I turn off the alarm clock after the first beep. There are only a few nights in my life when I have not slept through the night, but the night that just ended is one of them. I lay awake, immobile inside my sleeping bag, listening to the strange sounds in my head. The IM was different. It was disjointed, jagged, with unexpected flashes, like the streaks of lightning that light up the night during an electric storm.
I was not able to complete a full day’s schedule like I usually do because I wasn’t sure when Arturo and I would return home from the law firm. Tonight, when I know the train schedule coming home, I’ll be able to do a full one. Without a schedule to guide me through the day, I feel disoriented. This is the schedule for this morning I prepared last night:
Arturo informed me that we would catch the seven forty-five train out of West Orchard, which is about twenty minutes away driving at the speed limit. Arturo says he can do it in ten minutes, no problem.
I carry out each task on the schedule as planned, and at seven I’m sitting in the rocking chair in the den, the backpack with the things I plan to take to the law firm by my feet.
I hear Aurora’s footsteps on the stairs.
“Good morning,” she says when she sees me. “You look very elegant today.”
Aurora says that every single morning despite the fact that I usually wear the same thing: white button-down shirt (short sleeves in the summer, long sleeves in the winter), blue cotton pants (summer) or blue corduroy pants (winter), black socks, and black sneakers.
“Aurora looks very elegant,” I say. Aurora has on white nurse’s pants, a mint-green blouse with yellow smiley faces, white stockings, and white shoes with thick, white rubber soles.
“I made you lunch.” She takes a paper bag from the refrigerator and brings it to me. I open up my red backpack and place the paper bag inside. “Thank you, Mother, for making me lunch,” she says, to remind me.
“Thank you, Mother, for making me lunch,” I say, mimicking her.
She sits on the sofa facing me. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes,” I answer without any hesitation whatsoever.
“It’s normal to be nervous. You don’t know what to expect. But tomorrow you will be less nervous and soon going to the law firm will be a routine.”
Routine. Whenever I hear that word I think of a route that is not a full route, only a tiny route. I wonder if it’s the change to all my tiny routes that is making me nervous, or is it just that I am still resentful at being forced to do something I don’t like?
“Tell me what you are thinking,” Aurora urges me. “It’s okay to say whatever it is you feel.”
I turn my head away from her. I’m thinking that it isn’t just Arturo and Aurora who are conspiring against my peace of mind. After the night I just had and the noises that rumbled through my head, it seems that God Himself has it in for me.
“No,” I say to Aurora. I regularly say no when people ask me to tell them what I’m thinking.
“Okay. I’m going to be a mother and tell you motherly things for a few seconds. You need to be alert when you are walking downtown. Cross the streets only when the white walk sign is on, the way we practiced.” She takes a cell phone out of her pocket. “I want you to keep this with you at all times. I programmed the phone to speed dial my phone, your dad’s, Rabbi Heschel’s, and Yolanda’s. On the back of the phone I taped the speed-dial numbers. Keep the phone on at all times. Let’s try it to make sure it works.” She pushes a number and puts the phone to her ear. “Hello. Yoli? It’s me. Marcelo’s ready to go work with Dad. You want to say hi to him?” She hands me the phone. “It’s Yolanda.”
“Hello!” I yell into the phone.
“Hey, Mars. You ready for work?” I hear Yolanda’s voice.
“No,” I answer.
“Listen, Mars. Don’t let the jerks at the law firm get to you. You’re tons smarter than they are. Put the phone close to your ear ‘cause I don’t want Mom to hear.” I press the phone hard against my right ear. “Mars, listen to me carefully. Dad made me work at the law firm one summer too. There’s nothing wrong with you feeling apprehensive right now. The place sucks big-time. Most of the lawyers there are a-holes. You know, you met most of them at the summer barbecue Dad has every year at the house. Remember Stephen Holmes and his son, what’s his name, Wendell? Remember when we played tennis with them one time? Assholes, both of them, father and son. Mars, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Can Mom hear me?”
“No.”
“Good. Listen, Mars. You’ll get through it. I did. Do what those monks you like to read so much about do when they enter the monastery: Surrender any and all hope of ever liking it. One summer, that’s all. It’ll be over before you know it. Just don’t let anyone give you any shit. You understand?”
“Yes.”
