The elevator hummed and I was annoyed as hell. The bright hot lights had my brows dripping, armpits swampy. Anything stronger than forty watts and it was as though I was being slow-cooked inside a Croc-Pot. I’ve always hated the light. My earliest memory—a dream?: a man shining a flashlight, a lantern, in my face. In my mind’s eye, I can never make out his features; he’s always just out of focus. Perhaps he’s my father. I remember the deep, cold terror—the kind that thins your blood permanently as a kid. I thank that memory (a dream?) for encouraging me to find comfort in the dark, to hug the shadows. In second grade, I nicknamed my shadow Seal, after the singer. I’ve been kissed by a rose on the gray. Back then I’d hide in my closet for what seemed hours, lying down, stretched out like a cat whether sleep arrived or not. My mom said it was because I was born at midnight, on Friday the 13th, during monsoon season, that God made me the man I am.
All over my blue Calvin Klein suit, dust—layer upon layer of flimsy shards of me.
Jesus, I thought, next time you leave the house be sure to open your eyes.
Then again, all the windows in my apartment are draped with brown bedsheets. My roommate—my uncle Juan—prefers natural light, says the sun gives his skin a desirable bronze glow. Ever the ladies’ man, my uncle Juan. He complains about my makeshift curtains, sure, but he also understands that I pay the bills, therefore I decide our lighting situation, or lack thereof.
I patted down my suit, shook my coat sleeves. Dust floated everywhere, gross and hilarious, as if for ages my body had been stored away then suddenly taken out, put on display. A seasonal museum exhibit.
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d worn a suit. Had I ever worn one other than for my First Communion? I never dressed up for work. My station was in a tiny cubicle in the corner of a small office in the corner of an old building. There was a restroom on the other side of my wall and often I dreamt about flushing toilets. Whoosh!
The elevator stopped on floor six. I straightened up. The doors opened. Nobody was there—just a brightly lit hallway at the far end of which hung, slightly crooked, a print of Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” A typical selection, but hardly in poor taste.
I walked down the hall squinting stupidly like a B-level Clint Eastwood. The heat through the ceiling panel lights are frying me, I thought. Suddenly I had a hankering for an egg sandwich.
I stood in front of Suite No. 623. Before stepping inside, I asked myself how I’d gotten there—the elevator, the office, my hand resting on the cold metal handle.
Idiot, you drove in your car, I thought. But that can’t be right because today you rode the bus for the first time ever. But no, what about the sad-looking brunette on the subway, wretched and beautiful? She was a dream, but no way could you make her up. Idiot, you’re fixing to be late.
I opened the door and behind a huge oak desk, there she was, smiling. Twentysomething, hardly any makeup, snug green dress exposing her curves like hatchlings. I could hardly believe the evidence, but everything considered, I had zero say in the matter.
“Mr. Mendax?” she inquired, her eyes cheerful and expectant.
“Speaking,” I answered, suddenly filled with brimming confidence like that of a hardboiled detective.
“Glad you made it! Your interviewers were called into an emergency meeting a few minutes ago, but it shouldn’t take much longer. Please have a seat and I’ll call you as soon as they’re ready.”
I checked my watch, though I already knew I was fourteen minutes early. I moseyed over to the sofa beside the receptionist’s desk, on the verge of asking her if she’d remembered me on the train. I bit my tongue and plopped down, my muscles loosening instantly.
“The battle’s practically won,” I murmured to myself. “Seventy-five percent was getting your tushy here.”
My heartrate slowed to a crawl. With a clearer head I inspected my fingernails—a healthy pink, freshly clipped. I reexamined my suit—clean as a Calvin Klein whistle.
The receptionist’s phone rang and in the span of a blink she answered it.
Just as soon I’d already decided she was a 9.75 out of 10, especially now that she appeared happier, with vigor and purpose. As a rule, I never dished out perfect 10’s to strangers, but people got close.
“Bobby,” she answered, her cheeks blushing.
