stepped outside and let him
close the door. She paused at a mirror and pulled down the top of her terry
cloth robe to see if her shoulders got tanned. There were faint white stripes
where the bikini straps had been. Inside, the sound of his piss hitting the
porcelain was like a xylophone solo echoing through the bathroom.
"So how'd things go with that
guy downtown today?" she asked.
"That's just what I was
talking about."
Jessica stepped back into the
bathroom. "What?"
He shook his head. "This kid
at probation. I go down there. And it's the bizarre universe, I swear. Twenty
years ago I would've had somebody like this guy getting me coffee. Now he's
telling me what to do. Like I said, society's coming apart. I gotta get an
angle on this guy, though. He's power-mad."
"What does Larry say?"
"Larry says I gotta deal with
the guy, otherwise we're gonna have problems." He finished buttoning his
shirt and his shoulders heaved in resignation. "Speaking of Larry, he
still didn't close that Long Island deal. I'm gonna be an
old man before I see any money off it. Jimmy Rose would've never let this thing
drag on so long."
"Is that what's been bothering
you?" she asked.
"What?"
"That Jimmy isn't around
anymore."
He looked hard in the medicine
cabinet mirror as though he thought he'd find the answer there. "I don't
know," he muttered. "There's just some days ..."
"Some days what?"
He turned sideways and looked at
his stomach in the mirror. "There's just some days I believe life is not
what it was." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"You worried about getting
old?"
There was a long silence. He
loosened the belt of her robe and reached inside. "You know
something," Richard Silver said. "If I wasn't making a lot of money
and getting laid regular, I sometimes think I'd be a miserable sonovabitch."
10
The sound comes from very far away,
moving slowly toward the edge of hearing. A deep, resonant voice describing
terrible, nightmarish things. A house on fire. Children with guns. Blacks and
whites at each other's throats.
Another cop shot, the radio
newscaster says. The mayor announcing a new budget problem. A water main
explosion on the East Side . A Brazilian tourist slashed
in a Times Square mugging. A real estate magnate's tax
evasion trial. A mother of two in the Bronx killed in
the cross fire between two drug dealers. Dow-Jones down seventy-five points. A
wealthy businessman calling for the death penalty and a tax break. A shooting spree
at a midtown disco. A famous fashion designer dead from AIDS. The Mets losing
to the Cubs, 5-4.
Another ninety-two-degree day in
the city.
Without even opening my eyes, I
reach back and slap off the clock radio. Then I just lie there for a few
seconds, the heat like a dog's breath coming down on my face.
Every morning you make a choice in
life. You can get up and face the world, like most people do. Or, if you're
really brave, you can roll over and go back to sleep. I turn on my side. Going
out into the world takes no guts really. Because you know no matter what you do
or how hard you try, the difference to everybody else is marginal. But to lie
in bed, doing nothing. That takes a real man. Like flying without a net.
Complete freedom from the dreary realm of responsibility. Or maybe you could
end up like my cousin Jerry who sits around the house all day, listening to
"I'm Henry VIII, I Am" over and over on the record player.
A long coughing fit forces my eyes
open. I look around the apartment and consider whether I could spend a whole
day here.
It's hard to believe the rent is going
up to $650 a month. What I have is one room, about twenty feet long and twenty
feet wide, with a small kitchen off to the side and a bathroom down the hall.
Pale blue walls, no air conditioner, and a single light bulb in the middle of
the ceiling. My one window looks out on Avenue B and Tompkins Square Park ;
in the evening I can hear the pit bulls fighting and the skinheads setting
close the door. She paused at a mirror and pulled down the top of her terry
cloth robe to see if her shoulders got tanned. There were faint white stripes
where the bikini straps had been. Inside, the sound of his piss hitting the
porcelain was like a xylophone solo echoing through the bathroom.
"So how'd things go with that
guy downtown today?" she asked.
"That's just what I was
talking about."
Jessica stepped back into the
bathroom. "What?"
He shook his head. "This kid
at probation. I go down there. And it's the bizarre universe, I swear. Twenty
years ago I would've had somebody like this guy getting me coffee. Now he's
telling me what to do. Like I said, society's coming apart. I gotta get an
angle on this guy, though. He's power-mad."
"What does Larry say?"
"Larry says I gotta deal with
the guy, otherwise we're gonna have problems." He finished buttoning his
shirt and his shoulders heaved in resignation. "Speaking of Larry, he
still didn't close that Long Island deal. I'm gonna be an
old man before I see any money off it. Jimmy Rose would've never let this thing
drag on so long."
"Is that what's been bothering
you?" she asked.
"What?"
"That Jimmy isn't around
anymore."
He looked hard in the medicine
cabinet mirror as though he thought he'd find the answer there. "I don't
know," he muttered. "There's just some days ..."
"Some days what?"
He turned sideways and looked at
his stomach in the mirror. "There's just some days I believe life is not
what it was." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"You worried about getting
old?"
There was a long silence. He
loosened the belt of her robe and reached inside. "You know
something," Richard Silver said. "If I wasn't making a lot of money
and getting laid regular, I sometimes think I'd be a miserable sonovabitch."
10
The sound comes from very far away,
moving slowly toward the edge of hearing. A deep, resonant voice describing
terrible, nightmarish things. A house on fire. Children with guns. Blacks and
whites at each other's throats.
Another cop shot, the radio
newscaster says. The mayor announcing a new budget problem. A water main
explosion on the East Side . A Brazilian tourist slashed
in a Times Square mugging. A real estate magnate's tax
evasion trial. A mother of two in the Bronx killed in
the cross fire between two drug dealers. Dow-Jones down seventy-five points. A
wealthy businessman calling for the death penalty and a tax break. A shooting spree
at a midtown disco. A famous fashion designer dead from AIDS. The Mets losing
to the Cubs, 5-4.
Another ninety-two-degree day in
the city.
Without even opening my eyes, I
reach back and slap off the clock radio. Then I just lie there for a few
seconds, the heat like a dog's breath coming down on my face.
Every morning you make a choice in
life. You can get up and face the world, like most people do. Or, if you're
really brave, you can roll over and go back to sleep. I turn on my side. Going
out into the world takes no guts really. Because you know no matter what you do
or how hard you try, the difference to everybody else is marginal. But to lie
in bed, doing nothing. That takes a real man. Like flying without a net.
Complete freedom from the dreary realm of responsibility. Or maybe you could
end up like my cousin Jerry who sits around the house all day, listening to
"I'm Henry VIII, I Am" over and over on the record player.
A long coughing fit forces my eyes
open. I look around the apartment and consider whether I could spend a whole
day here.
It's hard to believe the rent is going
up to $650 a month. What I have is one room, about twenty feet long and twenty
feet wide, with a small kitchen off to the side and a bathroom down the hall.
Pale blue walls, no air conditioner, and a single light bulb in the middle of
the ceiling. My one window looks out on Avenue B and Tompkins Square Park ;
in the evening I can hear the pit bulls fighting and the skinheads setting
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