A man with wet gray hair was saying something to me in Spanish and then Toma started talking to me at the same time. The Spanish man was holding the keys to the van in his hand, waving them at me. Then he swung the van door shut and showed me the keys again. He was mad at me too. I reached for the keys but he snatched them away and yelled at me in Spanish. I couldn’t hear a thing. The storm, the horns, the shouts, they all melted together into a huge menacing roar. I was wet, I was disoriented, and my underwear showed between the flaps of my torn trousers.
So I ran.
I just ran away.
Up Eighth Avenue to 59th Street and into the park. Believe it or not, I still had the orange Nehi in my hand. Thunder shook the sky and I kept pumping my legs through Central Park. Over a little bridge, through a playground, onto one of the roads, and then down a little footpath. The path led to another little bridge but this one I passed underneath. Here I finally stopped. It was dry and I doubled over to try to slow my heart and catch my breath. I gagged on a big gulp of air and puked up a splash of orange soda.
My head hurt and I had a big lump at the top of my forehead at my hairline. It wasn’t bleeding.
I guess I was lucky.
thirty-two
Lou was alone in the apartment when I arrived. There was broken glass and torn-up pages of books spread all over the floor. A small lamp looked like it had been thrown against a wall. Lou was sitting on the floor, a round space around him, clear of all debris. He was writing something in a notebook.
“Just the man I wanted to see.” He seemed happy I was there but was studying me like his vision wasn’t working so well. “You’re wet.”
Wet? No. That was too puny a word for what I was. I was Noah on the night of the fortieth day. Saturated to the bones.
“I got caught in the rain.”
“Go in my room and get yourself some dry clothes. I need you to come with me to see my friend’s show downtown. Rachel went to visit her mother. A girl and her mother . . . you know . . . you can’t separate ’em. Can’t get in the middle of that triangle. Go ’head. Go look inside. Get out of those wet clothes, you’ll catch your death.”
The bedroom was a much bigger mess than the living room. There were clothes thrown everywhere and the bed was almost upside down, leaning against a wall. Most of the dresser drawers had been removed and dumped on the floor.
“Sorry ’bout the mess! It’s that time of the month for milady, if you know what I mean!” Lou shouted from the living room.
I found a black T-shirt and some black jeans among the wreckage. They were clean enough for me. The freshest socks I could find were a bright purple pair that were a day or two away from holes opening up at the heels. At least I was dry.
I peered at myself in the bedroom mirror and thought I was looking at Lou for a split second. In an instant I was me again. The me who had fucked things up royally and would have to answer for a shitload of mistakes. Like I said, at least I was dry.
I went back into the living room and Lou was holding a white Fender bass guitar. “This is for you. I suck at bass.”
I held it in my hands. It was big and heavy and the strings looked thick and dangerous. They made me think of the Gestapo piano-string torture/execution. A death-by-strangulation that starts with choking a victim to the edge of consciousness with the thinnest string. This is repeated string by string, eighty-eight in all, each one a little thicker than the last until the fat and final string puts an end to the poor soul’s suffering.
My new bass had only four strings—a quick and merciful alternative to the Nazi baby grand. I thanked Lou for my gift.
“Don’t mention it. You can leave it here for now. We gotta get downtown. Mustn’t be late for the the-a-ter.”
I kept waiting for him to ask about the money or the amp but he never did. Ever. Technically I still owe him five hundred bucks to this day. Maybe on some level he sensed what had happened to me and was sympathetic. I don’t know . . . probably not. What I did know was that the shit would be hitting the fan very soon in my world and until it did I was more than happy to accompany him wherever he was going. Tonight it was 4th Street and Seventh Avenue.
* * *
Everyone at the little theater in the Village knew Lou. He kissed and hugged the ticket taker, the ushers, the guy selling chocolate bars, and a few other assorted people who worked there. This was all before the show began and it was all done in a hurry because the curtain was about to go up.
Only there was no curtain—the players were already onstage as the audience filed in and found seats. The actors were a man and a woman and they were in bed together. When the lights dimmed and the carnival music stopped, the couple started having loud sex under the covers. It was very physical and very funny. Naked from the waist up, they tried out a bunch of complicated positions. They were pretending to be passionate and giving it their best effort but found none of the positions satisfying. The woman eventually gave up in frustration. The man asked her what was the matter and she pointed to a corner of the room and said: “Him. He’s the matter!”
A spotlight landed on a
