“Well,
Alex
has got to get going.”
“My grandmother,” I say by way of an explanation. But then I yank myself free from Doug’s paws and add, “I don’t suppose any of you’ve seen an old woman with dyed black hair and a flower-print dress?”
“We could help you look,” Angela suggests.
I tell Doug that it wouldn’t hurt to give the place the once-over, and as soon as he agrees I suggest splitting up as a way of covering more ground. Then, in a desperate attempt to get rid of him, I say, “You’ll get around better on your own anyway.”
“Meet me by the car in an hour,” he tells me, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He holds up his cell phone and says, “Call if you find her.”
When Doug is just a head bobbing above the crowd, he turns and calls to me, but he’s too far away, so I just wave and nod as though we’re cool.
“Okay,” says Angela, taking control of the situation. “I guess I should introduce you to everyone.”
First up is the tall, thin black girl who looks like Beyoncé without the bling, big hair, and the heavy lighting. Her skin is flawless, and her eyes are so big and keen they seem to be taking in the whole world at once and then shooting it back at you twice the size. Whenever she smiles (which is often), she makes it seem as though she really has something to smile about.
“I’m Desirée,” she says, giving her left hip a quick twist and her right shoulder a sudden thrust, and then for her finale, she gives me a hard hug around my middle. It’s a move I never would’ve been able to manage without hurting myself, almost gymnastic.
“So is Desirée your real name?” I ask her as I gently pull away from her. “Your true name?”
“Of course it is,” she replies, blinking her big green eyes at me. “What else would it be?”
I turn to look at Angela, hoping that she might jump in and explain the thing about true names versus real names, but she just shrugs and directs her gaze toward the night sky as if she doesn’t have a clue what I’m thinking. She then turns her attention to Goth Boy. But Goth Boy isn’t that quick to pick up his cue. He just stands there in his floppy bell-bottoms, swimming in his oversize black T-shirt that spells out so NOT A BIG DEAL in large white letters. He looks at me from behind a tangle of dyed black hair that hangs down over a pair of oversize sunglasses with white frames. Even through the shades I can see he’s wearing eye makeup, but it reads more ghoulish than girlish.
“He won’t bite,” Angela says, though I can’t tell if she’s referring to me or to Goth Boy. In either case, both he and I give our chins a quick flick, and we do the “Hey, man” greeting.
“Crispy,” he mumbles into his chest.
I assume this is his name. But it has to be made up, because what parents in their right mind would give a kid a name like Crispy?
There’s a pause, and I can tell that it’s my turn to say my name. Maybe this is how it works; maybe this is a test, my initiation into the club. I’ve been assigned a name and now in order to belong all I have to do is say it, own it, believe it, be it.
“Hey,” I say, offering my hand to Crispy. “I’m Alex.”
The Apparition
As I watch Angela maneuver through the crowd, I can’t help noticing that she’s looking good in her tight green shorts. I feel the definite, deep-down stirrings of possibility, and I think,
Here’s a club I could join
.
Crispy catches me checking out Angela’s ass. He groans, gives his head a slow shake, and mutters, “No way, José.” He then looks away as though my actual story is lost somewhere in the stand of distant scrub pines. Is it my fault that I can suddenly imagine a bright and shiny life in which Angela and I have hooked up and we are living some modern version of happily ever after? Maybe I’m just telling myself a story, but I like the story and I want to believe in it—a car, the open highway, her and me: New York, here we
Alex
has got to get going.”
“My grandmother,” I say by way of an explanation. But then I yank myself free from Doug’s paws and add, “I don’t suppose any of you’ve seen an old woman with dyed black hair and a flower-print dress?”
“We could help you look,” Angela suggests.
I tell Doug that it wouldn’t hurt to give the place the once-over, and as soon as he agrees I suggest splitting up as a way of covering more ground. Then, in a desperate attempt to get rid of him, I say, “You’ll get around better on your own anyway.”
“Meet me by the car in an hour,” he tells me, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. He holds up his cell phone and says, “Call if you find her.”
When Doug is just a head bobbing above the crowd, he turns and calls to me, but he’s too far away, so I just wave and nod as though we’re cool.
“Okay,” says Angela, taking control of the situation. “I guess I should introduce you to everyone.”
First up is the tall, thin black girl who looks like Beyoncé without the bling, big hair, and the heavy lighting. Her skin is flawless, and her eyes are so big and keen they seem to be taking in the whole world at once and then shooting it back at you twice the size. Whenever she smiles (which is often), she makes it seem as though she really has something to smile about.
“I’m Desirée,” she says, giving her left hip a quick twist and her right shoulder a sudden thrust, and then for her finale, she gives me a hard hug around my middle. It’s a move I never would’ve been able to manage without hurting myself, almost gymnastic.
“So is Desirée your real name?” I ask her as I gently pull away from her. “Your true name?”
“Of course it is,” she replies, blinking her big green eyes at me. “What else would it be?”
I turn to look at Angela, hoping that she might jump in and explain the thing about true names versus real names, but she just shrugs and directs her gaze toward the night sky as if she doesn’t have a clue what I’m thinking. She then turns her attention to Goth Boy. But Goth Boy isn’t that quick to pick up his cue. He just stands there in his floppy bell-bottoms, swimming in his oversize black T-shirt that spells out so NOT A BIG DEAL in large white letters. He looks at me from behind a tangle of dyed black hair that hangs down over a pair of oversize sunglasses with white frames. Even through the shades I can see he’s wearing eye makeup, but it reads more ghoulish than girlish.
“He won’t bite,” Angela says, though I can’t tell if she’s referring to me or to Goth Boy. In either case, both he and I give our chins a quick flick, and we do the “Hey, man” greeting.
“Crispy,” he mumbles into his chest.
I assume this is his name. But it has to be made up, because what parents in their right mind would give a kid a name like Crispy?
There’s a pause, and I can tell that it’s my turn to say my name. Maybe this is how it works; maybe this is a test, my initiation into the club. I’ve been assigned a name and now in order to belong all I have to do is say it, own it, believe it, be it.
“Hey,” I say, offering my hand to Crispy. “I’m Alex.”
The Apparition
As I watch Angela maneuver through the crowd, I can’t help noticing that she’s looking good in her tight green shorts. I feel the definite, deep-down stirrings of possibility, and I think,
Here’s a club I could join
.
Crispy catches me checking out Angela’s ass. He groans, gives his head a slow shake, and mutters, “No way, José.” He then looks away as though my actual story is lost somewhere in the stand of distant scrub pines. Is it my fault that I can suddenly imagine a bright and shiny life in which Angela and I have hooked up and we are living some modern version of happily ever after? Maybe I’m just telling myself a story, but I like the story and I want to believe in it—a car, the open highway, her and me: New York, here we
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