The beau. Go figure, I thought. I assumed Bobby was in medical school. He had red curly hair, was tall and handsome, athletic too. In high school, he played starting quarterback, and everything about him, from the manner in which he walked—strutted, really—chest puffed out, human Clydesdale—to the way he talked told you everything you needed to know. His patented twinkle in his blue-green eyes broke down the defenses of any cheerleader in his path much in the same way he broke down the pre-strategized defenses of his opponents on the gridiron, picking ’em apart with his gunslinging cannon. But for Bobby, this otherwise shining knight, there was a chink in his armor: he was vain as shit. Because despite enjoying a breezy, suburban life devoid of hardship thanks to his dough-machine parents, Dr. Robert (an orthodontist, which explained Bobby’s perfect teeth, though they were a little on the large side, like a Clydesdale’s), and Sheryl (a lawyer who went by Sherri with an “i”), Bobby was ultimately ill-trained in the fine art of wholesome bonding—in other words, incapable of allowing his gorgeous receptionist girlfriend to feel truly secure in their relationship. This is the affliction of all leading men who don’t work hard for their women. Bobby had lots of friends—girl friends, that is, with a separation between the nouns. He’d always had them, his girl friends—nothing new to report here. They’d flocked to him since he could remember, the suckers, but really, what could Bobby say? He liked the attention, adored it big time. In one way or another, Bobby was always engaged in conversation with members of his flock, the list of which included Sara, Tanya, Vanessa and Maria; basically any female whose name ended in “a.” Let’s not forget Lisa, the chick who Bobby and Gorgeous Receptionist ran into that one time at Starbucks. If you’d’ve asked Gorgeous then, she’d’ve said Lisa was a little too friendly the way she hugged Bobby, rubbed her pretty little manicured fingers all around his broad back. She’d crossed the thread-thin tumultuous border, Lisa had (according to Gorgeous), between the Friend Zone and the Bone Zone. When Bobby’s phone lit up at all times of day and night—Gorgeous had come to think of his ever-glowing device as possessed—and when he’d read his text messages and grin—that patented twinkle in his blue-green eyes—Gorgeous would wonder. One day, she asked him, “Who’re you always texting?” “Friends,” Bobby answered drily. “Just friends.” Right. Sure. Uh-huh. Another day, when Gorgeous was, how can I word this delicately … enduring her monthly trial … she asked Bobby, “Bobby, why are so many of your friends girls?” Gorgeous was conscientious of her tone as to not come across as accusatory; she’d simply asked a question, one that could theoretically be answered in good faith. Bobby was silent for a few seconds, seemingly taken aback, and in those few seconds of no reply, Gorgeous noticed that Bobby’s face twitched subtly, in an ugly way that transformed his visage wholly, granting him the probability of possessing real flesh that could flatten over time, betray its owner if stabbed over and over with grooming scissors. Finally, Bobby answered Gorgeous in a tone concealing no condescension whatsoever, almost firing a question back at her: “Because there are more women than men on Earth?” To which he immediately followed up with, “And why do you wanna know anyways?” This, of course, was his critical error. The great crack down the center of his mask. His façade. As days passed by, as blue morning skies melted into pitch-black nights, a thought manifested—grew and spread disease-like—in Gorgeous’ impacted mind. In one week’s span, the thought—nay, the premonition, the certainty—was it would only be a matter of time before the tall drink of water whose Christian name was Robert, better known as Bobby, who in the future would be known professionally as Dr. Rob, would leave her high and dry for someone else. Suddenly it mattered not one iota that Bobby would someday reel in the big bucks, be able to buy her an engagement ring the size of a baby hippo. It didn’t matter that he’d someday be capable of gifting her a dreamy honeymoon to Malta—it was either there or Greece, but everybody and their mom went to Greece. It didn’t matter that he’d someday provide her with a six-bedroom house in a gated community where chubby gate guards sat around pretending they were real police. While these ruminations all sounded great on paper, none of them mattered because they were all of the material world, and if there was one thing Bobby should’ve known about Gorgeous, it was that she sure as hell wasn’t one of those kinds of girls. So, after a few evening calls with Stacy, Gorgeous’ best friend since elementary, who’d helped Gorgeous arrive at a decision, a decision she eventually knew was the correct one for spiritual salvation—for she believed in concepts such as the