A Matter of Love in da Bronx (24 page)

--Sam! You look like you fell, dipped and drug yourself back and forth couples times through your own asshole. What for be you hugging such a shitpile a misery? Thus spake Lincoln Jackson.

Shattering. The elytron-like bubble within which his condemnatory thoughts ricocheted frenetically--as electrons in a microwave oven--which was making a fricassee of his brain, fissioned. To macrosmithereens. Unencased, unprotected he had to forego the indulgence of his sado-masochistic pleasures to respond, he was not, after all, catatonic. --Lincoln Jackson...?

--That's me.

--I'm doing just great! What's with you? Embarrassed at first by his self-made malaise his mind exploded in an effort to cover up, then, quickly regaining control, Sam became aware his sensitivity level was once more on full key, flashing an attention signal to the black man. The vibrations emanating from him were starbursts. And Lincoln Jackson had an aura. Without much focusing, it was quite discernable. A shadowgraph around his form. In subtle hues is deepened from a light lavender at his outline to a bishop's purple several feet out, all of it gently pulsing as a breathing life, a true ectonebula. This was the first of this color Sam ever encountered in all the years since he had discovered his gift. The first was a yellowish brown--like horehound drops--that emanated from his teacher when he was…what? seven? eight? nine? years old? Like he had stared at the brilliant sun at midday and the person was a shadow coming through the haze with the aura fading somewhat as the features became prevalent. He didn't associate the colors with events until some long weeks later when the teacher died. A brown, Smith Brothers cough drop color aura, meant then, soon to depart this world. Noted. So, he avoided eye contact, or looking at someone for fear of catching them in aura. He was especially frightened to glance at his parents, because, for a long time--a half-dozen years, he felt he held the power of life and death. He would lie awake long into the night, thinking about it, shaking, shaking. Then, the revelation:
He
wasn't sending out any messages which would cause an incident. No. He was merely the receptor of such notices. There were other colors, but he had no way of knowing what they signified. So he guessed at most, attempting to read the mannerisms, facial expressions, physical performance of the auraed person. The bright yellows indicated physical or mental pain; the range of blues he interpreted as from contentment to ecstasy; greens as any variation on anger; the reds as hard mental activity. He would go through long periods where auras appeared to him frequently; and others, such as in the last four years or so where he had completely forgotten about them. And now the dry spell was broken with the unusual aura color...--the purple--he'd never before seen. The compounded event icing him solidly.

--Sam! Sam! D'you slip off the edge or what?

--I'm fine!

--Like shit you're fine. You look to me like you need a couple ounces bluing starch poured down your gullet.

Lincoln Jackson prescribing for Sam Scopia? That was a switch. It always was that Sam was in control trying to ease the other man's pain: hunger, the misery of the D.T.s, or the general agonies of living. Physically he seemed rock solid. He wasn't shaking or weaving back and forth, his clothes were clean, all buttons buttoned, laces tied; and, most unusual, there wasn't a hint of odor about him of wine, beer or booze. --No, really. Just this and that. I'm fine...

--If you say so. Now, Sam, you and I know each other a long time, not like deep, well-thought relatives would be, but enough like we worked together . . . on that level I'm talking. Lincoln Jackson didn't talk that way at all, but it was the way Sam preferred to translate his remarks. And on that basis I can tell you I need you to help me out so I don't want to rile you in any way, and miss out on my chance. I've never seen you like this before, not that I was always in any condition to make a critical analysis, so I must assume something of major proportion has altered in your world. So, it's gotta be woman trouble.

--Speak of a flattering accusation. What makes you say that?

--If one of your folks died, you wouldn't be here. I know Sol Yeuch The Scootch isn't around, so you're not fired; and you'd have your clothes with you if you got kicked out of your house; or, if you got the clap you'd be at the doctors. Worse than all that, if you're dying, you'd be out picking out your box, or deciding on a headstone. But, you're not any of those. So, gotta be a dame. Either your wife left you, or your girl friend did, or both.

--I don't have either one. Never did.

--Like I said woman trouble.

--Sam smiled broadly, taking a gentle roundhouse in his direction. --This lady makes me hurt all over, and as far as she'd concerned, I walk the sewers.

