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“Please be honest with us, Mr. Negrón. How is our daughter doing? What do you see in Myra’s future?” Gabriella Crawford is a hard working mother of two that commutes ninety minutes every day to her job at a major publishing house. Her husband Horace, an equally dedicated family man, works extra shifts at Port Authority to help pay for their three-bedroom apartment in one of the finer high-rises in Flatbush. Their fifteen-year-old son Nate is a typical young man of his age that has left his chair at the dining table to catch the opening tip of the Knick game on TV. He is unaware that sitting beside him on the couch is the father of Davey Negrón, the substance abuse counselor enjoying a hospitable dinner with the Crawfords.
“She’s making progress,” answers Davey. “I am reasonably confident that she has a chance to straighten her life out in the not-too-distant future.” My boy, you are such a horseshit liar.
Mr. Crawford can tell. “I’m sorry, reasonably confident? What does that mean?” I feel so bad for this poor bastard. Horace Crawford is a burly bear of a man that always breaks down into tears at the family therapy sessions when his daughter goes into her hostile, disrespectful tirades about how overly strict he was in bringing her up. Gabriella also gets shredded by Myra for her disciplinary methods. She rants that her mother’s corporal punishment drove her to seek refuge with neighborhood friends whose street activities were less than wholesome.
“It means that each day brings your daughter farther from the old Myra and closer to the new Myra.” With a line of shit like that, Davey, someday you could run for office.
Why he bothers, I don’t know. Personally, I wouldn’t waste any time on a worthless little sludge like Myra Crawford. In fact, if it weren’t for the heroin-tainted blood that’s running through her veins, I would have no trouble feasting on her skinny little neck. The Crawfords, though, are exceedingly kind and generous of heart, which unfortunately has Davey extending himself far beyond the call of professional demand.
At all the sessions I have personally observed while keeping tabs on my boy, Myra has done nothing but throw trash-mouthed bile at the two people who are fighting the hardest to save her life. Why? Because they are trying to keep her away from Darryl, the heroin-addicted, gonorrhea-infected, twice-arrested piece of shit that has an inexplicable hold on her. Only for the vermin that treats her like an under-the-bridge crack whore, while spreading his venereal disease onto her, along with getting her addicted to heroin, does any warmth pass through Myra’s lips. And that’s with her knowing that he’s been screwing around with some other junk-addicted skank from the same neighborhood. But hey, Myra puts the blame for that on her parents too because they tried to distance her from him. Yes, minor flaws notwithstanding, Myra remains convinced that Darryl is the love of her life.
“I gotta take this.” Davey’s vibrating cell brings him a welcome reprieve from the doubting scrutiny of the Crawfords. He reaches for the phone in his pocket and steps away from the table.
Shit! That reminds me. I forgot to put my cell phone in silent mode. Luckily Veronica is still pissed off at me so I won’t be getting any phone calls from her. But what if she or some telemarketer decides to reach out to me while I’m here? The whole Crawford family and my son will be wondering why the sofa cushion next to Nate is ringing.
By walking out of the kitchen into the foyer by the front door, Davey hopes to be a moderate enough distance away to be out of everyone’s hearing range.
He is.
Except for mine.
Even with Knick announcer Mike Breen’s animated play-by-play on the TV, I can hear the conversation clearly. Someone has “slipped out”, and from the look on Davey’s face and his glance over at the dinner table, I don’t need to hear any further to know it was Myra.
Okay my boy, let’s see how you handle this. “I’m sorry. I thank you so much for the nice dinner, but I need to tend to an emergency.”
Gabriella’s antennas are up. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh no, uh yeah, uh, it’s okay. I just have to get back to the clinic.” He’s full of crap and the Crawford’s both know it. They’ve been saturated with so many lies from their daughter over the past couple of years that they know bullshit when they hear it. But what are they gonna do? They’ve lost control of their daughter. Their only hope is to count on the help of those who have been there before.
Like Davey.
Each member of my family has had to grapple in his or her own way with emotions that have never been sorted out. Davey, now 38 years old, is the same age I was when my life was cut short by an involuntary tryst with a demon with red hair.
My disappearance was scandalous.
Painful.
Humiliating.
Having gone through loss myself, I had a clear understanding of Davey’s suffering. Many nights after the Ritz-Carlton, I sat beside him in his bedroom, wanting to put comforting arms around my son. I wanted to tell him everything would be all right, even though I knew nothing could be farther from the truth.