soul, which, mind you, Bobby did not, despite his Catholic upbringing—Gorgeous convinced herself alas that she’d be all right without Bobby. After all, deep down in her heart, she knew she was a 9.75 out of 10, and 9.75’s never stay physically lonely for very long. It was a Friday night at Baskin-Robbins. Gorgeous let Bobby pay for her ice cream. After half an hour of small talk (which she would later come to think of as tiny talk), and with a half-full stomach, she finally piped up to the ex-before-her-eyes, “Bobby, I have something I need to tell you. I don’t think we’re going to work out.” Immediately upon registering her simple declarative, Bobby’s jaw dropped slightly open, and from out of his mouth dribbled Burgundy Cherry ice cream. For the first time in his breezy life, Bobby felt a stabbing pain—a plunge through his soul. (Yes, the soul was real, he could now attest.) It hurt—hurt like a motherfucking spear tackle from behind. He knew the pain was just beginning, would last a long, long time. Fast forward as Dr. Rob readied himself for bed, positioning himself just right on his brand-new Tempur-Pedic mattress, taking in the silky-softness of a one-thousand-thread-count bed sheet (the very best that Bed Bath & Beyond had to offer). Out of nowhere—as most things in life occur—her words returned to him again. And each time they reappeared they echoed a little louder. I don’t think we’re going to work out. Dr. Rob peered down at his trim housewife, Lisa, who was peacefully asleep. Be still my heart, he thought tenderly. He wondered then out of pure curiosity, Am I really happy? Of course I am, he reassured himself, of course I’m happy. He thought of his two boys, Riley and Jacob, who were also fast asleep in their bunk beds. Ah, Riley and Jacob, the WASPiest little rascals you always hear about. Xboxes and PlayStations and the latest Jordans. I’m blessed, Dr. Rob thought, truly and eternally blessed. Thank you, Lord. Amen. He lowered his head onto his pillow, closed his eyes, imagined himself unplugging his highly trained brain from the earth. But before sleep would knock him out, he’d be confronted by a final, nasty illusion in the form of ghostly words: It should’ve been HER sleeping next to me right now. Dr. Rob replayed how swiftly she had slipped from his grasp, as though she’d been a football from the gods he could never fully grip, spiraling into a labyrinthine locker room, spinning, spinning, spinning, gone, gone, gone ….
“Mr. Mendax, they’re ready for you now,” the receptionist announced.
Startled, I leapt from the sofa.
“Follow me, please.”
“You got it, Gorgeous,” I said without thinking.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Um—nothing.”
As I followed behind her down a narrow corridor, leaving a few steps of distance between us out of mild embarrassment, I went over some answers to hypothetical questions.
Hypothetical Question Number One: What is it about our publishing house that interests you?
Hypothetical Answer Number One: Great question. Your house carries a long tradition of excellence in putting out superior work. Your reputation for being forward-thinking, economically stable and engaged in the community, such as the recent oil cleanup y’all helped with, precedes you. I’d love to be part of your team, and with my editorial experience, I believe I’d fit right in.
Hypothetical Question Number Two: What would you say is your biggest strength?
Hypothetical Answer Number Two: I consider myself a lifelong learner—I’m always trying to learn something new every day—but if I had to pin down my biggest strength, I’d say it’s that I’m a hard worker. Once I set my mind to doing something, I get it done no matter what. I guess you can say working too hard is also my biggest weakness.
Hypothetical Question Number Three: May you elaborate on that?
Hypothetical Answer Number Three: Of course. I’ve been told many times by my supervisors and colleagues that I ought to take more breathers. “Enjoy life, you can’t work hard all the time,” they say to me. “I do enjoy life,” I tell them, “but that includes hard work.”
Hypothetical Employer Comment: Quite impressive!
Hypothetical Response to Hypothetical Employer Comment: Oh, it’s nothing.
In front of me, a small room lit exclusively by a green banker’s lamp, lending the space a tavernous vibe as if I was joining in on a séance. At the center of the room, behind another huge desk, sat a black-haired woman, and in the back corner leaning against the wall, a bald man in a suit with large sunglasses à la someone straight out of Men in Black.
The woman’s face was cast in soft glow, and in front of her was a manila folder.
“Mr. Mendax, pleasure to meet you,” she said, offering me her hand from the shadows, her fingernails painted oddly some shade of yellow. Her bones felt slender in my grip.
“I hope you don’t mind the lighting,” she said politely.
“Not at all, Miss …?”
“Leena. Leena Veritas.”