--I'll get you fixed up with some black pussy what knows all about love and loving will wear your pecker out right up to your belly button. Pining for a woman while you have boiling balls is like food shopping with an empty belly, you take on more than you need and no amount will really satisfy you. Just one visit with Jacinta! Hooooo-eeeeeey! She's more good medicine than a cut-rate drug store. She's been known to bring sobriety to the inebriated; erectionability to the impotent; and liveability to the dead! She has the lame, the halt, the blind, the infirm, the weak, the unwilling run relay races because once one goes into Jacinta there's damn good reason to do it again. What do you say? Once she starts working on you with her hands, her mouth, and that pussy of hers she'll drive any other woman right, direct, straight out of your mind and hard-on! I could take you there, and you could be in freedom-land in less than fifteen minutes! Now, you stop shaking your head like that because you look like you're trying to saw through your neck with a rusty razor! Man! You oughta try one good fuck first, then go back to moping!

--No. I don't think so.

--Come on!

--No, thanks. I'm just not interested.

--Really?

--Really.

--Oh! Man! You are sick. You got a problem. You're in love! Whooooooo-eeeeee!

Sam screwed up his face, staring right square into the black man's eyes before he eased into a soft smile, and nodded his head up and down rapidly. What an absolutely marvelous fact!

Lincoln Jackson shrugged. It was just another of life's hopelessnesses. --Then promise yourself one thing: Before you try suicide, try Jacinta.

The full realization--the discovery--that his emotions had been projected to such an extent to another person brought almost as much ecstasy as the bewitchment itself. The disconsolateness came from his perception that there would be no requitement, which was altogether something else but which unleashed the madness within him. He was quite content to make the point to himself, and understanding this, found himself quite free to pursue the fury of each posture exactly as he wished. Though, first, Lincoln Jackson. --Lincoln Jackson, there's something going on in your world, and I want to know what it is.

--How do you know that?

--You don't have the shakes. You're not on booze, or scratch, or black tar, or crack. Your eyeballs are only half bloodshot, though I get the feeling you've not been sleeping. Your clothes are neat, ironed. All that not to hurt your feelings, but to prove I'm a good friend, and I'd like to help. Just tell me how.

--Sure! What I came here for! Put me to work!

--You need the money.

--No. I need the work. Howevermuch there is. Just for today.

--Do me a favor. I wouldn't ask if you couldn't do it. I'm sick. I don't want anyone around. Here's forty dollars. You owe eight hours work. The two twenties came off the outside of the roll he took from his pocket. Now go.

--Sam...

--Don't have to say a word. Just take it. The black hand came pink palm upwards accepting the green as a consecrated offeratory. This is not a day for you to be working. You've seen a redemption, I know.

--How do you know?

--I know. I hope it lasts.

--Maybe. Maybe not. Long as it lasts long enough. Reformed sinner's like a reformed drunk: You always know there's some good trouble missing from your life.

--I hope you aren't in too much pain.

--There's always something a man can do, you know. That gives him dignity when nothing else will do. Like, he's got to find it somewhere. I may not make it past the next package store to buy a bottle with this, but I sure hope I do. I'm needed, Sam. No feeling in this world like the feeling you are needed and needed badly. I'm needed by my family. I need me for myself, too. My boy needs me. He closed his hand on the money, the floe in his eyes balancing precariously on the lids, as they grew larger, then rolled free of their own weight, streaking a glistening tracks down the black man's cheeks. I gotta make my own contribution to the boy, Sam. Police found cause to put eleven bullet holes in him last night. I want to be around his wife and baby. Sam? What the Christ is this all about? He was just fifteen. My God! Fifteen! He didn't yet know how to get his feet out of the way when he pissed.

Sam followed him to the door, and bolted it after he'd passed through. There was an insanity in the world that should never be faced by sane people, he thought, but if it wasn't so, then whose world would it become? Too much. So, he focused his attention on the bathroom.

The transformation was a stunner. He had first attacked the room with boiling hot water and detergent: the walls, ceiling, floor, door; then the toilet, sink and medicine cabinet. When all the porcelain and metal gleamed he started painting. Now the room was a pale, robin's egg blue. He made a paper pattern of the floor, and used it to cut the carpet remnant, then set it in place. Finally, he covered the new bulb with a many-colored shade. The shopping trip to buy what he needed took less than two hours, using everything he bought took the rest of the day. Now, standing before the open door ready to leave for work at the restaurant, he nodded in understanding and appreciation: the room had become his therapy; the room had become his salvation; the room had become him.

He stared at his reflection in the glass of the door reading clearly through the dust into his distant eyes: With the grief in my heart, how dim and grayly falls the pain, the colossal, burdensome agony of discompassionate wretchedness.

