on the bed.”
He picks her up and carries her unsteadily out of the bath and into the bedroom. He drops her onto the white down comforter and they finish making love in a wild improvisational frenzy, with Dana flipping her husband over and riding astride him, arms out, eyes closed, hair whipping around like lashing rain and then finally pouring down the front of her face like a waterfall.
She sighs and shudders and rolls off him. Jake looks over at the mirror on the open closet door.
The image is not altogether familiar. In the past, he’s seen himself as a fighter, an outsider, the Jewish kid trying to get by in a tough Italian neighborhood, a lonely boy shooting baskets by himself, the object of his father’s rage and his mother’s comfort,the despised Legal Aid lawyer, the struggling Brooklyn son striving to make his way through the brutal city. But now the angle has changed and he sees himself slightly differently. For a fleeting moment, he sees a man who is happy.
6
John G. is standing outside the Bedford Avenue homeless shelter in Brooklyn, a huge medieval-looking fortress in a neighborhood full of churches and auto body shops.
A hard rain is starting to fall and a line of angry, confused men stretches out before him. But somehow his heart is full of hope. He checks the back pocket of his jeans and makes sure he still has the card Ms. Schiff gave him. He studies the curved zeros and soft twos in her writing, and wonders how long it’s been since he touched something made by a woman. He savors the moment when he stood next to her in the doorway. Tomorrow he will seize control of his destiny and reapply for his benefits. It’s time to live again.
The line moves and he nearly runs into the young man ahead of him, who wears a black sweatshirt with the hood up.
“Next time you say, ‘Excuse me,’ a-right?” The young guy barely bothers to turn around. The threat in his voice doesn’t need a look to back it up.
John glances down and sees the kid has a knife in his back pocket. Not a little Swiss Army number with a can opener, but a big hungry serrated blade with a wood-grain handle.
As the young guy walks through the metal detector, there’s a high-pitched beep. John takes a bite out of the bologna sandwich he got at the assessment center and braces himself for the inevitablehassle with the security guards. It’s a good thing he gave away that box cutter he was carrying.
But instead of stopping the kid, the guard, who looks about fourteen, laughs and waves him through.
“My man Larry Loud’s in the house,” he says, slapping hands with the young guy.
“G-Love, ‘sup?”
“Yo, yo, that shit was fly, man. That shit was phat. I’m goin’ have a talk with you. Five dollah you owe me.”
Larry Loud screws up the right side of his face, as if to say such matters are beneath him. John G. starts to walk through the metal detector.
“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t bring that in here,” the guard says.
“What?”
“That sandwich. You’re not allowed to bring food in.”
John G. looks startled. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Those is the rules. You don’t like them, get the hell on out.”
“I just saw you let in a guy with a knife,” John says.
He’s suddenly aware that people have stopped talking in the line behind him. Then he turns and sees Larry Loud with his hood still up, waiting for him on the other side of the metal detector.
“You a troublemaker, man?” says Larry, leaning against the metal detector’s wooden frame and ignoring the beeping it sets off.
“I just want to finish my sandwich,” John G. steps up to the threshold and faces him.
He knows he should be backing down. But something won’t let him. Maybe it’s Ms. Schiff’s card in his back pocket.
Larry Loud’s face goes slack and his hands drop to his sides. No knife. “You want a piece of me, white boy?”
White boy? John G.’s never thought of himself as particularly white. He’s been around black
He picks her up and carries her unsteadily out of the bath and into the bedroom. He drops her onto the white down comforter and they finish making love in a wild improvisational frenzy, with Dana flipping her husband over and riding astride him, arms out, eyes closed, hair whipping around like lashing rain and then finally pouring down the front of her face like a waterfall.
She sighs and shudders and rolls off him. Jake looks over at the mirror on the open closet door.
The image is not altogether familiar. In the past, he’s seen himself as a fighter, an outsider, the Jewish kid trying to get by in a tough Italian neighborhood, a lonely boy shooting baskets by himself, the object of his father’s rage and his mother’s comfort,the despised Legal Aid lawyer, the struggling Brooklyn son striving to make his way through the brutal city. But now the angle has changed and he sees himself slightly differently. For a fleeting moment, he sees a man who is happy.
6
John G. is standing outside the Bedford Avenue homeless shelter in Brooklyn, a huge medieval-looking fortress in a neighborhood full of churches and auto body shops.
A hard rain is starting to fall and a line of angry, confused men stretches out before him. But somehow his heart is full of hope. He checks the back pocket of his jeans and makes sure he still has the card Ms. Schiff gave him. He studies the curved zeros and soft twos in her writing, and wonders how long it’s been since he touched something made by a woman. He savors the moment when he stood next to her in the doorway. Tomorrow he will seize control of his destiny and reapply for his benefits. It’s time to live again.
The line moves and he nearly runs into the young man ahead of him, who wears a black sweatshirt with the hood up.
“Next time you say, ‘Excuse me,’ a-right?” The young guy barely bothers to turn around. The threat in his voice doesn’t need a look to back it up.
John glances down and sees the kid has a knife in his back pocket. Not a little Swiss Army number with a can opener, but a big hungry serrated blade with a wood-grain handle.
As the young guy walks through the metal detector, there’s a high-pitched beep. John takes a bite out of the bologna sandwich he got at the assessment center and braces himself for the inevitablehassle with the security guards. It’s a good thing he gave away that box cutter he was carrying.
But instead of stopping the kid, the guard, who looks about fourteen, laughs and waves him through.
“My man Larry Loud’s in the house,” he says, slapping hands with the young guy.
“G-Love, ‘sup?”
“Yo, yo, that shit was fly, man. That shit was phat. I’m goin’ have a talk with you. Five dollah you owe me.”
Larry Loud screws up the right side of his face, as if to say such matters are beneath him. John G. starts to walk through the metal detector.
“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t bring that in here,” the guard says.
“What?”
“That sandwich. You’re not allowed to bring food in.”
John G. looks startled. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Those is the rules. You don’t like them, get the hell on out.”
“I just saw you let in a guy with a knife,” John says.
He’s suddenly aware that people have stopped talking in the line behind him. Then he turns and sees Larry Loud with his hood still up, waiting for him on the other side of the metal detector.
“You a troublemaker, man?” says Larry, leaning against the metal detector’s wooden frame and ignoring the beeping it sets off.
“I just want to finish my sandwich,” John G. steps up to the threshold and faces him.
He knows he should be backing down. But something won’t let him. Maybe it’s Ms. Schiff’s card in his back pocket.
Larry Loud’s face goes slack and his hands drop to his sides. No knife. “You want a piece of me, white boy?”
White boy? John G.’s never thought of himself as particularly white. He’s been around black
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