back in the beginning; his brain was loaded into the wrong skull; the proper Jakob body sits naked and inert in a corner somewhere or else dances at the command of a usurper mind.
He brims his Yankees cap low, reads the advertisements posted above the seats. One is a cartoon strip, an ongoing AIDS-awareness saga about a group of New Yorkers. This particular strip is in Spanish, which Jakob does not read, but he sees that the heroes are in a cemetery, apparently for the funeral of their friend Rafael. Silver tears drip from one woman’s eyes. Jakob notices that someone has drawn fat nipples onto her blouse, and he frowns at the impropriety.
The train stops at Columbus Circle and Jakob remembers what he always remembers in this station, the time nine years ago when Monty, on a dare, leapt from the subway platform onto the tracks, skipped over the third rail, hoisted himself onto the opposite platform, kissed a pretty girl on the cheek, and returned, grinning – not at his own audacity, which he took for granted, but at the girl’s openmouthed shock. Jakob never understood where Montgomery came from, what produced such wildness, such an absolute disdain for the consequences.
Jakob wonders what a seventeen-year-old Monty would have made of Mary D’Annunzio. Not much, probably. The boys in her grade don’t seem to fancy her. She is flat-chested, rough-voiced, unwashed; she sits through class silent and scowling, unless she launches one of her diatribes, which are generally cranky and always unrelated to the topic at hand. Her friends are all seniors, ‘that androgynous crew of dope fiends,’ in LoBianco’s phrase, who seem to be forever clustered in the school’s cafeteria, drinking coffee, their rumpled black clothes foul with cigarette smoke, their hands marked with blurred door stamps from last night’s round of clubbing. Jakob doesn’t know whether any of these young hipsters are coupled off. He suspects that one lean David Bowie look-alike might be intimate with Mary; they’re often engaged in head-to-head low-voiced debates that leave Jakob sick with loneliness. Jakob saw this entire gang one time in the Sheep Meadow, sprawled in a circle around an older Rastafarian who played Scratch Perry songs on an acoustic guitar. Nobody noticed Jakob and he hurried past, not studying Mary’s bare belly, hardly aware of her fingertip tracing the rim of her navel.
I don’t want to be a teacher, thinks Jakob glumly, watching the passengers shove their way out of the subway car. I want to be an old Rastafarian. Jesus, Fourteenth Street! He slips through the doors a moment before they close and follows the herd through the turnstiles and up the stairs.
Outside the air has grown markedly colder in the fifteen minutes since he ventured belowground; the chill helps him regain sobriety. By the time he gets to Slattery’s building the first snow has begun to fall, heavy flakes tumbling slowly by streetlight and melting on the sidewalk. It will never stick, thinks Jakob, disappointed as a schoolboy.
He announces himself to a doorman sitting behind a marble-topped desk, a thin-lipped, red-haired kid, face awash in freckles, who wears an oversized epauletted uniform. The doorman picks up the intercom phone and buzzes Slattery’s apartment.
‘Jakob’s here,’ he says; then, ‘I don’t know, let me ask.’ He looks up at Jakob. ‘Jakob who?’
‘Ha-ha. Tell him ha-ha.’
The doorman grins and speaks into the phone. ‘You hear that? Okay, you got it.’ He hangs up and points at the elevator. ‘Fifth floor.’
‘I know.’
An old lady, bent and wretched, stands in a corner of the mirrored lobby, staring down at a potted Chinese rubber plant. A nurse waits by her side. Jakob walks quickly to the elevator and pushes the button.
‘Come on, Charlotte,’ says the nurse, in a singsong Caribbean accent. She catches Jakob stealing a backward glance and winks at him. ‘Come on, girl.’
‘I have to sit down,’ wails
He brims his Yankees cap low, reads the advertisements posted above the seats. One is a cartoon strip, an ongoing AIDS-awareness saga about a group of New Yorkers. This particular strip is in Spanish, which Jakob does not read, but he sees that the heroes are in a cemetery, apparently for the funeral of their friend Rafael. Silver tears drip from one woman’s eyes. Jakob notices that someone has drawn fat nipples onto her blouse, and he frowns at the impropriety.
The train stops at Columbus Circle and Jakob remembers what he always remembers in this station, the time nine years ago when Monty, on a dare, leapt from the subway platform onto the tracks, skipped over the third rail, hoisted himself onto the opposite platform, kissed a pretty girl on the cheek, and returned, grinning – not at his own audacity, which he took for granted, but at the girl’s openmouthed shock. Jakob never understood where Montgomery came from, what produced such wildness, such an absolute disdain for the consequences.
Jakob wonders what a seventeen-year-old Monty would have made of Mary D’Annunzio. Not much, probably. The boys in her grade don’t seem to fancy her. She is flat-chested, rough-voiced, unwashed; she sits through class silent and scowling, unless she launches one of her diatribes, which are generally cranky and always unrelated to the topic at hand. Her friends are all seniors, ‘that androgynous crew of dope fiends,’ in LoBianco’s phrase, who seem to be forever clustered in the school’s cafeteria, drinking coffee, their rumpled black clothes foul with cigarette smoke, their hands marked with blurred door stamps from last night’s round of clubbing. Jakob doesn’t know whether any of these young hipsters are coupled off. He suspects that one lean David Bowie look-alike might be intimate with Mary; they’re often engaged in head-to-head low-voiced debates that leave Jakob sick with loneliness. Jakob saw this entire gang one time in the Sheep Meadow, sprawled in a circle around an older Rastafarian who played Scratch Perry songs on an acoustic guitar. Nobody noticed Jakob and he hurried past, not studying Mary’s bare belly, hardly aware of her fingertip tracing the rim of her navel.
I don’t want to be a teacher, thinks Jakob glumly, watching the passengers shove their way out of the subway car. I want to be an old Rastafarian. Jesus, Fourteenth Street! He slips through the doors a moment before they close and follows the herd through the turnstiles and up the stairs.
Outside the air has grown markedly colder in the fifteen minutes since he ventured belowground; the chill helps him regain sobriety. By the time he gets to Slattery’s building the first snow has begun to fall, heavy flakes tumbling slowly by streetlight and melting on the sidewalk. It will never stick, thinks Jakob, disappointed as a schoolboy.
He announces himself to a doorman sitting behind a marble-topped desk, a thin-lipped, red-haired kid, face awash in freckles, who wears an oversized epauletted uniform. The doorman picks up the intercom phone and buzzes Slattery’s apartment.
‘Jakob’s here,’ he says; then, ‘I don’t know, let me ask.’ He looks up at Jakob. ‘Jakob who?’
‘Ha-ha. Tell him ha-ha.’
The doorman grins and speaks into the phone. ‘You hear that? Okay, you got it.’ He hangs up and points at the elevator. ‘Fifth floor.’
‘I know.’
An old lady, bent and wretched, stands in a corner of the mirrored lobby, staring down at a potted Chinese rubber plant. A nurse waits by her side. Jakob walks quickly to the elevator and pushes the button.
‘Come on, Charlotte,’ says the nurse, in a singsong Caribbean accent. She catches Jakob stealing a backward glance and winks at him. ‘Come on, girl.’
‘I have to sit down,’ wails
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