A DYSTHYMIC ROSE entered the door of her home at precisely the same moment Sam was locking the shop's door on his way to cook. Rose found Gina alone in the kitchen doing the supper dishes dressed in a light wrapper, slippers, her hair caught up, misarranged atop her head. Rose couldn't help thinking she looked as cute as a television star which immediately won her sympathy; and, then noticed she wasn't wearing anything underneath which only emphasized the lines of her healthy bust--so much for sympathy. Gina had rinsed the last of the pots, shook her hands, and grabbed the towel to start drying, grinning broadly at Rose.

--Hi! Aunt! She tossed her head toward the television room to indicate that was where she could find her parents. Rose nodded. I told them not to wait for you for supper because you were going out with Vito.

--You did good.

--But it looks like you didn't do so well.

--Gina, I know about life being a mystery; but there's no mystery about life being a bitch. Is there no hope the struggle will get easier? At least?

--Get rid of your things. I'll have tea for us by the time you come back.

They had tea last night, too, right after Rose saw Sam at the deli. How she welcomed Gina's offer to sit by the dim table light to share a consolatory companionship. It seemed they let the tea steep an inordinately long time with not a word between them. They both glanced up at each other, locking eyes.

--I was wondering what you were thinking about...

--And I you...

--You first.

--A rerun. The same theme. I was thinking about my English teacher. His name is Mr. Mamakos. He comes to class every day dressed like he's going to be the President of the United States. I can see he's very fussy about his clothes from the way he dresses. Sometimes sports clothes, sometimes suits, but every crease sharp, every inch pressed like it just came off a hanger. The knot in his tie just so, the tie holder a clip, antique, he said, jade, when someone asked. His shoes polished so shiny just as you'd expect. He wears his hair styled, a little bit long; just a faint smell of after shave, his nails manicured and polished. He must be about thirty years old. Always proper, a sense of humor which comes out now and then; and a little bit...uppity...aloof? You know what I mean? But now, the strangest thing. You'd never guess from all that what I discovered. He never wears matching socks! Honest to God! Isn't that odd? Since I found out, I haven't heard a thing in his class because I'm constantly daydreaming about him`! I make out like the socks are a sexual sign, some particular thing he's inclined--maybe compelled--to do. I always go up to his desk to get the assignment, really just to get close to him, to make him lean over me, to touch me in some way. And when I think of him, I don't think of him as handsome or not--just that he's a man. Aunt Rose, I really can't tell you how I feel being kept away from my own life, of the things I got used to. Do you know why I do what I'm told, and watch everything I do very carefully? I do it because I think: What if I do something I'm not supposed to and they put me in jail? At least here, I have hope that soon I can be free to have those things that make me happy with my life. Does that sound dumb? I mean, I'm not as smart as some people, but I know what I like, and what I want. If I were in jail, no matter how short or how long, I would die not being able to get close to a man. How do they do it? The women in Jail? And, to be real honest, it's not just...you know...doing that; making love. I don't want to sound like…a cheap thing; a slut; a nympho, you know, someone who does it because they love it no matter who they're with. It's just that there's something that happens to me when a man is near, that doesn't happen any other time in any other way with anything or anyone else. Like walking down a corridor, or going into a room, I can tell when there's a man around. But, especially, when he's there just for me, you know, and I get his smell deep in my lungs; or he holds my hand, or touches me, there's this pumping in my throat, and I breathe differently. If it's more than that, say, he kisses me; this thrilling sensation shoots right through my whole body. I react to it completely because I completely love it: the feeling, the marvelous enjoyment of pure pleasure. The shaking has never left me. Does anyone ever forget the first time they make love? I never will. But I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted me, and I could tell by the urgings in my body that I was going to let him because I wanted him to...I wanted somebody to. From the moment I realized that, I started this...shaking, I guess. Like, when you wake up cold, and the shivers run through you tightening all your muscles. There's this sex thing exploding in your sex thing. Well, I know now it was just plain nervous excitement, the anticipation of satisfying something so deep it would take more than the Pope, all the chiefs of police or the United Nations to keep me from it. It was never a question of morals. I wouldn't steal a dime from anyone, but I didn't feel I was breaking the law, or doing something wrong because I was having sex and wasn't married, doing something as natural as a squirrel climbing a tree. I couldn't have held myself back if I wanted to. I thought: what if I got in an accident and was paralyzed--heck, if I died it wouldn't make any difference!