19
19Andre’s cell phone startles him awake. The display says NYC MTA.
“This is Andre.”
“Andre Bolden? This is Human Resources at the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Can you come in for an interview tomorrow morning?”
Andre pumps his fist. “What time should I be there?”
“Ten a.m., 347 Madison Avenue. Between 44th and 45th. Report to the fifth-floor boardroom.”
“Thank you. I really apprecia—”
The person hangs up, but it’s no matter.
Andre springs from the couch. “Yes!”
He bops to a silent beat, glides into a Stanky Legg, and then slams into a poker-faced Rock.
“Oh. My fault,” Andre says.
“This your morning ritual or something?”
“No, that was the MTA. They called me for an interview.”
“Looking to switch jobs?”
“I got let go from New Jersey Transit awhile ago.”
“What happened?”
“Long story.”
“Well, congratulations on the interview. I hope it works out for you. What’s your plan now?”
“Get this job, get back into my apartment, and get things working in my favor again.”
“You have a place to stay tonight?”
“Not really.”
“Well, you can stay here another night,” Rock says as he sweeps his hand through the room. “As you can see, I don’t have a lot of space or I would let you stay longer.”
“I really appreciate it,” Andre says. “Can I use your bathroom? You know, to take a shower?”
“Go ’head. There’s towels and washcloths in the closet.”
A musty funk lights up the bathroom when Andre peels off his clothes. He turns on the shower and quakes at the thought of how rank the tang would be if it were summer. After he hand-washes his underwear with Pine Sol from under the sink, he wrings them out and spreads them on the edge of the tub. Biting hot water and Strawberry Botanicals body soap wash away seventy-two hours of feculent life.
Once out, Andre brushes his teeth with a finger and redresses minus the drawers, which he stuffs in his pocket.
Rock is at a small table guzzling down a bowl of Lucky Charms when Andre comes out of the bathroom.
“Want some breakfast?”
“Sure.”
Andre feels awkward eating cereal at someone’s table with wet underwear in his back pocket. When he finishes and stands, there’s a wet splotch on the seat.
Rock notices Andre studying the chair. “You pee on yourself or something?”
Andre is stumped.
If I tell him, it’s embarrassing. If I don’t, it’s nasty.
“Sorry, man. I got a wet spot in your chair.”
Rock circles the table. “How’d you do that?”
The blotch is the size of a grown man’s hand, and Andre is not sure how he can lie his way out of this one in a way that’s convincing.
“I’m just going to be straight with you. I washed my underwear in your sink. I was planning on finding a Laundromat in the neighborhood to dry them out.”
Rock’s cereal spoon is in one hand and he scratches his head with his other, his eyes locked on the spot. “I can’t say I’ve ever had this happen before.” He looks up at Andre. “I have a washer and dryer in here, you know.”
“Oh. Didn’t know that. Mind if I use the dryer?”
“No problem,” Rock says. “Just make sure you spray it with Lysol when you’re done.”
Another awkward moment.
Rock erupts. “Just kidding!” He slaps Andre on the back with the spoonless hand.
Little Dre has a firm grip on Andre’s top lip with one hand and tears at Andre’s eyelid with the other.
“Little man, Daddy’s not going to drop you!”
From the moment Andre hoisted Little Dre onto his neck, it’s been a father-son battle royal.
“When I rode on your grandpop’s shoulders, I felt like I was on top of the world.”
Oblivious to nostalgia, Little Dre slips one leg off of Andre’s neck and starts to slide down his arm. However, he doesn’t release Andre’s eyelid or lip.
“Owwww, Dre!” Andre stops, bends in the direction that his lip and eye are pulled, and lowers his shoulder so that Little Dre can glide the rest of the way down. Junior Dre doesn’t release his death grip until both feet are planted on the ground. Then he takes off running, giggling like there’s no tomorrow.
As Andre watches him run, he vows that no matter how bad things get, he will never make another attempt on his life.
Little Dre spins around and says, “’Mon, Dah-dee, ’mon.”
Andre smiles and takes off after him. Dre screams as Andre scoops him into his arms. “I got you!”
Little Dre laughs and kicks until Andre puts him down so that he can take off again.
Hakeem smiles when he sees Andre and Little Dre barreling toward him. Andre overtakes Dre just before he reaches the bench where Hakeem sits.
“So this is you and Sandra’s little man, huh?” Hakeem sticks his hand out and Little Dre promptly slaps him five. “Handsome little guy,” he says. “So how’ve you been, Dre? Everything going alright?”
“It’s been real,” Andre answers. “Hold on a second.” He escorts Little Dre to the sandbox and carefully sorts through the granules before he allows him in. Satisfied that the sandbox is safe, Andre settles on the bench beside Hakeem. “Shame you can’t let your kid play without checking first.”
“I wouldn’t have even thought to do anything like that.”
“When you have kids you will. I’ve found broken glass, used condoms, and even a nickel bag of weed.”
“In Bayonne Park?”
“Not here, but every place is the same. You can’t trust anything when it comes to your kids.”
The two of them observe Little Dre’s carefree frolic.
“So tell me,” Hakeem says, “how come you’re not willing to come by the office anymore?”
