Marc handed him the cigarette and said, “Yo, why haven’t you called?”
Siddharth took a drag and coughed. “What?” Water sprang from his eyes. He spit up some mucous, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. “I called, like, a hundred freaking times.”
“You’re messing with me,” said Marc.
A campus police car sped past, splashing oily water on Siddharth’s loafers. Had Marc really not gotten his messages? Or was he lying?
Marc took another drag. “I mean, you’re, like, one of my best friends. That means we’re supposed to keep in touch.”
Best friends. That made him feel a little better, lighter. They passed the cigarette back and forth until a homeless man appeared. The guy wore a leather jacket that said Vietnam Veteran and was pushing a shopping cart filled with various pieces of junk: a lamp, a tennis racket, some bottles. “Gentleman, I’m very hungry. Can you spare a dollar for some food?”
“Food?” said Marc. “Or a needle and a spoon?”
The man tilted his head to one side, staring at some faraway thing, and gave his torso a thorough scratching. Marc fished his cigarettes from his blazer pocket and handed three of them to the homeless man, who smiled and said, “Your parents — they raised you well.”
“My parents?” Marc lit one of the man’s smokes. “Dude, my parents are worse off than you.”
The man ambled away, the wheels of his shopping cart creaking loudly in the darkness.
Staring down at his soiled loafers, Siddharth mulled over the evening. He was glad that his friend was opening up, but he’d never understand the harsh way Marc spoke about his parents.
“What is it?” said Marc, pushing him on the shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it,” said Marc.
“Say what?”
“Whatever little thought you’re thinking.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Don’t be a pussy.”
Siddharth sighed. “I need to know something.”
“Know what?”
“Were you being serious before? You really didn’t get any of my messages?”
Marc held the stubby cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. He sucked a final drag then flicked it into a puddle. “That bitch — she must have forgotten to tell me you called.” He stuck a piece of gum in his mouth. “Rachel, she’s not like your dad. She’s nuts. For the past week, she’s been sitting around doing nothing and jabbering like a madwoman. Every night she calls my dad and just starts yelling at him.”
“About what?”
“Money and shit. And then he gets on the phone and does the same thing to me. And then one night — one night she smacked me.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not fucking joking. She hit me right in the face. I said, Rachel, I know you’re a chick — and you’re my mother and stuff — but try that again, I’ll give you a beating.”
* * *
After the play, the foursome began the five-block walk to the parking lot, for which Mohan Lal had a special coupon. Ms. Farber had a pleasant but tight-lipped smile on her face. She slipped her hand through Mohan Lal’s arm and asked him what he’d thought. He said it had been an invigorating experience. What a suck-up, thought Siddharth. He knew that his father hated Shakespeare.
Marc started shaking his head.
“What is it?” said Ms. Farber.
“Nothing.”
“Spill it, dear.”
“Nah, you wouldn’t be interested.”
“Marc, I’m always interested in what my son has to say.”
Siddharth thought about what Marc had said while they were smoking. If he’d been telling the truth, then she was a really good actress.
“Listen,” said Marc, “I know those tickets were worth a bundle, but let me tell you, that play sucked. It was a total piece of crap.”
“Language, dear.”
Marc was smirking now. “I mean, I thought about jumping off the balcony — just so something interesting would happen.”
“Me too,” said Siddharth. “I wish I’d had some tomatoes.”
“Tomatoes?” said Marc. “What the hell would you do with a tomato?”
“When you see something boring, that’s what you do. You throw tomatoes at the stage.” He saw Ms. Farber clutch his father’s arm more tightly.
She said, “Boys, you’re talking about one of the greatest artists to ever live.”
“Whatever, I don’t see why he’s so hyped up,” said Marc. “If you ask me, the play was like one of your stupid soap operas — except the chicks were total dogs.”
“Cute, Marc,” replied Ms. Farber. “But for your information, I don’t watch soap operas.” She turned to Mohan Lal and poked him in the belly. “And you, mister. Just what’s so funny?”
Mohan Lal broke into a grin. “Nothing, but you’ve raised a smart young man, Rachel. The world lacks people who are willing to speak the truth.”
As they walked down the desolate sidewalk, Marc announced that he was hungry. Ms. Farber said she had Ben & Jerry’s at home, but he said he needed real food. Mohan Lal suggested they go out somewhere, telling Marc to choose the place. Siddharth was pleasantly surprised by his father’s attitude. Mohan Lal was more easygoing around Ms. Farber. That was definitely a good thing.
“We can walk it to Paulie’s,” suggested Marc. “It’s the only decent thing that’ll be open.”
“I’m not sure about sticking downtown at this hour,” said Ms. Farber. “How about somewhere in Woodford?”
“Fret not, dear Rachel,” said Mohan Lal. “You have three strong men to protect you.”
* * *
Siddharth had never been to a place like Paulie’s before. It was a squat wooden building that looked more like a cabin than a restaurant. Stepping inside, he found no neon signs, no milkshake machines. He saw no pictures of the toys that could accompany your food for an extra charge.
“Get stoked,” said Marc. “This is the best shit you’re ever gonna eat.”
The place was dimly lit and contained lots of wood. The wooden tables and chairs were oddly shaped and built directly into the walls, and long wooden beams lined the ceiling. Thousands of customers had chiseled their names into every square inch of this wood. Some had even made declarations of love. Marc pointed out a spot below a fire extinguisher where his father had carved the name of the family business, State Street Scrap. “That’s where I’m gonna work someday,” he declared. “Not in some pussy-ass law firm.”
Siddharth laughed. He noticed a pair of cops sitting on barstools in front of a wooden counter, on the other side of which was the place’s rustic kitchen. Standing in the kitchen was a young man with a red mustache and a grease-stained apron. His bright green eyes were focused on a tiny TV mounted above the entrance.
One of the cops, a short, squat guy, addressed the redhead: “What do you think, Ronny? How’s about I put a bill on Philly?”
Ronny squeezed his temples. “There’s fifteen minutes left in the game, Sam. It’s not a bet if you already know what’s gonna happen.” He extracted a metal cage filled with glistening hamburger patties from an upright iron oven. Actual flames were flickering. This oven seemed strange. Ancient. For some reason, it reminded Siddharth of India.
Ronny served the cops their hamburgers, which came on toast, and the second cop, a tall guy with a shaved head, complained that his was too bloody. Ronny pointed to a sign above the cash register. This isn’t Burger King. We don’t do it your way, and we take our time. Then the redhead finally turned to Marc. “Long time no see, kid.” He wiped a hand on his apron and extended it. “Where’s the old man?”