“Veritas,” I said, feeling an old foreign weight escape my lips.
With her dark hair, thick jet-black streaks for eyebrows, Leena looked exactly like Jennifer Connelly—Jennifer Connelly’s twin sister born somewhere far and cold. In Soviet Russia.
“The guy in the corner there is Mr. Vulcan, Lee Vulcan,” said Leena with an air of amusement. “He’s here for quality assurance purposes, so rest assured he isn’t Dracula in disguise.”
I waved at him, but he stood motionless, his face an oblique blank covered with ridiculously large sunglasses.
Inside my chest, a sudden event: tribal beats vibrating up my rib cage.
Leena hit me with a question, to which I answered:
“Yes ma’am, everything’s fine. But to be honest, I had some trouble sleeping last night.”
“Completely understood,” Leena said. “I never seem to get enough sleep myself. I’m convinced it’s something to do with my phone. Modern-day struggles and all.”
“Phones’re bad for the mind,” I confirmed. “But then again, maybe the lighting in here.”
Leena’s laugh was quick, warm.
“Yes,” she agreed. “I do feel more, I don’t know, alive in the dark, as unprofessional as some may find that outlook.”
To Leena’s left I spotted a small print tacked on the wall, placed it immediately: Edward Hopper’s “Rooms by the Sea.” Back in college I took two art history classes, one of them being Contemporary American Art. For my final paper, I remember poring over Edward Hopper’s work, came to enjoy his fabricated evenings, his dusky twilights. I’d read that Hopper was a dour introvert—not the kind of dude you’d bring around guests at a dinner party. His wife, Josephine, also an artist, was Hopper’s polar opposite, temperamentally speaking. As her husband’s reputation grew, her’s shrunk, and yet their marriage still lasted forty-three years. I believe I also read that Hopper would sometimes beat on Jo. Poor Jo. The better and abused half of a great man.
“Ed Hopper, huh?” I said to Leena.
“Yep,” answered a voice from the back corner. “A boring piece if you ask me.”
Suddenly I got the revolting sense I’d been incapable of reading the room—I was in cahoots with dangerous players.
“He’s one of my favorites,” I countered dismissively, a shot in the dark, literally.
Mr. Vulcan retorted with something about Hopper’s inability to capture objects precisely as they appear, which, in his opinion, was the only mark of an artist’s genius.
“Unlike the masterful Norman Rockwell, the prince of America,” said Mr. Vulcan flatly.
“Quality art,” I rebutted, “is obviously predicated on subjectivity. I question anyone who believes in his heart there’s a single set of standards determining what’s good and bad.”
Immediately I thought: God, I sound like doofus, I sound like I look exactly like one of those liberal arts doofuses on college brochures. Then I thought: It’s his stupid sunglasses. Those ridiculous sunglasses in the dark.
“Speaking of heart,” Mr. Vulcan said, “in case you’re wondering, I’m blind as a bat, son.”
My face was hot. Then Leena broke in gently, but firmly. “Mr. Mendax, while I’m enjoying our conversation, we respect your time, so I suggest we begin your interview.
“If there’s time afterward, you and Mr. Vulcan are more than welcome to resume your discussion.”
She opened the manila folder, cleared her throat, smiled. Smooth as cream in our little chambers.
“Judging from your résumé, it’s clear you have lots of experience in publishing. You worked for Rollins and Jones, and also for Davis and McPhearson, is that correct?”
“Correct,” I said, moving right along. “I was at Rollins and Jones for two years, and Davis and McPhearson for another two. I was also at Johnson and Anderson but only for six months—that was before Rollins hired me.”
“Impressive,” Leena said. “Respectable shops—our competitors, naturally, but very good. So what interests you in our house?”
I breathed in deeply, exhaled, just as rehearsed.
“Great question, Leena. Let me start by saying that your house carries a long tradition of excellence in producing superior work. Your reputation for being forward-thinking, economically stable and engaged with the community, such as the recent oil cleanup y’all pitched in with, precedes you. With my editorial experience, I believe I’d fit right into your team.”
Leena scribbled down a few notes on a legal pad. Mr. Vulcan loomed silent, arms crossed.
“So, Mr. Mendax, what would you say is your biggest strength as an employee?”
I nodded, allowed her question to linger a moment, precisely as planned.