--I wouldn't know what I was missing--but not being able to feel anything, and wondering what making love was like would drive me bananas. But, anyway, this man--who just happened to be a medical doctor--knew what making love was all about. He was very patient with me, teased me a lot--a whole lot. He sort of burrowed my lips apart so I'd kiss with my mouth wide open, God! What a feeling! With all the shivering and shaking I didn't really feel him fondle my boobs, but I knew they were as hard as potatoes; but, then, when he touched me there...you know, the spot, the button, it was like he made a connection with a surge of electricity. My body reacted so completely. I never felt so...totally involved with anything in my whole life. Then, when he...came into me, slowly, gently, I reacted so violently because the ecstasy was so unbearable. I don't know how many times, I didn't think to count, but I came again and again and again. I could've died. We were in his room at the hospital, and we made love for ten-twelve hours straight. I'll never forget it. I look at a man now, and get that look--that look!--and I start shivering immediately. I never saw the doctor again, but I'll never forget the taste of him. Bet we could've set a world record that day except I happened to mention I wasn't quite fifteen years old. Boy! Did he get me out of there fast. As soon as I'm eighteen, I'm going to look him up. But, right now, it's this English teacher, Mr. Mamakos, the last couple weeks we got a thing going, not anything...like that. Just in class. I can read the look in his eyes; and I know he sees the same thing in mine. Today...I was as close to him as you are to me and our eyes met. I knew he was getting an erection, I just knew it. He tried to look away from me, but he couldn't. I tried to imagine what it would be like with him. He told me he'd never experienced anything like that before in his whole world. He never thought it was possible. I told him I'd go with him right then to wherever he wanted to take me. He said he couldn't do that. That the feeling would be our secret. He was my teacher, and he'd never violate that trust. So, maybe when I got out of high school. Well, that's okay for when I get out of school, but what about now? I thought of a movie of a similar situation where the girl became a little aggressive. So, I tried the same thing. I opened my mouth, and licked my top lip with my tongue as I reached down and slid my hand along his leg. True enough, he had an erection, just straining to burst out of his pants. It felt enormous! I rubbed it back and forth, I got so wet so fast in my pants, and I was ready for the experience--on top of the desk, on the floor, in the closet, wherever he decided. You know what he did? He yanked my hand away, and said if I did that again he'd take me to the principal's office! Movies suck, you know that? The he tried to be nice: he explained I was very attractive and desirable; but he couldn't take a chance fooling around with rape, or take advantage of his position. That's okay, I told him, having sex is no fun unless both parties enjoy it and have an orgasm, and how could he do that when he had no balls. ...Naturally, I was disappointed, frustrated. I could get any kid in high school if I wanted but they're all jerks. They fuck like diddering jackrabbits, can come five times in a row, like lighting a whole book of matches all at once to get a cigarette going--what a waste. They don't do a thing for me, not anywhere near the satisfaction I get from a mature lover. ...Oh! Well... My life is on hold. I could stick a knife in my neck. I asked Uncle and Aunt if I could get a part-time job after school to make a little spending money, not that they didn't get enough from my mother when she died to take care of me. I like to be independent. Course, I was also thinking I could use the time sometime to meet with a fellow, as a way to get out from under their thumbs. No dice. They wouldn't let me get past sentence one. Know what they hold over my head? That this is what my mother wanted for me, and I must carry out her wishes, promised on her death bed. I sort of think they know if I got cash, I got my freedom. My guess is my mother left some sort of a trust fund with the proceeds going to your folks for as long as I'm with them. Some banker Joe she was going to bed with set it up for her when she told him she thought she would be dead before I reached age. Anyway, I think once I leave your folks, all the trust comes to me. I don't how to find that out because if it's true I want to get my hands on it. You see, I asked your folks if I could go to college, and they said there was no money for that, and further, that in accordance with my mother's wishes, I'm supposed to live with them until I'm twenty-one years old. I don't believe that. I think they left out some details with the truth closer to the fact that if I were to remain with them until I was twenty-one
then
the money would come to me! But, if I were to leave earlier, or if I were to go to college--which makes me believe the trust holds more than just a few dollars--then in this case the trust would come to me sooner. Aunt, I want to go to school, CCNY or anyplace, because I know what I want to be. I love business and management. I want to be an accountant! Why should I waste four years! I wish you could help me. I need enough money first to get back home to see my mother's lawyer, whatever his name is; and learn exactly about the trust. Second, I gotta get some freedom. Isn't there something you can do?