As he grew older, Davey channeled his energy into becoming a promising athlete and focused all his efforts on becoming a professional baseball player. He delivered on that promise and was named the All City second baseman three years in a row, drawing the attention of the Pittsburgh Pirates scouting staff.
Uncle Dominic, meaning well, would regularly remind Davey of how his dad was a pretty good second baseman, too, and how proud he would have been to see his son not only follow in his footsteps, but also exceed him.
“I’m not following in his footsteps,” replied Davey. “I’m staying loyal to my family.” Thanks, I really needed to hear that.
The Pirates drafted Davey right out of high school, but through it all, he was hurting. Stefanie tried her best to give him all the support he needed and went to every game she could to cheer him on. But in the end, Davey missed not having his father there to share his proud moments with (even if he was a cheating scumbag). Dad, after all, helped him get his start in Little League and gave him pointers on how to play the position, so growing to be one of the most talented players in the city and not having his father there to see it took an emotional toll.
Talk about history repeating itself, the drinking parties with his teammates helped him to sometimes forget the emptiness. Also like his father, he grew distant. Strangely enough, his mother Stefanie, who was able to reel his father back into the world of the living twenty years before, could not do the same for her son. As it was, she was grappling with the same emotions, compounded by the heartbreak stemming from the nature of her husband’s disappearance.
The excess baggage gradually took its toll to the point where Davey’s skills began to diminish. Ground balls that he’d been gobbling up before had started elude him and pass through for base hits. Fastballs that he had been lining into centerfield were now turning into pop-ups to the catcher.
The scouts and the coaching staffs in the disappointed Pirates organization took notice and after observing Davey for a full season of Single A Ball, they began to suspect that he was no longer going to be the player they had signed. Equally disappointed by his sodden performance, Davey promised to regain focus and again become the player that they had invested in. He never got the chance. The Pittsburgh Pirates decided to cut their losses, releasing him before the next spring. And young as he was, with the promise that he once showed, the sad reality for Davey was that in the world of professional sports word tends to spread fast. No other organizations offered him a contract.
Much to his mother’s heartbreak, Davey soon found himself working at odd jobs during the day while drenching his liver with vodka at night, making him a miserable lout to everyone around including his family. More than once, Uncle Dominic threatened to bash his nephew’s head in for being disrespectful to Stefanie, but even that didn’t stop Davey from spiraling downwards. Before long there were consequences.
They came on the night of a bachelor party at Tito Puente’s restaurant in City Island where Davey and a friend were so loaded that they couldn’t decide who the “designated driver” would be. It was a big joke to them as they boastfully debated which one of them was less fucked up. Davey eventually won (lost?) and took charge of the wheel. They didn’t get far. The parking lot was on a pier and inexplicably, Davey wound up driving the car into the river below. Their more sober friends saw the disaster from inside the restaurant and ran to their rescue. Miraculously, they saved Davey and his friend before the car sank too deep into the water. Thankfully no lives were lost nor was there any permanent physical damage to Davey or his friend, but it could have been a lot worse had he driven any further.
The court had no sympathy for the young man whose father’s murder had been a tabloid scandal just a few years before. They served him with a one-year sentence.
It might have been a blessing.
The year that Davey spent at Westchester County Correctional Facility became the turning point that he needed, though there were stumbling blocks here and there. Like any other prisoner, Davey had to deal with the little alliances, the internal predators and the general rot of our society. For the most part he handled himself pretty well—especially since he was the star of the prison’s baseball team. The one exception was a bulky brown-toothed man-beast that roughed Davey up after he successfully fought off his sexual advances. Mysteriously, the slug ended up in the center of a circle of blood on the floor tiles in the showers with a huge chunk of his neck missing.
Anyone else want to fuck with my boy?
While behind bars, Davey began to study sociology, which he continued after being released. Shortly thereafter, he earned his degree and took a job at the inpatient rehabilitation clinic in Brooklyn where he works these days as a substance abuse counselor. And while I am proud of Davey for straightening his life out, I notice that he, like his undead father, also tends to keep relationships at an arm’s length. Outside of a few casual flings, Davey has never let any woman become a regular part of his life and has basically shut the door to anyone that tries to get too close. Like father, like son. No one gets in. The ending result is that this pattern leads to him getting far too involved in his work.
#
Okay Davey, now this no longer qualifies as going above and beyond. Psychotic and suicidal would be a more apt description for walking by yourself into a neglected tenement on Nostrand Avenue (although he’s really not by himself). What can he possibly expect to accomplish here? This dump is even worse than the project Veronica lives in.