“Great question, Leena. Well, I do consider myself a lifelong learner—I’m always trying to learn something new every day—but if I had to pin down my biggest strength, I’d say it’s that I’m a hard worker. Once I set my mind to doing something, I get it done no matter what. I suppose you can say working too hard is also my biggest weakness.”
Leena jotted down more notes, then replied, “May you elaborate, please?”
“Of course. I’ve been told on several occasions by my supervisors and colleagues that I need to take more breathers. ‘Enjoy life, you can’t be working like crazy all the time,’ they say to me. ‘I do enjoy life,’ I tell them, ‘but that includes hard work.’”
I noticed crow’s feet form around Leena’s eyes; the white glow of her teeth indicated I’d strung together a proper combination of sentences.
“Impressive,” she said.
I smiled, shrugged. I thought: What would the pope do right now? He’d tell the masses what they need to hear.
While a thunderstorm was howling outside, I felt cozier now that I’d begun talking my lines. Leena watched me with sustained interest.
“Mr. Mendax, it’s refreshing to hear that you like to go to work. Rest assured, you’re in the right place for that, then. But I must say, we do run rather aggressive operations. A tight ship, if you will. We’re extremely selective in who we pick. On average, our employees log fifty-hour work weeks. Is that something you might’ve heard about us already?”
“That won’t be an issue,” I said, digging my toes into my worn leather shoes.
“We work with lots of demanding clients on often very short deadlines,” Leena continued. “If you don’t pace yourself, you’ll find that’s it very easy to drown here. But we also cultivate a team environment, relying on each other to pick up the slack when necessary. That said, our pay’s highly competitive. On our facility, we have a gym, a swimming pool, a Jacuzzi and multiple basketball and tennis courts. We hire personal trainers for employees. As you mentioned earlier, we’re forward-thinking. We also offer educational benefits that take affect after six months of employment. If you’re thinking about grad school, well, we’ve got you covered. Did I mention we have excellent health insurance plans?”
Leena punctuated her elaborations with friendly hand gestures. She was matronly, almost.
“Your references check out. Actually, they all said amazing things about you.” She flipped through the pages of my application. “Things’re looking on the up and up.”
I momentarily imagined sliding down a mound of extra income, this cash dangling before me like a piece of medium-rare steak.
“If I may, there is one thing I’m curious about, something I need to address. You mind if I ask you a personal question regarding your work history?”
“Not at all,” I lied.
“There seems to be a—how to put this—a two-year pattern of you working and then subsequently departing to somewhere else. Now I’m sure there’s sensible explanation for that, and really, it’s none of my business—but to be completely honest, the most essential thing we value in our associates is stability. Loyalty we view as gold, which is the reason we’ve been extraordinarily successful. Do you see what I’m getting at, Mr. Mendax?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
I met Leena’s gaze, her inspection, as though she were the Mona Lisa and I a regular patron. I’d thoroughly prepared for this. And thus, like Mona Lisa, she smiled slyly, said, “Wonderful.”
Discreetly I surveyed the room, realizing with the horror of a few seconds the absence of Mr. Vulcan. There was only one door into the office—one way in, one way out. There was no way I would’ve missed him leaving.
“Excuse me, Leena, but where did Mr. Vulcan—”
“Mr. Mendax, let me ask you, are you an honest person?”
“What?” I said.
“I said, are you an honest person.”
Her question forced my attention on her, which is how I noticed her hair was no longer in a bun—her hair curly, thick and wild. She seemed to occupy more space, as if everything in the cramped room revolved around her, the sun at the center of our solar system. A brutish dwarf of a star.
“I’m sorry, you were saying,” Leena said.
“Y-yes,” I stammered.
Then, following a quick breath, I said with all the gravity I could muster:
“Leena, you will tell me where Mr. Vul—”
The heat exploded in my ears. I jumped out of my seat but was yanked down hard, my wrists strapped to the chair.
First the buzzing of flies then the smell of rotting animals. The heat returned, and it was pure and awful, and I screamed.
“Now now, be a good little doggy,” Mr. Vulcan said from behind me, plucking his fingers from my ears.
Again I launched but the stopped motion jerked me in place, pinched my back. All I could think about was squeezing his neck, watching him die between my hands.
