A Matter of Love in da Bronx (22 page)

--Perhaps... Perhaps? What a way to leave it! She maneuvered the pillow into a tight-on ball in the crook of her arm pushing her cheek hard into it disregarding the Vitamin C lotion with which it was smeared. Gina, in
desperadum frustratum
,
stayed up to watch the unmerciful transudative effluvium from eye technologii to eye catatonii.
Solemnus solitudinus.
Mary fought to transport her mind back to the trainstation of her thoughts, encountering the intellectual dissonance she translated into silent stridulation because it came from the anxietude that screamed against her own holy spirit, a guilt-induced psychic flagellation she could neither will away or want for more. Not incapable of understanding the tumult with concerted effort, Mary rather endured the pain of it all than confront and challenge the nefandous causes. That is, when she could. The subject of death was awesome. If only she'd been exposed to some singular positive aspect early on. All she got now was its inky muculence surrounded by priestly incantations, smoking censer, and ghastly cadavers. First, there was one of her aunts. Go up and kneel and make the sign of the cross and say a prayer for the dearly departed and look at her ugly, bunion-swollen black shoes; the calloused hands manicured nightly by acres of scrubbed floors now bound tightly to rest by rosary beads; and the face! The jarring conversion from living flesh to a hagmasque frozen at the flowingpoint of wax accented with firebombs of rouge, and lip paint surrounded by pink crevasses atop ancient humanoid features and roughcombed hair. What peace did she find? At least auntie knew what admission ticket to where was bought for the price of her death. They all were reminded every Sunday: Heaven or Hell! Clasp those perishable hands and pray your eternal soul isn't sent to be eternally roasted to the eternal will and pleasure of the Foreveraround devil. She wondered if her parents would be allowed to come visit her there to hear her tormented cries and wailings for relief. What a crazy adult world! What was it all for? Uncle Sebastiani had an answer--as he did for everything--like all the fire and brimstone of Hell; it wouldn't do if it didn't make a dollar. He would say the Pope would die broke without the Prince of Darkness. Well, at least that was something positive. But that didn't help his wife who died in the Loony Palace because she couldn't stand the thought of death and dying, and thinking about it and being reminded about it every Sunday, and all the Novenas, and Holy ~Days, and praying for the eternal rest of all the dearly departed souls, and Fridays even though one didn't have to eat fish, and wondering why dear Christopher had to be desainted however they did that to leave him merely the patron of travelers, and a lot more besides. The thought of death just sucked the brains right out of her skull. Crazy to prefer the death of the living. But not her. Not Mary. Not when she found out what that kind of thinking could leave one to be. Besides, though not as ghastly, was another psychic aspect that was just as dominant, but subtler. Tracing its source was like following a distant wisp of smoke through a cloudy sky, although instinctively she surmised it came from a great distance anchored in The Order Of Things because she understood her personality and character could be stripped from her body there would still be that need. It came with the machinery. Like holes in a body. Like the senses. The need never sat easy. It nettled. Constantly. It was the reason she continued to see Vito Cidrugli, who happened to tug her attention that second. The immediate focus was on their date that night. He had enough smarts to know enough to ask her out for dinner to celebrate the award she would receive at school that night. Sure, Louisa already made a fuss about that. There would be no one else happy for her. Her parents would be thrilled first for any money that came along--and Mary had her own idea about that. So, it flattered her that Vito thought enough to make it a big thing. He would ask where she wanted to go, which was smart because she was accommodative enough to stick to medium priced places, though he would've been agreeable to any place she chose. Tonight, he was taking her. Someplace nice. A surprise. Good. She liked surprises. Nice ones. Which made her drop Vito, and pick up the shuttle toting Gilda. She loved, envied, hated, was indifferent to and worried about her, all at the same time. But not tonight. Tonight was face the consequences for her own actions. Whatever happened to Gilda would be of her own choosing, though not legally of age, she had the authority of her own convictions. Mary really didn't care what happened to Gilda: Whether she ended up free as the air, married to some Latin prince, or chained to a bed for coal miners to fuck. Payment in full was just getting out of that place; anything else good would be a bonus. Cardboard shadows of her parents tracked by which sent petite undulations of fear through her guts so she slammed the gate on them and Gilda, and at long last allowed herself to hop aboard the shiny train replete with thoughts of Sam Scopia. --Perhaps... Isn't that what she said about meeting each other again? He was so positive! So certain! An involuntary reflex action caught at her esophagus. So? She was excited at the prospect! She couldn't hide that fact from herself if she wanted to! But why? The air of mystery? The excitement of the unknown? The grandeur of acknowledging her
destiny
? It certainly didn't come with the promise of a handsome face, now, did it? That didn't matter as much as the appeal she felt that answered that untraceable pull deep within her. Once that sensation came to the surface, it brought with it the explanation as to why she agreed to see him that night which earlier plagued her as a bee frizzing her cranium. She met him because he asked her to. She met him because she wanted to. She met him because...because it was her destiny! Oh! Bullshit! Lord! Where did you ever learn to use such words? You're just a sewing machine operator, having dreams, putting on weight... Perhaps I should go on a diet? Sure! With all your suitors taking you out for all these fantastic dinners... And what if Dad finds out I was with Sam Scopia? So what? I'll never see him again. That's the end of it. I can't worry about that! Think about Gilda! No! The award tomorrow night. No. Think of the exultation on his face when I left Sam tonight. He didn't try to kiss me. Maybe I should've...you know...done something, like a quick kiss on the cheek--as a sister. Why would you have to do that? Wind up and plant one on him he'll never forget because he's never going to see me again. Is he?

