He opens a new pack and offers me one. I refuse. He smokes.
“Nice suit.”
“Thanks.” My voice sounds low and robotic.
“Whose was it?”
“Claire’s dad.”
He wrinkles his mouth, nods. “Nice.” He takes a long drag and does one of those smokeless exhalations. “You look beat.”
“Haven’t been sleeping much.”
“Oh yeah?” He points at my coffee. “Watch that stuff.”
I nod and leave my head down. I almost take a sip, but I get a preliminary shot of what it will feel like to my heart and stomach. I breathe on the lid instead.
“Yeah.” He takes a deep pull. “You look thin, too”—he yanks at the air around his whiskers—“your face.”
I look up at him. He fills his cheeks with air. “Oh no, not me. I’ve had three squares a day of institutional starch.” He grunts a laugh and pats his nonexistent belly. “I just scarfed down two chocolate bars and a milkshake on my way here — should’ve brought you one. I’m sorry.”
The notion of sweets makes me gag and shiver at the same time. I check my hands to see if they’re trembling. He checks them, too. He can’t tell, but he sucks his teeth and shakes his head slowly, turning to look across the avenue to the Garden as he does. I follow his gaze to the marquee.
“Aerosmith?” He shakes his head, sings, “Dream on. .” in a craggy falsetto. He finishes his smoke and jabs it out on the rail. “You ever miss Boston?”
I shake my head.
“I used to, but walking here to meet you, it was odd. I used to get bummed out, walking around Manhattan, especially midtown — all that high-end shit that just yells out “Chump!” at a guy like me. But I walked all over today — Fifty-seventh and Fifth, all that, and I seemed to pick up on some internal rhythm — you know? Something felt right. So none of it got to me.” He studies my profile closely, covertly, and raises an eyebrow. “So I decided that I’m taking over this city, but not in that typical revolutionary way.” He waits for me to respond, gets nothing, and continues. “I’m not coming for blood or money. I want something more dear — I’m coming for answers.” He opens his arms to the city. “But I need help — are you with me? Can’t you see it? Oh my god, what a sight, what a notion, what a catastrophic, idiotic idea, Lorna Buffoon and Big Chief McBlackie running loose in the twenty-first century demanding answers!” He makes a fist, waves it in the air, and raises his voice an octave. “Who’s responsible, goddamnit! I demand transparency! I demand accountability! Throw the shrines to the founder and the cryptic and indulgent logos out of the boardroom, you sons of bitches! I want answers — one-to-one ratios, you slippery fuckers! — Horrors! No. Don’t let it happen. I mean, I just don’t think that I could handle it.” He checks me again, waves the vision away. “Sorry, man, I’m rusty. Haven’t seen you in a while.” He bites his lip, puts his coffee down, and makes two fists.
“Wanna fight?”
I give him a dark, sideways look then turn to watch the people continue to mount the stair. I study each one, trying to pick out a specific trait to help me remember them, because no one seems to be coming back down.
Gavin watches me watch the climbers. He shoots a thumb at their path. “What, am I causing a scene? Are you worried about them? Look, if it pleases you and them, I’m willing to be Billy Conn to your Joe Louis. You can knock me the fuck out — right here. Maybe we should go over to the Garden. Then they would love us, both.”
“Conn and Louis became friends.”
He slips his head and raises an eyebrow as if I’d jabbed at him.
“Schmeling, too — he was never a Nazi.”
He shrugs his shoulders, mumbles, “Well, at least I got something.”
I nod vaguely.
“So what’s that place you’re staying at?”
“A friend’s.”
“Nice digs. What kind of criminal is he?”
“He’s a lawyer — for bankers.”
He goes for another cigarette, turns back to the street. “You know, if I’d turned out like my old man wanted, I would’ve been an I-banker — after winning Olympic gold. Maybe I’d have been out there, been able to pin you down, give those guys the heads-up about poet-hustlers on the links. He elbows in my direction. “Win anything?”
“Not enough.”
He sighs, studies my face again — openly — and shakes his head. “Sorry.”
I straighten up, rub my face. “I should’ve come to see you. I’ve just been — fuck — how are you?”
“Me — oh please — detox is detox. You know the drill, anesthetization and humiliation. It’s just sanctioned.” He offers me another smoke. I shake my head and then have to hold my breath so I don’t puke bile. Gavin leans down next to me, still offering the pack.
“Dude?”
“I’m a black hole.”
He straightens. “Pardon?” He shakes his head, snorts, and pushes the cigarettes at me. He snorts again. I look up at him, but he’s looking down at the sidewalk, grinning. He turns to me, widens his grin, buckles his knees, and winces with silent internal laughter. He shoots his head out toward the street, as if asking me to look. I do. Two young women make their way toward us and stop ten steps below. Gavin puts a cigarette in his mouth, thumbs at me, and mumbles to them, “Don’t sit too close ladies, lest ye be sucked in.” I take the pack from him, and he continues mumbling, a little louder, to everyone now, “Pretty sloppy, using an astrophysical metaphor to talk about being broke.” He turns to me and barks, “Hey, Socrates, ever consider the B-side — you know, death star, dead star. What about calling yourself Super Nova?”
The women are still standing. They both look up at Gavin and smile. One is brown skinned with a shaved head. The other is olive toned — lighter perhaps — with blonde hair, dark shades. She’s holding a shopping bag. The brown one bends, picks through it, and takes out a small package. She points up at the revolving doors. The olive one nods and sits. Gavin sits next to me.
“A hundred bucks one of them bums a smoke.”
I light my cigarette, inhale, swoon, and almost pitch forward down the stairs. I shoot my cuffs instead, and that seems to clear my head and settle my insides. The second drag feels good.
“You in?”
“Whatever.”
The brown woman starts up the stairs. She’s wearing an indigo sarong and a charcoal tank. Her arms are well muscled, and she moves athletically. She makes sure our eyes meet and smiles broadly. She’s big eyed, gap toothed. We both nod. She nods back and passes. We look down to her friend. She’s lifted her glasses onto her head. Her bright green eyes, even from here, are striking.
“Shit, captain, some things never change.” I’m not sure what he’s referring to, but I let it go and exhale smoke with a sigh. He elbows me. “Come on, man. You’re in your prime. I mean, you look a little sleepy, a bit thin, perhaps even emotionally devastated, but other than that, yer aces, kid — a fine poet-warrior like you. Go forth,” he waves out to the avenue. “Do your thing.”
When I don’t respond, he waves a few more times and gives up. Then he starts nodding.
“So I started writing my poetics last night, but it turned into a screed against consumerism, then an autobiography. Ugh — I detest memoir.”
I shift. The brown girl passes, does a half turn, smiles, turns back, reaches her friend. She sits, and then they both turn and smile. The olive one reaches into the bag and pulls out drinks and sandwiches.