“If you don’t cool it, Mr. Mendax, I’m afraid Mr. Vulcan’ll be forced to see just how far his fingers can go in.
“Now listen carefully,” she said coldly. “You knew we’d be waiting for you. You knew what was going to happen today. You knew once you crossed the Valley of Death, you’d sacrifice your double heart.”
“Let me go,” I pleaded. “Let go. Forget all this.”
I tried looking away but he pressed me at the temples, dug his fingernails into my eyelids.
“You think your mother would be proud of you, Mr. Mendax? Your poor uncle?”
Before I could speak he slammed two knives in my chest, buried down to the hilts.
“A blade for each,” he said.
There was no blood, but when my eyes closed I felt it spill out.
Somebody whispered in my ear.
Couldn’t understand. Heard nothing.
• • •
An empty studio, plain white walls.
Daylight, whip of crashing waves.
“Wanna go for a swim?” Uncle Juan says. “It’s nice out. Yer momma’s already there.”
“There?” I say.
“Let’s get a move on, chump.”
The green water, cloudless blue sky. Cry of seagulls.
A figure in the distance. Woman on water.
Raises her arms; from above, white roses raining down. Down I look; blood dyeing the ocean.
The sea, a red cotton field. A titan’s candy cane.
• • •
Trooper wakes me with his long slimy tongue down my throat.
“Jesus! I’m up!”
I hop out of bed and there’s a slight tremor in my legs, my legs feeling like soggy toothpicks. The hazy light poking through the blinds tells me it’s midmorning, roughly. People up and moving.
In the bathroom mirror I spot a red angry bump on the tip of my nose. With bags under my eyes, cowlicks on both sides of my head, I feel as near as possible to my homely self-image.
I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, floss.
Trooper’s parked next to me, panting, tail wagging, big dog smirk.
“But you don’t really love me,” I say to our golden retriever.
I open the drawer under the sink, grab from a container a handful of treats, hold them above Trooper’s snout. He goes berserk, spins four or five times, then sits, homed in on my fist.
“But you don’t really love me, do you, Troop? I’m just your sugar daddy.”
At my teasing he yelps, then I drop his treats. I’m about to head to the living room but something compels me—call it the Creative Impulsive—to halt mid-foot-lift. I go to my laptop, open it, sit on the floor and type out my dream, sequence by sequence. It’s the first time I’ve transcribed a dream. (Bad luck?) I convince myself it’s practice to improve my skills. Halfway through the exercise, about five pages in, I question how much of it’s already exaggerated, stretched, clued in by a woken brain.
Uncle Juan’s on the sofa, breathing heavy, TV turned on to CNN or FOX. He’s wearing a black muscle shirt, gray sweatpants. He’s wrapped up his daily pushups.
“Mornin’, chump,” he greets me.
“Morning. What time is it?”
“Time to get a new watch,” he says. “Naw, it’s eleven. Somebody slept like a princess.”
“Pretty rough, yeah.”
“Welp, spill the beans, dude. How’d it go?”
“How’d what go?”
“Uh, your interview, Einstein.”
“Oh, yeah.”
My hand rubs around my chest automatically.
“Man … it’s hard to say.”
Uncle Juan studies me briefly, then he says:
“Tanked it, huh?”
I’m quiet—my mind replaying the graphic narrative I’d cemented, the images of which are seeming to disassociate from memory. (A dream?)
“Check it out, chump,” my uncle says, sitting up straight on the edge of our sofa. “If there’s anyone who knows about tanking, it’s moi. Let me tell ya, I’ve mastered the art of tanking. I’ve got a master’s degree in it—no, shit, a Ph.D. But yer still young, so the way I see it is, you gotta keep going out there, do what needs doing, over and over till the walls of Jericho come crashing down hard. Feel me? Word?”
He shadow-boxes the air, an invisible opponent, unleashing a mean combination of jabs and uppercuts.
“Word,” I repeat.
On the TV, a blonde anchor with humongous eyes reports on a domestic violence incident from last night involving a young couple with a baby—ingredients for half of all campfire stories. The boyfriend shot her, and now she’s in the hospital in critical; the baby’s healthy and doing fine. A mugshot of the thug: young, Hispanic, shaved head, tattoos creeping up his needle neck.