In the same implacable manner the bartender placed the eighth glass of beer cockeyed on the coaster before him. Sam leaned his head close to his right shoulder and tilted his head far back as if he would fire torpedoes at the man through his nostrils. He grinned at him. He remembered once he had gone five beers, that on a sweltering day of work, acutely dehydrated, physically drained. He had more reason to indulge himself tonight. Good reason, indeed! However, Mr. Bartender, Pourous Parasite of Patron's Paranomia, I'll not satiate that washerwoman's mind of yours with the reasons for my smirk! Guess what you can what cases the rushing tremble in my breast like coal crashing down a chute. Fat chance!

--On the house, Sam, again. You know, Sam, I gotta say. All these years, you come in, have your couple-three beers, smoke your cigar, come in quiet, leave quiet, don't say two words to anybody. Always the same, no change, sit in the dark, watch everybody and everything. You know, at first, I used to think you was one of these writer guys, you know? Get your stuff right from the gazookis. Then, some time goes by, and I get a pretty good picture you're a working stiff. You don't mind I say, for a long time I think you're using a piano with no notes--know what I mean? Like slow? Then, the college kid comes in and is trying to write something for class on that guy--what's his name? The one about whether the guy should jump from the bridge into the water to save his drowning brother, or something, you know? and he asked you some dumb question, and you talked straight through three beers, musta been three-quarters an hour, so now I think you're some sort of aluminum siding professor from Vassar, or Sarah Lawrence, but things don't change for you; they stay the same, all these years, they stay the same until tonight. So, whatever you do is none of my business, but I gotta say after all these years, I'm glad you found a nice girl. He winked, pointed his index finger like a six-shooter and his thumb triggered off a shot right between Sam's eyes.

Sam pointed his finger at him, snapped his finger behind his thumb. --Satre. Jean. Paul. Existentialism? Who gives a shit tonight? Stuff is all right if you're tired of jerking off. He waited until the man turned back to his business, then in the shadowy grayness turned to stare at him in the backbar mirror, stretching far out of his seat to do it. He couldn't see much, but from what he saw of himself, he didn't see a thing that was different. What did the bartender see that told him? Hell. Had to learn something after all those years behind the bar, if only how to make lucky guesses. He didn't see a thing! Did he? I wonder if he can tell if I lost a nice girl tonight, too. You stupid jerk! Where the hell did you get all that stuff about destiny, and we'll meet again? I'll tell you why I ask. Because she sounded pretty determined not to see me again! And I couldn't push myself onto her, make it some heavy point that she see me again. She could've said "yes" and then never showed up--ever! This way, I've got her thinking about me! About destiny. Suppose, just suppose we run into each other, what do you think will go through her head? Destiny! There, you jerk! That's where it came from, and maybe I really believe it. Even if I didn't come up with destiny, should I see her again, she won't have any negative feelings toward me, that she deliberately lied to get me off her back which would make her feel bad; with the positive aspect that we start off on neutral ground, no anger either way, with the possibility we can hit it off. That we might never see each other again is the reason you're putting away all these beers! You know something? They go down like they were water. I should be feeling something; I'm just stone cold sober. I remember reading about certain emotional conditions that override the effects of alcohol, where the person is so hyped-up from some psychological trauma that his body burns off the booze as fast as he drinks it. What is it with you? Because it was your first date? Ever. In your life? No. Because it was her, because it was Mary. Because we go back a long way, because our families had something to do with each other. Because we belong together. Big deal! Tell her! Wish I could! Wish she was sitting right beside me now, instead of that frowzy blonde that started at one end of the bar and finally has made it all the way up here between me and that rough looking customer. You'd think he was a cop, or something; so hawky! Try to eavesdrop. What are they saying?