“What did I just say?”
“Do not let the a-holes give me shit.”
“What? Give me that!” Aurora shouts. She grabs the phone from my hand. “What are you telling your brother? Big help you are. No, it does not. No, they are not. Not all of them anyway. Okay, I’m going to hang up now. ‘Bye!”
Aurora is laughing as Arturo enters the room. “Let’s go, buddy,” he says to me.
“You guys are going to miss the train,” Aurora says.
“Nonsense!” Arturo is pouring coffee into a cup.
“It is seven twenty-five,” I point out, looking at my watch.
“Don’t forget your lunch,” Aurora says.
“Good-bye, Aurora,” I say.
As soon as we are outside, Arturo stops and turns me toward him. He unbuttons the very top button of my shirt. “There,” he says. “You don’t need to button the top one unless you’re wearing a tie.”
Namu starts to walk next to me. “No, Namu. Namu has to stay home,” I tell him.
I wish Namu could come with me. I wouldn’t have any trouble crossing streets then. I still remember the answer Arturo gave me once when I asked if I could take Namu with me to the mall: “You’re not disabled,” he said.
I sink down into the front seat of Arturo’s sports car. The first explosion of the engine jolts me. Arturo takes a quick look at his wristwatch and then guns the car down the driveway.
We are barely parked when the train pulls in. We’re the last ones to get on, and that’s only because the conductor sees us running and decides to wait for us. My white shirt is hanging out of my pants and I try to tuck it in and walk down the aisle at the same time, but the train lurches and I grab on to a woman’s shoulder to keep from falling.
“Sorry,” Arturo apologizes on my behalf.
She looks up and the look on her face is one of annoyance.
At the very end of the train, we find an empty seat. “I told you we’d make it.” Arturo is out of breath.
“It is more relaxing to be early,” I say.
“This is work, buddy. No more relaxing for you.”
After the conductor takes our money, Arturo takes a newspaper from his briefcase and unfolds it on his lap. I make a mental note to bring a book tomorrow. Maybe I can read without getting dizzy like I do when I try to read in the car. It occurs to me that it is a good opportunity to say the Rosary. I take out the multicolored rosary beads that Abba gave me before she died and I begin to mouth the words of the Hail Mary wordlessly with my lips. I always say the Rosary in Spanish. Abba and I used to say it together that way and that’s the way it stayed with me.
Arturo folds the paper carefully. “We should go over a few things,” he says.
I finish a Hail Mary and stop.
“How shall I say it? You are going to be part of the business world. You know, I have nothing against your interest in religion. I want you to be religious. We’ve been to Mass every Sunday since your First Communion—before then even. I let you see Rabbi Heschel even though you’re not Jewish, you’re Catholic. I’m one hundred percent in favor of your religious interests, your religious books, your praying or remembering as you call it, your saying the Rosary in Spanish, all of it. So I don’t want you to misunderstand what I’m about to say. I want you to be religious but, at the same time, I want you to participate in the day-to-day workaday world, my world, and your world too now. And to do so, you have to abide by some established customs. People in the workaday world are discreet about their religion. They pray in private. They don’t quote Scripture unless it’s a figure of speech like, I don’t know, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ ‘the blind leading the blind.’ Things like that. Phrases that have common usage.”
“Can a blind man lead a blind man?” I say.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Jesus’s exact words were, ‘Can a blind man lead a blind man? Will they not both fall into a pit?’ Luke, chapter six, verse thirty-nine.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. It’s not customary to quote Scripture to someone, much less quote him chapter and verse. I think that if you’re going to benefit from this experience, it’s important that you try to act as is customary.”
I take out the yellow notebook that I always keep in my shirt pocket. I write: Do not pray so that others see M. pray. Do not quote Scripture. Note: Listen for religious phrases that have become figures of speech. Those are allowed even if not accurate. Do not provide correct version or cite where it appears in the Bible.
Arturo waits for me to finish writing and then speaks. “There’s a chapel close to the train station. I’ll show you where it is. You can stop by there before you get to work and say the Rosary if you wish.”