“How can you stomach this crap?” I say.
“Gotta stay informed. Gotta be in the know.” Uncle Juan taps his forehead.
“You belong on the news,” I say, instantly regretting it.
“Been there, done that.”
The broadcast goes to commercials and without a hitch my uncle hops back on his pedestal.
“Seriously, dude, you’ll find something better, keep trucking along. Yer a smart guy, being my bloodline and all. Word?”
“Word,” I repeat.
“And once you get them celeb stacks, sheeit, the chicas’ll be all over your ass, way hotter than that last one—whatshername again?”
“Tiffany.”
“The Tiffster! Man, ballbuster, that chick. What kinda name’s Tiffany anyway? White people, dude. White people. Mayonnaise and hummus.”
The blonde anchor returns with another breaking story: a married politician caught paying for prostitutes using taxpayers’ money. (How dare he!)
The news cycles: barrages, labyrinths of trash. Endless and endlessly unchanging, like everything else. I want to tell my uncle my dream, but I know there’d be no point in doing so. On the other hand, I can’t update him about the interview because there’s not much to report on that front, not really. Everything’s fuzzy. So I ask him instead:
“Doing good on money?”
“Yeah, ’nuff for groceries.”
“Still no bites?”
“Naw. Filled out some more applications yesterday, but we’ll see how it goes. Maybe Mickey D’s’ll call me back.”
One night a few years ago, Uncle Juan, drunk, hit an old lady walking across the street. She was carting groceries back to her home, where her bedridden husband was waiting for her, worried that his wife still went out by herself. In his state of disorder, Uncle Juan didn’t see her, and the impact from the accident broke her legs and pelvis. A week later she died in the hospital. They discovered Uncle Juan had been driving with a blood-alcohol content level of .20. When they informed him that the old woman had died, it was in that instant, he told me later, that a piece of him died too. “You think God’ll forgive me?” he asked me when I went to visit him. “Of course,” I said, although the truth was, how could I know the answer to that question? When Uncle Juan’s trial came around, the judge—the Honorable Jerry Ordo—told him, with six people present in court including myself and five family members of the deceased Mrs. Graciela Esperanza, that he was considering sentencing him to ten years because DUI manslaughter wasn’t something to wash your hands of. Judge Ordo said a precious life had been needlessly taken—a fine lady, a wife, a mother, a loving grandmother—due to my uncle’s stupid decision, a fatal lapse in judgment. You should thank the Lord, Ordo said to Uncle Juan, that you didn’t get yourself killed too. He laid into him a few minutes more, then revealed the silver lining: Uncle Juan had served a tour in the Army during Desert Storm, was honorably discharged with a Purple Heart and a Silver Star, earned by escorting eight Kuwaiti villagers to safety in the face of gunfire. Uncle Juan took a 9mm bullet to his thigh, but with his adrenaline pumping, he completed the task of getting the villagers to safety. Luckily for us, Judge Ordo too had served in Desert Storm, himself as an Air Force captain. Ordo, despite my uncle’s predicament, in spite of himself, had a soft spot for him, for the judge admitted he knew all too well the psychological damage that war inflicts on man. He understood all too well how it drives men to the bottle, and to worse. Uncle Juan didn’t have a previous criminal record, only a record of job-hopping after his discharge, the last of which was dayshift supervisor at Walgreens. Ordo said to my uncle that if he played his cards right, he could be free in four years. I expect excellent behavior from you, hero, he said, and if you let me down, I’ll personally kick your ass and throw away the key. As he said this, he smiled painfully. This isn’t the end for you, Juan, Judge Ordo said. Redemption starts for you today. Right this second. He struck his gavel and my uncle was gone for a year and a half. True to his nature, he led men even in prison—Bible studies, a veterans’ group, teaching some of the illiterate how to read using Goosebumps books. Every day after his five hundred pushups, he tackled science-fiction novels—Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. Le Guin, Samuel R. Delany. He even tried writing some of his own, though he never shared the pages with me because he thought they were “straight-up baby shit, like the kind from a green alien infant.” And it wasn’t all smooth sailing for my uncle. He said there were nights, moonless nights he thought of nothing but hanging himself with his bedsheets. He thought about what he’d done to the old woman, the sudden yet prolonged obliteration to her family. He thought about her husband, about exchanging letters with him, gaining a pen pal, but deciding against it in the end. Then he was released. He was different, calmer somehow, and more importantly, no longer in possession of a spotless record. Nobody would know that far away, eight people in a village survived because of him. Not to mention myself, his nephew he’d adopted after getting back from overseas, himself barely old enough to qualify as a grown man. Taking care of his dead sister’s son on a promise. Now it’d be a miracle, he said without saying it, if the McDonald’s empire would call him back, make room for him in their legion. Flip frozen meat. Prepare Happy Meals for spoiled brats.