--Got a light?

--Bet I got a light. Got something else raging hot, too.

--Oh?

--You wanna fuck?

--Why do you think I'm in here?

Lady? You don't know how lucky you were! You were just about to approach me, and I would've put you off, too, like the others. Can't you see? When a man's in love, no other woman will do? But there is a shorthand in this world, isn't there? If it can apply to two people, it's just as good for two companies, two nations, two worlds? So? What's the shorthand to Paradise? Dumbass. He told you, Wanna Fuck? What if you said that to Mary? Would she understand? What would she do? Wonder what would happen if I went up to her father and said, Mr. Dolorosso, I'm Sam Scopia who loves your daughter, Mary, very much and we're going to get married and fart on your blessings? Jesus! You must be drunk. What's going to happen when Sol comes back? Wonder how he is, and what he's doing. Poor guy. Take all that on himself. Like he invented the fucked-up gene that gave the world that madman. Crazy, fucking, ego-maniacal sons-of-bitches. How do they know what's good for someone else when they don't know what's good for themselves? Everybody's an expert until they participate. When my folks learn I got paid for four weeks and spent it all! They'll scream and curse, but they won't kill their
facchino
as long as they think they can get a few more years wages from him. Yeah. But you've got a lot to learn. Remember the time you got a bonus from Sol, and you used most of it for yourself: a real good chef's knife, the Escoffier cook book; then you told them! You poor jerk of a love slob you had to tell them thinking they would adore you because telling the truth meant more than the money! To make up for it, who know? It may be the reason they're passing your birthdays by, so they won't have to get you a present. You're really part of a class family, there, Sam. Real Class. Grubby peasants in this world don't deserve more than shit from the higher ups. Just like the Communists, they treat everyone alike, no classes, just one big oozing mess of comparable shit. They lie through their fucking teeth. Not everyone drinks frozen Stollie. The bullshit bag 'o wind leaders sip champagne through buck teeth while the rest of Russia drinks Troika Piss. Just exactly who are the people who feel oppression is a better state of life than any other? Brainwashed. Well, whoever you are, you may vote yourself to hell--a place where only you goosestep a march on a very thin line with a very heavy rifle back and forth back and forth unceasingly while everyone else around you picnics, and drinks, and laughs, and loves! Human beings that are miserable to human beings are miserable human beings. Now, Mary? What are we going to do about you? You know I've been trying to avoid thinking about something I don't want to think about, don't want to perceive to be in this world. I did say it before, didn't I? You weren't listening. You were, but to the wrong voice--to these two horny bastards. You wanna finish your drink? she asks him; and, he says, sliding off the stool, I need to get rid of fluids better; and she tells him I got a place; and leads him down the length of the bar and out the door and he's walking two feet behind her yet everyone could see his hard on prodding her bouncing big ass all the way. Sam grinned. As if no one in the bar wasn't looking when she reached over and rubbed his cock stiff. Destiny. He picked up his beer, setting it back down squarely in the center of the coaster. There was a finesse only the true craftsman understood. Keeping the world square was part of it. Ingurgitating the beer was an anomaly. But it came up even faster, under the elevated structure shielding the short cut home, soon after he passed the couple humping, perhaps the same pair that was in the bar, standing up he was, his pants around his ankles, her back against the I-beam supporting girder, her ass anchored on a little ledge, her legs locked around his waist, lips sucking lips, arms one continuous band about each other, his bare bottom thrusting back and forth rhythmically, breaking the kiss long enough to admonish her to "...wrap some fucking meat around it..." In consideration of their stratospheric ascent, Sam moved a good distance away before he graecked out his whole and entire stomach: beer, pastrami, roast beef, hard pickle. And fear. It derived from the ethereal psycholuminescence that hung onto him into the nigritude, finally slipping about him, grabbing both ears and shaking his head back and forth, back and forth.