Sleepers (18 page)

Students would be killed on the campus of Kent State University in Ohio. Martin Luther King, Jr., and Senator Robert F. Kennedy would be shot dead. Governor George Wallace would take one in the spine.

Whole sections of American cities were about to burn to the ground.

The summer of love was set to bloom.

Drugs would go beyond the junkie.

The country was on a fast-ticking timer, ready to explode.

For me and for my friends, these developments carried
no weight. They might as well have occurred in another country, in another century. The mating call of a new generation, one whose foundation was to be built on peace, love, and harmony, simply floated past us.

Our attention was elsewhere.

The week the students at Kent State were shot down, Tommy’s father was stabbed in the chest in Attica prison and was put on a respirator for three months.

Michael’s mother died of cancer during that summer and Carol Martinez had an uncle who was shot dead in front of an 11th Avenue bar.

While thousands of angry war protesters filtered into Washington, D.C., we sat with Father Bobby in a third-floor hospital ward, praying for John to recover from a punctured lung, a gift from one of his mother’s over-zealous boyfriends. The man had had too much to drink and John said more than he should have about it and was given a severe beating as a result. He also suffered an asthma attack and was lucky to escape the night with his life.

One of the earliest lessons learned in Hell’s Kitchen was that death was the only thing in life that came easy.

W
E WERE DOWN
7-5 in the last inning of a late winter afternoon game of sewer-to-sewer stickball against Hector Garcia and three of his friends.

Tommy was at the plate, shaved-down broom handle in his hands, facing a thin, scar-faced Puerto Rican with a nasty spin to his spauldeen. We were in the middle of 50th Street, looking down at the piers, foul lines shaped by a yellow U-Haul on our left and a rummy sorting through a stolen A&P cart on our right.

I stood a few feet behind Tommy, legs straddling a sewer, eating a Ring-Ding and backing up the Puerto Rican’s pitches. Michael and John were sitting on the hood of Fat Mancho’s black Chevrolet, waiting their turn at bat.

“We need a hit,” I told Tommy.

“Thank you, Casey Stengel,” Tommy said, spitting across the sewer.

“Look at how that ball of his curves,” John said, watching a pitch fly past Tommy for a swinging strike. “He’s great.”

“Maybe we just suck,” Michael observed.

“He ain’t
that
good,” I said loud enough for the pitcher to hear. “We’re makin’ him look like Sandy Koufax.”

“You asswipes make
everybody
look like Sandy Koufax,” the Puerto Rican said with a big smile, holding the ball, wiping his face with his upper arm.

“Another fan,” John said, winking at the pitcher. “We got ’em everywhere.”

Tommy swung at the third pitch and lofted a high fly straight down the middle of the street. Hector, playing so deep he had to dodge street traffic, took two steps back and made a basket catch. Tommy tossed the broom handle back to me and walked over to Fat Mancho’s car, head down, arms across his chest.

“Couple inches more and that ball woulda been there,” Tommy said.

“Couple inches more and Hector woulda been laid out by a van,” Michael said.

“You shitheads wanna quit now, you can,” the pitcher said, smile still on his face.

“How do you say ‘blow me’ in Spanish?” John asked him.

“C’mon, Shakes,” Michael said as I stepped in to take my swings. “Shove it down his throat.”

“Swing that stick, loser,” the pitcher said to me. “I can use the breeze.”

“Chew my big one, you skinny prick,” Fat Mancho shouted, his back against his storefront window, holding a sixteen-ounce can of Rheingold wrapped in a paper bag. “No way a little woman like you beats my boys.”

“You the cheerleader?” the pitcher said. “Ain’t you got no pom-poms?”

“You gonna be pullin’ ’em outta your ass,” Fat Mancho said. “Unless you throw that fuckin’ ball.”

I swung and missed the first pitch, the ball bouncing to the right, down and away.

“Wait him out, Shakes,” Michael said. “You can hit him. Just wait him out.”

I looked at the next two pitches, broom handle never off my shoulder.

“You gonna swing at anything, chump?” the pitcher asked. “Or you just like to watch me throw the ball?”

