Part 11 (1/2)
It grew quiet in the car, as if quiet could grow like a spreading plant. It got so quiet Stacy felt like they were in some other kind of machine seated far apart, a Ferris wheel perhaps, somehow equipped to travel on the road.
No one wanted to hear the radio-they agreed on that without even talking about it. Nor did they speak about possibly stopping for food. He felt sorry that she had to be straight now, but she was afraid to drive a long distance on any kind of drug, and she wouldn't let him drive, saying he was too beat up to do it.
After an hour or so, his thoughts about Dom faded a bit and he began thinking about Atlantic City and how he'd never gotten to go to the beach where he'd swum with his father, though that was the reason why he'd wanted to go there in the first place. It was funny, Atlantic City wasn't what you'd call one of the beautiful places in the country like the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls. It was probably beautiful once, of course, but that had all ended with the boardwalk and the casinos. It was as if that once beautiful Atlantic City had sunk and was now like Atlantis, the ”lost island” he'd read about as a kid.
Rina began crying, but softly, as if they were tears shed during a dream. ”I'm not going home with you,” she said. ”I'm going to drop you off and stay with my sister in Brooklyn.”
”Don't do that, please.”
”No, I am,” she said, with tears running down her cheeks now. ”You'll be all right ... I mean, you can't want to sleep next to me tonight, or ever, so what's the point of pretending?”
”What are you talking about?”
”I'm trash, Stacy, I must be. That's why trashy things keep happening to me, don't you get it? That's why you take drugs all the time, 'cause you're depressed about being with me.”
”Hey, stop it. Stop talking like that, okay? That's crazy talk. You think I blame you for what happened? If there's any blame, I blame myself for bringing you with me when I went to see Ike. You're innocent, Rina, totally innocent. I shouldn't have gone to see Ike. I really just wanted to see where my father took me swimming.”
”Why didn't you then?”
”I don't know. I should have. Look, pull over, get on the soft shoulder, will you?”
”Why?”
”Just do it, okay? I wanna feel some real air while I talk with you.”
”You're sure you're strong enough to get up?”
”Yeah, I'm sure,” he said, though when they got out of the car he felt light-headed and took one of her hands in his. ”I want us to forget about what happened. It was horrible but now it's over and none of it was your fault.”
”Are you high?”
”I'm not, no, no, I'm not,” he answered, still holding her hand.
She didn't say anything. He could hear the cars whizzing past them in the dark, their headlights flying by like little bonfires.
”Are you losing it? Are you all right?”
He had been shaking but he wasn't now. He decided he would never ask her about what happened with Dom. ”I'm not losing it,” he said. ”But if you talk about leaving me, I will lose it. So don't ever say it.”
She looked at him and nodded. ”Yah, okay, I'll try to believe you.”
”Good, that's good.” He looked down at the ground for a moment. When he glanced up he saw a single car pa.s.s by with only one headlight. It was as if the car were headed to h.e.l.l all by itself, he thought.
”Stacy, let's go back to your place. That's what I really want to do,” she said. ”I'm sorry I called it a tomb.”
”It is a tomb, no question about it, but it's our tomb, isn't it?”
”Our tomb,” she said with a little laugh. ”Yeah, I guess it kinda is.”
AUGUST: FEEDING FRENZY.
BY ALICIA OSTRIKER.
Jersey Sh.o.r.e Pink dawn, tide coming in: big fish driving mullets up into jetty rocks and onto sand, pulling back in the undertow, jaws agape for small fry they devour by the hundreds, water whorling, gulls circling and dipping- my two little granddaughters gleefully watching.
PART III.
COMMERCE & RETRIBUTION.
A BAG FOR NICHOLAS.
BY HIRSH SAWHNEY.
Jersey City Shezad Ansari-or Shez to his customers, fans, and friends-had once been a successful musician. He'd played keyboards in a psychedelic grunge band called Cold Warrior, which released a Billboard Hot 100 single in '98. The next few years were good to Shez. Sandra, a film editor, finally agreed to marry him. He went to parties with distinguished actors and directors. He acquired a taste for champagne, caviar, and cocaine. But those days were long behind him. He was now thirty-eight and living, once again, in Jersey City.
He lived alone in the one-bedroom Newport condo his father had bought in 2001 and bequeathed him just two years later. Shez had two sources of income: royalty checks from Cold Warrior's first alb.u.m, which covered his property taxes and utilities, and cash profits from the three-and-a-half- and seven-gram baggies of marijuana he sold to the local bourgeoisie. This side business took care of his grocery bills and bar tab.
An unexpected phone call from his ex-wife Sandra made Shez decide it was time to stop selling pot. She called him on a Monday in late February and said she had a real job for him, playing the Hammond B-3 organ on a soundtrack for an independent film. The film's director, who'd won a Sundance grant, owed her a favor. All Shez had to do was show up to a meeting in Brooklyn that Thursday, and the job was practically his. He told himself that Sandra's phone call was the start of a new leaf. He grew excited for his renaissance. Life as a normal, functional adult suddenly seemed possible.
Thursday came, and Shez hadn't sold a bag or restocked his supply of bud in three days. He woke up at noon and entered the bathroom. Mildew clouded the transparent shower curtain, and b.a.l.l.s of hair and dust littered the floor. Shez powered up his father's old transistor radio. WBGO was playing a Lou Donaldson song. He'd fallen in love with the track during his first and only year at Rutgers. He placed his hands on the sink, confronting his hangover in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were puffy from last night, and from countless other solitary nights. A tight ball blazed in his stomach. He was no longer inspired by the thought of a new beginning.
He tugged one of his thick black curls toward his cheek. His hair didn't need cutting, but his beard was another story. It was unruly, a black and gray bird's nest, and it made him smile with a mixture of disgust and pride. He looked psychotic, like the shoe bomber. He opened up the medicine cabinet and reached for his stainless steel hair clippers. His father's expired beta blockers rested beside them though the man had been dead for five years.
Shez was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g his beard when his phone began to vibrate. He pulled it out of his sweatpants pocket. He recognized the number but ignored the call. Then a text message arrived. Shez, it read, this is Nicholas. I need a favor.
Nicholas was a novelist who lived in Hamilton Park with his corporate-lawyer wife and toddler. Shez sold him a quarter-ounce every six weeks or so, and Nicholas sometimes invited him in for a gla.s.s of single malt and a conversation about jazz or the Grateful Dead. Shez didn't text back. He was done with that game.
The phone buzzed for a third time while Shez was using a razor to shape his mustache. ”Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He pressed a b.u.t.ton and brought the device to his ear. ”I'm sorry,” he said, ”but I can't help you out.”
”Shez, hey,” said Nicholas. ”How's it going, man?”
”Fine, but I'm in the middle of something.”
”I really need one of those hats, man. The situation is, like, desperate.”
Shez smiled. The covert words people used to talk about weed amused him. In fact, so many things about the trade were pleasing. It was more than just a way to earn his spending money. It was a pastime. It was a pursuit. It was the way in which he interacted with the world. ”No more hats,” he said. ”Not one left.”
”Really?” Nicholas sounded skeptical.