the tall thin vodka bottle on the kitchen table.
there is no hanging with robert when he gets like that. cross-eyed with drink and horny as all hell behind that cheap smelly cigar. the big patrón in his white suit lusting after the slaves, thinking he’s going to get laid even if somebody gotta get paid. that was why his fascination with alex the pussy magnet. that was why this sloppy friendship built on a pyramid of wasted weekends, this amistad built on booze and pussy. it was probably why he hired alex to work at the shoe store. alex for three years now slipping shoes on girlfeet while robert raked in the cash—the store was owned by his parents anyway, just a present for the unpopular fat kid who needed something to do. he didn’t even need to come in every day anymore after his deal with the big department store that grew around and swallowed it. had alex to run it, alex to be there every day, drawing in the ladies with his indefinable something, something robert drove him crazy asking about.
—yes, but what do you think it is about you, he asked too many times last night, waving the cigar like he was doing an interview, and that was the thing: remembering last night. for all intents and purposes, he did. there was no blackout last night. he was almost sure of it.
the rain came down in sheets. her hot tongue zipped across his lips. she showed him the ring in her belly button. green stones on silver.
—that’s because I’m irish, she said slurry, she slurred blurry. scotch-flavor kisses. sitting up against him in the backseat of the cab. had to kiss her to get her to shut up. laughing spinning merry-go-round city. lights through the back window of a cab flashing. round glowy pinpricks through half-closed eyes. the feel of her through the dress was bony but strong insistence to the way she clutched him in mid-kiss. they were both riding in a cab going uptown. uptown to where? he was skunk drunk and she was drunk skunk so they exchanged numbers—no reason this couldn’t happen when they were sober—some story like that. the cab pulled up to the curb, across from her building. “the rain came down in sheets.” he got out of the cab like he would walk her to the canopied stoop, but they fell drunken laughing through slip-slide rain. and her name was
monica
thought he was sweet for NOT fucking her. promised to call him but he knew like she knew. that she would wake in the morning, angry for a lost night, grateful she hadn’t given anything away. his number scribbled on a matchbook. the reminder of an almost-cost. how she would rip it. toss it into the trash can like it would give her strength.
the cabbie was a mustache dominican guy who was scared of airplanes.
—I just don’t get what holds them up there, he said. someday they just gonna fall.
alex gave him a big tip for riding him up to the south bronx.
he came alone last night.
the truth came splashing, as luminescent as a jesus painting sold on astor place with little blinking lights in them to make them glow. monk had three of them. a jesus by the waterfall, a jesus in the valley with some lambs, and another jesus with disciples all lit up glimmering above his flat-screen TV. monk was usually the person he went to on sundays for clarity and commiseration. monk was a writer and so good with plot development and with filling in those blank spaces. alex thought about him again now as he sat in the kitchen, alone with the tall thin vodka bottle. the sound of her breathing filled the entire apartment. what could monk possibly tell him about this?
monica
a name scribbled on a piece of paper folded small, which he found in his leather pants. a name, a phone number. proof of reality, but in a way, still not an answer. all he knew from past blackouts was that coming out of one felt different than just waking after a big drunk. there was a black curtain feel, images with no connection flashing feverish. there was even a taste, of lead or something metallic. now he tried to distinguish between petty distinctions, red lights green lights and still no sense of what really happened because deep down still, there lurked a massive distrust of his mind, his memory, and any pat narrative. and so he had to admit that even if he came home alone or had the memory of riding back in the cab, anything still could have happened between the time he left monica under the canopy and the time he crawled under the sheets. (she was half under the sheets, clutching pillow tight. he thought he heard her whimper, saw her hands flex the way a dreaming dog gets twitchy paws from a running dream. running toward, running from.) it could have happend that he met her, but maybe only if he wanted to believe it. the flash of images came quite suddenly, clustered like after-thoughts: he was still negotiating a trip to the bronx with the cabbie when she got into the cab
it was the kind of confusion that sent him to the hall closet to fetch the wooden box. crafted in india, from a woman named sandra. she must have seen his restless nature at a glance and accepted she would not last but still gave him many things to remember her by, including a book on santería and this box to clear away clouds. sometimes bad spirits will come, she said. there were trinkets. rooster claw. holy water. a picture of santa barbara and a few cigars. bad spirits come to confuse, she said, and when they come, it’s good to blow cigar smoke to diffuse and dispel. and for protection, he should ask for changó.
as he lit the cigar and slowly walked through the silent apartment, a new feeling in him. the open window presented him with an obvious answer. if she had been puerto rican and not a white blond woman, he might have even believed it.
she slept still. the curve of her back was to him. he puffed.
—changó, changó, he whispered.