killed.
THERE ARE SOME take-out menus in the night table. I call the twenty-four-hour deli down the street, a place called Pickles & Peas. I can remember stopping there with Yvonne on the nights we walked home across the bridge. We’d buy cans of beer and tuck them into brown paper bags so we could sip them as we went. I call and get a woman with a heavy Korean accent. She’s fine taking my order for a sandwich and bottles of water, but we run into problems when I ask if they have any first aid stuff. Finally I work out that they don’t have anything but Band- Aids. I ask if she has duct tape.
– Duck tape?
– Duct tape.
– No duck. Deli. No grocery.
– Duct. Tape. Silver tape. Sticky.
– Silver tape! Yes! Silver tape. Yes.
– One roll, please.
– Yes. Yes. Where?
– The hotel. Room 214.
– Yes, yes. Ten minute.
– Thanks. Wait!-Yes?
– Bleach? Do you have bleach? Clorox?
– Yes. Bleach, yes.
– Send a bottle of bleach.
– Yes. Yes. Ten minute.
I hang up. Exactly ten minutes pass before the desk clerk calls and tells me I have a delivery. I tell her to send it up.
The delivery guy smiles when I open the door. He hands me the receipt. I give him some money and tell him to keep the change. He smiles again and bobs his head. I take the bag, close and relock the door.
I turn the bag upside down and empty it on the bed. Everything tumbles out. I crack one of the bottles of water and drink. I tried the water from the taps before I called the deli; it tasted like rust. I drink half the bottle in one go, my ribs bursting with pain every time I swallow. I take the half-empty bottle and the bleach and go into the bathroom.
I pull up the plug in the sink and start to fill it, then turn on the shower. I take off all my clothes and toss my wife-beater, underwear and socks into the shower. When the sink is full, I turn it off and pour a cup of bleach into it. I climb into the hot shower and stand under the water. I unwrap a tiny bar of soap, bend over and pick up my underwear and start scrubbing at the urine stains from when Mickey’s mother had her gun stuck in my neck and I almost completely pissed myself. I give the wife-beater and the socks a good wash, too. Then I scrub the sweat and dirt and blood from my skin and hair.
The bruise on my ribs is huge. It’s darkest about eight inches under my armpit, and then spreads in various shades of purple, black, blue and red down my side and around to my sternum. I have to wash that side very carefully. Even the jets of water hurt.
I get out and dry myself, blotting the bruise softly. I wring out my whites and drop them in the sink with the water and bleach. My mouth tastes funky. I should have bought a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Oh well.
I go back into the room with the towel wrapped around my waist, get my sandwich and another bottle of water, and ease myself onto the bed, propped up at the headboard by the two flat pillows. I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. They put mayonnaise on it, even though I asked them not to. Shit, I hate mayonnaise. I take off the top piece of bread, scrape off as much mayo as I can, put the sandwich back together and eat.
There’s a remote chained to the nightstand. Students must be as bad as crackheads. I turn on the TV and start flipping. I flip and chew. There’s not much, just very-basic-cable stuff. I roll around the same dozen or so channels while I eat. When the sandwich is done I get up and go into the bathroom. I drain the sink, rinse the bleach from my things, and hang them on the shower rod. I look at my jacket and jeans. I take a damp cloth and rub at the worst of the stains, then give up. I go back into the room where I’ve left the TV tuned to the Madison Square Garden Network. I get back on the bed, pick up the remote, but before I can change the channel I see Miguel’s face. He’s on the TV.
I panic for a second. Then I realize that they are not breaking a story about the Mets’ top prospect and two bodies that are floating in the Hudson Bay. It’s just a rebroadcast of the day’s Cyclones game. I watch it. I watch how well Miguel plays. I watch the homer Jay told me about. I watch.
I watch a baseball game.
It’s not a great game. Hell, it’d barely be a good game if I didn’t know one of the players. But that doesn’t matter. I watch the game. Somewhere in the eighth inning I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. The chatter of the announcers, the hum of the crowd, the crack of the bat; all the sounds of who I once was, they lull me finally to sleep. And that’s really the best part.
I SIT ON the couch with the controller in my hands, trying to make the players on the screen do what I want them to. We’ve been playing for hours now.
– This is boring.
I hit a button and the pitch flies at The Kid’s hitter. He slams it, the ball shoots down the right field line and he clears the bases, scoring two more runs.
– Shit! That was foul.
The Kid laughs.
– Argue the call. Get kicked out of the game. I love that.
– This sucks.
– For you. I’m having a great time.
I look at the score, 63-1, top of the sixth.
We play. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. I look at the huge hole in the back of his head.
– When you gonna get that fixed?
He fouls off a pitch.
– Huh?
– When you gonna get that hole fixed?
– What are you talking about?
– Your hole, when are you gonna get that taken care of?
– You’re high. You can’t fix that. I’m stuck with it. Don’t be a dick.
– You’re the dick. This game. Let’s just declare mercy rule and go outside and play for real.
The Kid shakes his head and the strings of spaghetti in his hair waggle.
– No mercy.
– But I’m sick of playing. And these guys want to do something, too.
I point at Adam and Martin, sitting by the open window, both of them dripping water.
Adam shakes his head.
– I do not need to play. I will smoke.
He brings a cigarette to his mouth, takes a drag, and blows rings out of the hole in his throat.
The Kid points at him.
– Hey! Blow that outside. My folks will shit if they smell it.
Adam waves a hand at him and blows a stream of smoke out the window.
I slap the controller against my thigh.
– OK, but I want to go do something else and so does Martin.
– No he doesn’t.
– Yes he does.
The Kid looks at Martin.
– Marty, you want to go outside?
Martin slaps his sap into the palm of his hand.
– Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!-See. He’s fine.