“Take it slow, Shakes,” Michael said. “Swing at what you want.”

I let another pitch go by, rested the broomstick against my legs, and wiped both hands on the front of my jeans. A circle of old men stood in front of Fat Mancho’s store, a case of beer by their feet, lit cigarettes on their lips, jackets zipped against the wind.

“Next one’s the one, Shakes,” Michael said.

“How do you know?” I said.

“He’s not gonna waste more throws,” Michael said. “Look how pissed he’s gettin’. He’s gonna put down a fat one, let you hit it. Figures somebody’ll catch the ball.”

“He might be right,” I said.

But he wasn’t. I hit the ball hard, a line drive that went out over the head of the pitcher and was scooped up on two bounces by a teenager with a shaved head.

“Easy double, penis breath,” John screamed out, clapping his hands and kicking his feet against the sides of Fat Mancho’s car.

“Kick that car again, you little fuck,” Fat Mancho said to him, “I’ll pull your legs off with my teeth.”

“Pull this off with your teeth,” John said to him, holding his crotch.

“Ain’t big enough to shadow a fly,” Fat Mancho said, taking a long drink from his can of beer.

John scooped up the broom handle and stepped in, ready to hit. He planted his feet and squared his shoulders, the broom handle held just above his right ear. The first pitch came in low, to the far side of the sewer cover, fast and hard. John swung and connected, the ball bouncing past the pitcher for a single.

“They gonna take you down, you no-talent fuck,” Fat Mancho screamed at the pitcher.

“Just playin’ with ’em, Fat Man,” the pitcher said. “That’s all.”

“Lick me,” Fat Mancho said, popping the lid off a fresh can of beer.

“He’s all yours,” I said to Michael, handing him the taped end of the broom handle. “Time to make Fat Mancho proud.”

The best way to win at sewer-to-sewer stickball was to hit the ball hard and far. There were no walks and a batter was allowed three swinging strikes. We didn’t run any bases, since the street was already crowded enough. So the length the ball traveled determined the type of hit. Anything past one sewer was a single, two sewers counted as a double, past the U-Haul was a triple, and a home run landed somewhere on the 12th Avenue side of traffic. Michael was the only kid on our team to ever hit home runs.

Michael banged the broomstick against the sewer cover and took three hard practice swings. He bent his knees and brought the broom handle to eye level, staring over at the pitcher, the smile now gone from his face.

“You the one I want,” the pitcher said to Michael, rolling the spauldeen against his thigh.

“Good thing, ’cause I’m the one you got,” Michael said back to him.

“C’mon, Davey,” a young woman in a wheelchair shouted out at the pitcher. “Strike this chump out. He’s got nothin’.”

Michael turned to his left and stared at the woman,
her dark hair turned back in a bun, her face tanned and unlined, her arms limp by her sides. A short, overweight old lady stood behind her, elbows resting on wheelchair handles, unfiltered cigarette in her mouth. The young woman was chewing gum, both her legs cut off at the knees, dead flesh half-hidden by a pair of A&S shorts.

“Who is that?” Michael asked.

“His sister,” I said, nodding my head toward the Puerto Rican pitcher. “The old lady’s the mother.”

“Let’s go, Mikey,” John shouted. “Pound this dufe right on his ass.”

“What happened to her?” Michael asked.

“Not sure,” I said. “Some kinda cancer. Got her in the legs.”

“Strike these scumbags out,” the young woman shouted. “They can’t touch you, Davey. They can’t touch you.”

“Swallow your tongue, crip,” Fat Mancho said to her from across the street.

Michael stepped in, his legs level, his eyes cornered on the young woman in the wheelchair, waiting for the first pitch. He took a bad swing at a good ball.

“Easy, Mike,” I cautioned, standing behind him. I’d never seen an expression like that on his face before. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

“She’s really good-looking,” Michael said, backing away from the sewer.

“What the fuck you lookin’ at, little dick?” the woman in the wheelchair screamed at Michael.

“And she’s nothin’ but charm,” I said.

Michael swung at the second pitch too early, the broom handle touching his shoulder by the time the ball was in my hands.