“Because the guys that sell drugs across the street from you are OGC.”
“I know that. But what does that have to do with you?”
“Somebody in OGC has it in for me. I’m just not sure who.”
“I haven’t seen anyone over there in a couple of weeks. But how’d you get tangled up with OGC?”
Andre shakes his head. Hakeem stays put.
“I saw my cousin get killed. And OGC is responsible.”
“But how do you know they’re responsible?” Hakeem presses.
“I just know, alright?”
Little Dre looks up from the sandbox, wipes snot from his nose with mitted hand, waves, and smiles. Andre smiles and waves back.
“I’m going to have to work this out on my own, Keem.”
“I don’t think that’s the wisest way to handle it.”
“Of course you’d say that. You’re a shrink. Besides, my insurance is gone. I can’t pay you anymore anyway.”
“We can worry about payment later. I’ve observed enough to give you a diagnosis. But it’ll require another session, preferably indoors, so we can discuss it.”
“I don’t know where we’d do that because coming to your office is out.”
“I do make house calls.”
“If I had a house, you could call it.”
“You’re without a place again?”
“I still have my place,” Andre says. “My landlord just won’t let me back in it until I pay back rent.”
Andre hangs on to see if Hakeem thinks of something he hasn’t already. When it’s apparent he doesn’t, Andre stands and says, “Alright, I’ll catch up with you later.”
Andre gazes up the steep stoop. He hoists Little Dre into his arms, collapses the stroller, straps it onto his shoulder, and mounts the steps. The moment he depresses the buzzer, the door flies open.
Ms. Rutigliano’s eyes sear him like a blast of scalding steam. She notices Little Dre and cools. “This your son? He’s gotten so big. He’s adorable.”
Little Dre reaches for Ms. Rutigliano.
“Awww, how cute. Come on in, it’s cold out there.”
Andre steps into the parlor and marvels at Ms. Rutigliano’s instant temperature shift. She takes Little Dre into her arms, removes his hat, and unbuttons his coat.
“I didn’t plan on staying long, Ms. Rutigliano,” Andre says. “I just wanted to appeal to your sense of compassion and ask if I could get one suitcase out of the apartment.”
Ms. Rutigliano is bouncing Little Dre in her arms and he’s loving every minute of it.
“You think you’re the first tenant that’s tried to beat me? You get stuff out and you’ll never pay me. A Texas-sized no, Andre, and that’s my final answer.”
“I’ve had on these same clothes for three days.”
Ms. Rutigliano stops bouncing the baby and gives Andre a once-over. “You still look clean.” She heads toward the back of the house with Little Dre in tow. “I just baked some coconut brownie avalanche cookies. He’ll love ’em. Loads of chocolate, coconut pieces, and caramel swirl. We’ll be right back.”
Dusty old bat. She’s like a female Mr. Hyde.
Ms. Rutigliano returns with a ziplock bag stocked to the creases. Little Dre toddles beside her with a mouthful of cookies. She hands Andre the bag and proceeds to rebundle Little Dre.
“Cookies you can have, but suitcases?” She wags her bony finger in Andre’s face. “Tough chance.” She opens the front door and hustles them out.
Little Dre waves and beams a chocolate-covered smile.
“Bye, sweets.”
Slam!
Rahjaan squints at himself in the side-view mirror of a parked car, fascinated by the fleshy feeling on the tip of his tongue as he obsessively jams it in the hole vacated by his front tooth. Without warning, a black Crown Victoria bears down on him so swiftly that he has no chance to peel off and run.
Detective Jackson hops out. “Where’ve you been?” he asks.
“Um . . . I been around, but . . . I don’t think I wanna play anymore,” Rahjaan answers.
“And when did you decide that?”
“I mean, it’s not like I’m gonna make the NBA or anything.”
“Rahjaan, this is not about you making the NBA. It’s about you staying off the streets so you can make it to eighteen and still have the right to vote.” Jackson looks at his watch. “Practice starts in fifteen minutes.”
“So you putting out APBs on people when they miss a few practices?”
“People? You’re the only one not showing up.” Jackson looks at his face. “And what happened to your tooth?”
“Um . . . lost it in a fight.”
“What did I tell you about that?” Jackson asks. “You keep that hot head and you’re going to lose more than a tooth. I’ve seen it happen a million times.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Detective Jack, and I don’t have my jersey anyway. You the one that said nobody can be on the court in street clothes.”
“The only person who controls your fists is you, Rahjaan.”
Jackson pulls a jersey from the backseat that has “Det. Jack’s Rim Rattlers” emblazoned on the front. He flips the jersey around and displays the back. “What does that say?”
Rahjaan sucks his teeth. “‘Forgot mine.’”
“Right. And the number zero because that’s what excuses are worth.” He tosses Rahjaan the jersey. “Make sure I get it back after practice. Hop in. I’ll give you a lift.”
“You know I ain’t riding in the car with no DT.”
“The windows are tinted.”
“But the streets ain’t.”
“Okay. But if you’re not in the gym and ready to play in ten minutes, I’m coming to get you.”
“Detective Jack, I gotchu. Be easy.”