The Financial Lives Of the Poets

my own faint reflection in it.

CHAPTER 25

The Last Time I Remember Crying, Haiku #4

I WAS AN ADULT

When my parents got divorced

Or so I was told

CHAPTER 26

On the Spiritual Crises of Confidential Informants

THERE IS, INDEED, A rager of a party going on in Larry’s fetid apartment and the first thing I see is the answer to why there were pizza crusts all over the furniture and floor the other day. The second someone finishes a slice they are obliged to yell, “Fuck you, Larry,” and throw the crust at him. It’s a tradition here in low-rent Neverland, where no one grows up and where no one ever has to eat his crusts. For his part, Larry ducks each crust, and says, “Fuck you!” back whenever someone actually hits him, never taking his eyes off the video game he’s playing, in which he negotiates dark hallways and shoots zombies on the big screen with another dude, both of them leaning in and working the controllers (Why does a guy making eight bucks an hour have a better TV than me?) and the whole apartment smells like a stale quiche of socks, garlic, sweat and weed-little huffs of smoky clouds surround clustered kids-all clad in tight black or in bright baggy sportswear; the bass whumps, crusts fly, beer bottles tink and I’m not in the door ten seconds when I’m passed a spliff, little wisp of forgiveness curling off the point, and I very nearly hit that shit-but no. Thank you. I hand the joint back.

I do take a warm beer (I am that kind of man) and it goes down easy. “Who’s got a piece? You got a piece?” asks a red-eyed kid I’ve never seen before, and at first I think he means a gun, “I need a piece. Anyone got a piece,” but then I remember that a piece is a pipe and I shake my head no and the kid moves on, working the room, “Who’s got a piece, I need a piece.” There are twenty people at this party-including six girls, and I’m happy for the fellas-six actual females at their party-happy for Larry, for the guy with the Festiva whose name I don’t know, for Chulo, whichever one he is…happy for the red-eyed piece guy who squeezes my shoulder and says: “Damn! Slippers, so you chillin’ or what?”

“Yes.” This is what I am doing-chilling.

No sign of Jamie, but I spot Skeet, same sweat suit as before, exiting a bedroom, arm on the waist of a dull- eyed girl in a leather coat-and I think, parentally: you can do better, Skeet-but he introduces me proudly. “Yo, Lana, this our friend, Matt, he like a doctor, some shit.”

“Hey,” Lana says, with a tilt of the head.

“Nice to meet you,” I say back, and I think of telling her that I’m not…like, a doctor or some shit, but what would be the point? Businessman, doctor, unemployed business reporter, failed poet, confidential informant? Really, what’s the difference?

“Wish I knew you was gonna be here, yo. I would’ve brought your loafers.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “Do you know where Jamie is? I’m supposed to meet him here.”

“Yeah boy, he hookin’ you up, or what?”

Hookin’ you up. It sounds worse than I imagined. I look at Lana.

She chews her huge wad of gum rhythmically, turning it every other chomp with her tongue.

Larry calls back over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the zombies, “Jamie went on a beer run, man! Just chill, Slippers, he be right back, yo.”

Yes. More chilling. I want to talk to Skeet alone, but I promised myself I’d wait until after Weedland. Whatever I do, it’s got to be after Weedland. My nine grand. I glance down at my black watch. They’re not necessarily parallel paths, of course-what is right and what is best.

A misfired crust hits me in the arm. I mutter, “Fuck you, Larry.”

Skeet leans in closer. “Lana’n me got some twenty-fives.” When he sees I don’t know what he’s talking about, Skeet’s eyes get big and round. “Some tabs? I could sell you one if you wanna trip, yo.”

“No thanks, Skeet. And you shouldn’t either.”

He laughs. “Right.” Silly Dr. Slippers. “So, you just chillin’, then?”

I nod. Yes. I am.

Then the door opens and I come off the wall, but it’s not Jamie. It’s two other guys, and at first I can’t place the lumpy kid in the baseball cap until I see he’s chattering on a cell phone and it’s actually his voice that is familiar, “Yeah, I’m here. Fuckin’ lame-ass party though.” and I remember-it’s Chet. Monte’s little brother.

A crust flies. “Fuck you, Larry!”

“Man, this party totally blows,” Chet says into his phone. “Ugly chicks. Lame-ass party.”

And I have to agree with Jamie’s earlier assessment; Chet is an asshole. The last party I came to here, there were no girls at all. We didn’t even get to come inside. You want to call that a lame-ass

party, fine. But this is Halloween at the Playboy Mansion compared to that.

A couple of minutes and two flying crusts later, the door opens again and this time it is Jamie. And he’s with Bea. And they’re each carrying two cases of beer. In her mouth, Bea has the largest collection of car keys and key rings I’ve ever seen not on a janitor. She opens her mouth and drops this four-pound key-contraption on a table.

“Beer’s here,” Bea says and then she sees me and smiles. “Hey, you.”

I come off my wall. I am strangely…so happy to see them both.

Bea takes off a heavy coat. She’s wearing a clingy, old vintage dress that comes to her impossibly high knees. The silky material brushes my arm as she leans in and nods toward the party. “You see any sensitive poet boys here?” Then she brushes my cheek with her lips-small swoon-and walks away, grabbing a slice of pizza and joining a cluster in mid-smoke.

I try to catch Jamie’s attention but he’s going from cluster to cluster collecting for beer. Then Jamie says, “The fuck’s he doin’ here?” and for a second I think he’s talking about me-

– until Chet closes his phone, steps into Jamie’s face and says, “You gonna tell me where I can and can’t go, bitch?”

“Go wherever you want long as I ain’t there.”

I tense for a fight, but Chet scoffs and walks away, trying to maintain some upper hand in full retreat. He joins Bea in her cluster of smokers, shooting me a dark look on his way past, and Bea breaks my heart a little by kissing Chet on the mouth.

Jamie sidles up to me then, leans against my wall. “Hate that guy,” he says.

Before I can start my nonviolence lecture, from the cluster

of smokers comes Chet’s amped-up voice-“’Cause I think that dude’s a fuckin’ cop, that’s why.”

And I think my heart might stop and I wonder if people can tell just by looking at me. I ease the hand with the dark watch behind my back. And when I look up-

– Jamie is in Chet’s face-and that’s when everything becomes-wrong. You forget the sound of a fist hitting a head-it’s not that deep satisfying thwump of a movie punch but a pitiful sound, a wincing red chuupp, and when someone really connects sharply-you can just hear the underneath knock of bone-and here’s the thing: it’s an awful sound. Jamie lands two quick deep shots to Chet’s soft face and then Chet hits him back and their feet chirp on the linoleum as the clusters of smokers merge like joining cells into a semicircle, and in the center these two young men flail, jab, whirl, and the circle yells and a pizza box flies and maybe three more punches land before I step