The mailboxes he’s sifting through mostly have broken locks with some of the labels scratched out so that you can’t identify who they belong to. The door to the box he’s looking at does have a label. It belongs to someone named Briggs in apartment 1C. There’s nothing inside the box, although I have no guess as to what Davey’s looking for.
Something smells bad.
And it’s not just the stuffed sour scent in these hallways, where the paint on the walls is peeled and replaced by spray-painted, misspelled vulgarities.
Apartment 1C is a couple of steps away, the second door to the right. Davey calmly walks towards what I’m presuming is Darryl’s apartment. What the fuck is he thinking?
He presses the doorbell.
No ring.
Knock! Knock!
Who’s there?
The obviously suicidal son of the guy who had his blood sucked out of him at the Ritz-Carlton.
I can smell Darryl approaching the opposite side of the door. The guy could use a shower.
The door opens. It reveals a squirty unkempt punk in cornrows, wearing a stained wifebeater, jeans and no shoes. His image matches his scent.
Darryl sizes up my son with a disdainful sneer. “I think you got the wrong motherfuckin’ apartment.”
Davey is neither impressed nor intimidated. “Is Myra here?”
“What? Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Myra’s counselor. And I need to bring her back to complete her treatment program.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you talkin’ about, nigga. Get the fuck outa here.”
Darryl attempts to close the door but it’s blocked by Davey’s foot.
“How about I go inside and wait? Maybe she’ll turn up.” My boy’s got more balls than brains.
WAIT! NO!
Quicker than a flash, Darryl swings the door open and grabs Davey’s collar, shoving a gun up against his throat. “How about I blow your fucking brains right out of your fucking head?”
Davey raises his hand with the intent of grabbing Darryl’s wrist.
He doesn’t get the chance.
An unseen force knocks the gun out of Darryl’s hand. The same force also throws Darryl on the floor where he lands a foot away from the gun he just dropped (a miscalculation on my part). Both Davey and Darryl are now stricken by confusion but this is no time for anyone to stop and ponder.
That includes me.
Darryl spots his gun, which is easily within reach. Davey also goes for it but stops as he witnesses Darryl’s head snap back before the dirtbag crumbles onto the hallway tiles.
Davey’s dumbfounded. He has no idea what he just saw.
Never mind that! You almost just got killed, dumb ass. Get the hell out of here.
Now!
Good sense prevails. Davey backs away and scampers out of the building.
Man, that was a nice clean kick. Shit, I could play for the Jets. They’re always missing their field goals, anyway.
Did it break his neck?
Let’s see.
Well, there’s a surprise. The fucker’s still breathing.
Alright, how about a nice little quick twist like this.
Ah, there. That should do it.
His head is nice and wobbly now, like the Dwight Gooden bobble head doll on top of my refrigerator.
#
The front door unlocks. If Davey had gotten here just a little later, maybe he could have intercepted her. But how does she even have keys? No one in the clinic is supposed to have outside possessions while undergoing treatment.
It’s dark inside her boyfriend’s apartment. Myra reaches for the light switch. “Baby?”
The lights flick on to reveal a living room couch sodden with blood that’s dripping onto the wood, mold-stained floor. On the couch, sprawled with the inners of his neck exposed, is her lifeless candy man, his wide-opened eyes staring back at her.
Myra opens her mouth to scream but a hand covers it and pulls her back before she can make a sound. The trashy skank makes no effort to break free. She’s too paralyzed with fright.
“Listen you scummy little gutter tramp,” says the voice behind her. “This is the only warning you get because personally I would be quite happy to see you rot right there next to that lowlife you call a boyfriend.” A panicked squeal is smothered by the palm of the unknown voice’s hand. “You have done nothing but break the hearts and ruin the lives of the people that love you and are trying to help you. For their sakes I am going to let you live. But if you ever take any more junk or behave with anything less than complete respect for those people who are devoting their lives to you, and you know who I’m talking about, right?”
With the hand over her mouth, she can’t reply.
“Nod if you do!”
A tear streaks downward. Myra complies.
“Good! Because if I find out that you have been anything less than the sweet, wonderful daughter that they deserve, you will be reunited with your Darryl in the worst corner of Hell you could ever imagine. Do you understand me?”
Myra nods again.
“Good, because believe me, I know. I live there. And I would love to take you there with me.”