“Look alive, Mikey,” John shouted. “Hit your pitch.”

“You can take him,” Tommy screamed. “You can take him, Mikey.”

“Skinny Irish bastard,” Fat Mancho said. “What the fuck’s he doing?”

“Forget the girl, Mikey,” I pleaded. “Worry about her brother.”

But he couldn’t forget her.

Michael swung and missed at the third pitch.

He dropped the broom handle on top of the sewer and walked over to the back of Fat Mancho’s car, hands in his pockets, watching the woman in the wheelchair, his ears deaf to the groans of the people by his side.

The pitcher pumped his fist in the air, waved to his teammates, and blew kisses across the street to his sister.

“Told you he ain’t shit, baby,” the woman in the wheelchair said.

“You could’ve just helped her cross a street,” I said to Michael, watching Tommy taking his practice swings. “Maybe get her an ice cream. You didn’t have to blow the game.”

“It ain’t over,” Michael said. “Tommy can win it.”

“Tommy closes his eyes when he swings,” I said. “You’re the one who could’ve won it and you didn’t.”

“Tell me you wouldn’t of done the same?” Michael said.

“You think she gives a shit?” I asked.

“No,” Michael said. “I know she doesn’t.”

“So?”

“So nothin’,” Michael said.

“Now we’re the fuckin’ Salvation Army,” I said, turning away, Fat Mancho behind me, staring at us both.

“You ever wonder why there ain’t a Salvation
Navy?”
John asked.

I didn’t know why he’d done what he did. No, that’s not exactly right. I
knew
why he’d done it, I just didn’t
understand
why he’d done it.

“This fuck’s so stupid, he should be watered,” Fat Mancho said, watching Tommy at the plate.

Tommy swung at the first ball he saw, sending a one-bouncer right at the pitcher, who caught it with the palm of his hand. He then turned and tossed the ball over the roof of a warehouse.

“Game’s over, losers,” the pitcher said. “Cough up the cash. A buck each.”

“You beat them, baby,” the woman in the wheelchair said, pushing herself closer to her brother.

Michael collected the money, folded the singles, and handed them to the Puerto Rican pitcher.

“Nice game,” Michael said, staring at the pitcher’s sister in the wheelchair.

“Fuck me,” the pitcher said.

Five minutes later we were sitting in front of Fat Mancho’s store, drinking Pepsi from bottles, watching the pitcher wheel his sister down toward 11th Avenue.

“He ain’t better than you,” Fat Mancho said.

“He was today,” I said.

“You little punks let him be,” Fat Mancho said. “All ’cause Irish here got a thing for crips.”

“Stay away from this,” Michael said. “It doesn’t matter to you.”

“You boys are soft,” Fat Mancho said. “Like bread. It’s gonna catch up. And when it does, it’s gonna hurt. Bad.”

“Hold the talk, Fat Man,” John said. “What happens is our business.”

“You gotta
stay
tough to be tough,” Fat Mancho said. “Guys smell it when you’re weak. Eat you like a salad.”

“Bread and salad,” Tommy said. “Everything’s a meal with you.”

“I ain’t clownin’,” Fat Mancho said. “This is serious. You wanna be hard, you can’t play at it.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “It was just a stickball game.”

“Goin’ soft is a habit,” Fat Mancho said. “Hell to break. You gotta keep yourself mean. And cut your life around it. It’s the only way for little punks like you.”

“This is like hangin’ out with fuckin’ Confucius,” John said.

“Be funny, limp dick,” Fat Mancho said. “No skin sliced from my ass. This is just free advice, me to you. Take it or throw it.”

“Thanks a lot, Fat Man,” Michael said. “We’ll think about it.”

“You do that, Irish,” Fat Mancho said. “You fuckin’ do that.”

In truth, we were all a little surprised by Michael’s actions. It was not his way to show vulnerability, especially to someone he didn’t know. It was also not his style to purposely lose at anything for anyone’s sake. It is something John or Tommy would have done without hesitation and something I might have done if I had given it any thought. But for Michael to do it caused us all to pause. We always saw him as the strongest among us, the one least willing to budge.