just there, and you don’t think
about it until someone else points it out. I want to tell you that…I really missed
you when we moved away, man. I know I told you that before, but I want to tell you
again, Bomb. I felt lost for so long without you. I wondered what had happened to
you. I saw you one time, but…I knew not to bother you.”

Saint refused to go there, to discuss the drug deal he witnessed going down. It had
twisted his heart up like a damn pretzel and squeezed it like soaking wet laundry
set out to dry. Bomb had a horrible habit, and it had Saint fucked up for days…

“Yeah, about you leaving…” Bomb fidgeted in his seat, his eyes averted, as if nervous
of a pending announcement. “I want to tell you something far out man, something crazy
that happened. I know you sittin’ there talking crazy…” He chuckled, pointing at him
with the cigarette steady between his clamped fingers. “We
both
sittin’ here talking crazy and after this shit is all over, we can pretend like this
conversation never happened if you want. I might opt to do that anyway but uh…” He
sucked his teeth, and paused. “…Since we’re
both
doing this loco shit, let me explain one more thing to you, Saint.”

“You can tell me anything, Bomb. I want you to.”

The man sighed loudly and hung his head, stared down at his white Reeboks. The same
pair Saint had purchased him before sending him on his way into a new life.

“I’ve made up my mind.”

“About what?”

“I’m going to tell you something, and you better not bring this shit up to me again!
I’m
never
going to talk to you about this after today, for as long as I live! Do you understand
me?” He angrily snatched another cigarette out the package, lit it and took a quick,
clean inhale.

“Yeah, I got it.” Saint couldn’t help but wonder what the man was burdened with that
caused him this much distress.

Bomb finally settled his gaze on him. “A few weeks before you disappeared on me, moved
away and I didn’t know where you’d gone, something real fucked up happened, Saint.”
He lowered his head for a spell, then looked at Saint dead on. “I used to see this
kid hanging around you but I swear to God, it’s like you never saw him, didn’t even
notice.” He took another puff of his cigarette. Scratching his scalp, he twisted a
bit to the side, a strange expression on his face as if he himself couldn’t believe
what he was about to say.

“I guess it kind of fits in with what we’ve been talking about…you not noticing. Anyway,
he was almost like a shadow. He just showed up out of nowhere and then hung around.
No one knew his name or where the hell he’d come from. He blended in, but at the same
time, he didn’t, if that makes any sense.