We are silent for the next five minutes. Arturo does not open his newspaper, so I’m thinking that he wants to fill me in on some more workaday customs. If only customs were logical. If only the rules were as simple as “Don’t do anything that will hurt others.” If that were the only rule, I’d have at least a fifty percent chance of getting it right. I would, for example, ask myself whether saying the Rosary silently on the train would hurt others. The answer would be no and so I would say it. As it is, the reasons as to why something is right and something is not seem arbitrary.
“While we’re at it, maybe this is a good time to go over a few things about the law firm.”
I was right. Arturo wants to point out to me some more dos and don’ts.
“A law firm is not like Paterson. In a law firm the environment is competitive. I compete against Stephen Holmes, for example. I try to bring in more business than he does and he tries to bring in more business than I do. The associates compete against each other by each trying to work harder and better. That’s not to say that people are not friendly with each other. You can be friends with someone and still compete against them. Competition is good for all involved. The harder Stephen works, the harder and better I work. The more the associates work, the better the whole firm does. When Yolanda applied to Yale, she had to compete against hundreds of other kids who wanted to go there. She worked hard and got in while others didn’t. The same will be true for you when you apply to college. You’ll have to compete. But you need to be willing to compete. You can’t be afraid of competing. That’s one of the things I hope you learn this summer.”
I take out my yellow notebook again and am about to write, when I think of asking, “Who will Mar…who will I compete against at the law firm?”
“Everyone. People will be testing you. They’ll want to see if you can do the job or if you’re just there because you’re my son and I’m the boss.”
I’m starting to get dizzy. Who am I supposed to work harder than or be smarter than?
Arturo goes on. “Competition is an attitude. It’s a way of understanding that the motive behind someone’s action may be self-interest, and reacting to that accordingly.”
“A person’s motives are impossible to know with certainty,” I say.
“Precisely. That’s why it’s helpful to assume that most people are looking out for number one.”
At that moment, I picture a group of people standing on a corner waiting for a big number one to appear. Arturo must have seen the blankness in my eyes, for he says, “It’s a figure of speech: looking out for number one. It means to consider one’s own interests first.”
“The first will be last,” I say, forgetting that I’m not supposed to quote Scripture.
“In the world of work, the first are first and will be first and the last are last and will be last.”
“I do not follow. Do you have an example?”
“I’ll give you a real-life, current example. A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned to Stephen Holmes that you were working at the law firm for the summer. So last Friday, he says to me, ‘Oh, by the way, Wendell will be helping us with some legal research this summer.’ Remember Wendell?”
“Yes. Yolanda says he’s an a-hole.” Immediately I regret saying this. I hope I didn’t get Yolanda into trouble.
Arturo laughs. “She may be right. But the point I’m trying to make is that after Stephen told me Wendell was working at the law firm, I asked myself what Stephen’s motives were. Why is he making his kid spend the summer doing legal work? Wendell will be a senior at Harvard next year. He can get any job in the city he wants. And why did Holmes make it a point to tell me that the way he did? ‘Maybe he can take your kid to lunch someday,’ he said to me. And the answer is that he wanted me and everyone else to know that my son is—”
I wait for him to finish the sentence. I know that when people stop in the middle of what they’re saying, it means that they suddenly realize they shouldn’t say what they were planning on saying in the first place. What happens is that the person has started talking before realizing the impact the words will have on the listener. That’s why I think many more thoughts than I actually express and why sometimes I come across as slow. I think too much about what I’m hearing and what I’m going to say, and that’s a problem when trying to carry on a conversation. Of course, sometimes things slip out. Like a little while ago, when I told Arturo what Yolanda had said about Wendell. He wanted me and everyone else to know that my son is—I make a mental note to attempt to complete Arturo’s sentence later, when I have more time to reflect.
The train slows down and I hear the screeching sound of metal rubbing against metal. I instinctively put my hands over my ears. Harsh noises are painful to me. “We’re here,” Arturo says as he peels my hands from my ears. “What I’m trying to say is that you need to develop what I call ‘street smarts.’ One of the reasons why I wanted you to work at the law firm is so you can get a better understanding of people’s motives. It’s the way it is, son. Every day I come to work, I tell myself, I’m a warrior and this is a battle. I put on my war face. That’s another figure of speech. It’s a way of saying that I understand I will need to watch out for people’s motives and I will need to be competitive—like in a war, where some will win and some will lose. It’s important that you see that side of life.”
The real world. That’s what I say to myself.