“You know, chump,” he says. “You can do things proper, by the book and shit, but all it takes is one bad day. And that’s all anyone’ll remember. Ain’t a damn thing you can do to change it.”
He rubs the tattoo on his arm—Grace and Hope inked in black Olde English font—drops his head.
“I didn’t drink before the military,” he mutters. “Not a single Goddamn drop.”
He glances at me, smiles weakly, still rubbing his arm as if it were sore, fresh. Then he lowers his head again, does something I haven’t seen since the day he was locked up.
I hold him, let him weep on my shoulder.
Troop’s beside us nudging our legs.
“Ay there,” Uncle Juan says to him. “It’s all good, boy, everything’s good.”
Before my mom died, Uncle Juan gave her his word that he’d watch after me. His bond unbroken of as yet—each day that responsibility shifting like the gears of an old clock.
Mom had this saying, the only one I recollect: When things get heavy, play a song and take it steady.
“Get a room, you two,” I say to Uncle Juan, Troop tongue-attacking his face.
In my closet I flick on the light, pull out from a cardboard box a portable record player Mom had bought at a garage sale. Then from a plastic bag I take out a dozen old vinyls, thumb through them until I find the one.
Back in the living room it hits me: the closet light hadn’t bothered me a damn bit.
I plug in the record player, carefully remove the Sam & Dave record from its vintage tattered cover. It’s either exceptionally valuable, or near worthless.
Our jumbo golden retriever’s on Uncle Juan’s lap, looking pleased as a fat cat.
“Gonna play some jams, huh?”
“No,” I answer sarcastically, gently setting the needle down.
A scratch, an electric guitar riff, blaring brass horns. Then, as if from the clouds, the legendary duo known as Sam & Dave, all the way from Memphis, Tennessee.
Comin’ to you on a dusty road
Good lovin’ I got a truck load
And when you get it you got something
So don’t worry cause I’m coming
“Damn, son, haven’t heard this joint in a minute! Your momma’s favorite.”
I snap open the curtains and sunlight bum-rushes our apartment, my body. From our view on the third floor, the city’s as inviting as a pair of wide-open legs. No, safer than that, more cliché. Let’s rewind: From our view on the third floor, the city’s as inviting, as proud and beguiling as a wide-open story. Timeworn, massive, an unfinished masterpiece.
I press my ear against the warm window glass, listen—the vibrations of sound and movement. I hear my name forming on someone’s lips. You rang, m’Lord? Dogs barking, cars honking, kids shouting. A girl hopscotching a rainbow-chalked sidewalk. A motorcycle cop lurking around the street corner; someone with a baggy red tee flicking him off. Two blocks past, at the 7-Eleven, I know the Doomsday Curb Preacher is there with his eye patch, demanding passersby to repent for their sins. I see ballers at Hooper Park breaking ankles, talking hella trash, the pimp in a giant suit who dubs himself Purple Rain, a new plus-sized lady by his side. Inside one of the distant skyscrapers, a boardroom shyster—the Devil himself. Everyone down there playing their roles, hoping to catch a break. The seven angels who’ll soon swoop down, trumpets in hand, crying in celebration. You’re alive, and you are free. You are free. Free.
I turn around—Uncle Juan blank-staring, Troop panting to the rhythm of the scratchy record.
“The hell’s gotten in you, chump?”
I tap the windowpane, point to the meridian, to somewhere in the backdrop. I say:
“Brand-new day. Word?”
Uncle Juan rubs his tattoo once more, then he stands, walks over, peers outside. He sees what I see because there’s brand-new light in his eyes, his watery eyes shining like polished pennies, like an elusive clean slate. He claps my shoulder and repeats:
“Word.”