“What about Mindy?”
“Oh, she just sat there, lowered her butt, and slumped. I went back to my room. I couldn’t help but try to tie this kid into DuBois. It worked for a while, you know — one body, two souls — and that kid punching himself out as a sign of his love and reconciliation.
“And then my head was a little clearer the next day. Ricky came in and started to pack his bag. He got the banana peel out — it was black, with white mold — and a little pipe. He stuffed a piece into the bowl and tried to smoke it. When he saw that it wasn’t going to work, he ate the peel. He packed the rest of his things, said good-bye, and checked out.
“So I just sat there and it started coming back to me — picking up this last time. Your dinner party: Drinking that wine. It wasn’t about the poems — not entirely at least. That woman liked me. I knew it. It wasn’t just the poems. It was that quick calculation she did to see if she could be with me, regardless of whether or not there was love. It’s funny, though, the few girls I’ve been with, they put up with a lot of shit. I know I’m not easy. So why would they split over the size of present and potential paychecks? Doesn’t that strike you as kind of odd? I mean, I liked her, she liked me— I could tell. I know it sounds stupid, but if you love someone, would the fact that they might be a bit of a bum stop you from seeing it through? Ridiculous — after all that’s happened — that what she did hurt me. Anyway, I started writing a play about it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think I may turn out to be a half-decent playwright.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s a farce.”
I nod. A bell tolls from somewhere north. We both listen. Gavin claps, stands, and stretches his lower back by swaying side to side. “Getting old,” he grumbles. “You get all bound up so quickly.” He gets into his batting stance, watches the pitcher’s windup. He doesn’t offer at the first one, “Uh-uh. Low. Outside.” He swings at the second in slow motion — watches the ball into the barrel of the bat, his hands roll over, then the flight of the ball uptown. He lowers the bat onto his shoulder and sighs heavily. He looks sad, like he used to, when he was a boy.
“So it made me think about picking up — drinking that wine. .” He takes some slow practice swings.” That wine — I was like, ‘This’ll show ‘em’. . you know — like. . ‘She’ll weep when she finds me gone.’”
“Then what?”
“Fuck. What — then I was drunk. And I lost more time.”
He starts down the stairs, and I don’t want him to go. He gets to the bottom and turns back to me. I lean back and chug the coffee. He watches me, holds his ground, and the people walking by have to pass behind or in front of him. I can still see his face — tall man. I think he nods. He waves for me to stand and descend the stair. I don’t get up. He cocks his head to the side, squints, and starts back up. I put my head down in my lap. He sits down next to me, leans forward, and whispers low.
“What’s up, captain?”
I feel tired again — sick and trembling.
“Gav.”
“Yeah, pal.”
“You ever feel too damaged?”
He exhales and straightens — trying to respect the question. And it’s not respectable. So when I hear him gathering his breath to speak without mocking me, I almost cry. Then he leans back down.
“The day I was getting out I called Ma from detox. I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t even going to tell her that I’d slipped.” His voice cracks to a falsetto. “You’ve done better than you think. And forgive me, please, for saying this, but your mother never saw you go down.”
He breaks. I find his wrist and hold it. He lets me for a moment and then softly pulls away. “That may have been the most selfish thing I’ve ever said.” He exhales and tries to compose himself, but there’s still a high tremor in his voice. “So I call her and tell her that I’ve been out on a mission for the last few months, and she doesn’t say much, just, ‘Wow kid, I’m surprised you’re not dead.’ I don’t know what to say to that. So we’re silent on the line, and then she says, ‘Remember when your father called you out?’”
I turn my head to him. He looks at me and nods.
“Yeah, I don’t think I told you this one. It was just before we met. My old man had sobered up, was on good behavior — he got me Ted’s book that year. He was making some decent dough — trying to come back into our lives by spending. Anyway, he lost that job and went out on one of those jazz club benders — tears through his savings. He calls up Ma asking for money, and she tells him to go fuck himself or whatever — you know Ma. So he tells her to put me on the phone. I pick up, and he tells me that he’s coming over to teach me a lesson. I hang up, and I decide that I’m going to kill him — and I wish I had a gun. And I’m looking at my bat. Anyway, he shows up and drives up on the sidewalk and starts calling me out—‘Come and get your beating, son!’ Just standing there, real calmly, with his hands behind his back like he was giving a lecture.”
He pauses, grins, and starts to nod.
“So I decide, you know — fuck that — I’m standing up to that fucker. So I open the window and yell out, ‘I ain’t comin’ out there, you drunk bastard!’ So we go back and forth like that — me yelling and him being cool—‘. . come and get your beating, son. .’ Ma’s pleading for me not to go — he’ll kill me. And a crowd gathers outside, but no one will do anything. So finally, he comes up to the window and he says, so just me and Ma can hear, ‘I don’t know if you’ll win or lose, but I do know that I can’t do anywhere near the damage to you that you’ll do to yourself if you don’t come out.’”
“So you went.”
“Yeah. Son of a bitch had a pandy-bat behind his back.” He shakes his head. “So I tell Ma, ‘Yeah, I remember.’ And there’s more silence on the line. Then she asks me if I’m sober, and I say’Yes.’ And then she asks me if I’m going to stay sober, and I say, ‘For today.’ Then she says, ‘You’re a good boy, Gavin — you’re a good man. I’m proud of you.’ I fuckin’ lost it.”
He forces out a chuckle, crushes his cup, and stands.
“Then she wired me some dough. I didn’t even ask.” He looks down at me. “How you doing?”
I nod and stand slowly. He slaps my back. We both look out over the avenue.
“You know,” he breathes. I try to find what it is he’s looking at but can’t pick it out. “Maybe the only thing worse than believing everything has some kind of meaning is believing that everything doesn’t.” He shrugs his shoulders. “That don’t make no sense.” He turns to me, studies my face, and then turns back to the street. “I miss you, man, it’s been too long.”
“Yeah.”
“We can’t fall out of touch like that.”
“No.”
“How do we not?”
“Stop going out on missions.”
“Oh shit! Touché. All right — stop hanging out with assholes.”
“I’m not hanging out with anyone.”
“Dinner parties with the smart set. Golf with I-bankers at the club — fuck you.”
“Marco’s okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then, maybe we’ll all go out to the club when you get back.”
“I don’t know if I’m coming back.”
“Finally getting the brood out — good for you — this is no place for a family. I’ll bet you have to plan a whole day just to find a couple of blades of grass.”