Staten Island Noir (20 page)

He still thought about other girls. Wanted to do with them what he did with Jenny. But that was normal. Everyone had thoughts like that.

When he'd started dating Jenny, he asked his dad what he thought of her. They had just picked up bagels at the Annadale Deli and they were back in the car, his father driving.

"She's nice, Mike, she's really nice. Cute girl."

That had made Michael happy, his father liking Jenny, approving of her. And then, a few minutes later, the car parked in their driveway, his dad had ruined it. He turned to Mikey.

"You're young, Mikey, you're very young. And just remember: even if you're banging Miss America, you still wanna bang the runner-up." He got out of the car quickly, embarrassed by what he'd said.

Mikey was furious. Just like his dad to taint something good. But that's what he thought of now, with Jenny's hand on his thigh and the question about their future hanging there, unanswered. He thought about his dad's stupid advice and the fact that he was gonna be in Syracuse and Jenny would be three hours away in Albany.

"Yeah, kinda."

"Well, what were you thinking?"

"I thought, like, that we'd stay together but also, you know, see other people. Still be together but be allowed to see other people."

Jenny didn't respond for a little while. Her fingers kept massaging his thigh.

"Why? What were you thinking?"

"I mean, I don't really want to see anyone else. I just want to be with you."

The warm feeling from Mikey's face crept down into his chest. He felt bad and he was pissed that he felt bad. He didn't want to talk about this now. He didn't want to explain. He was about to say something when Jenny continued.

"But I guess that makes sense. I guess."

That was enough for Mikey. He didn't think about it again, not on the ferry, not on the train, and not when they got back to Jenny's house and used the last of the condoms on the couch in her basement while her parents snored two floors up.

The week drew to a close. On the Sunday before he started working, Mikey went with Jenny to Amy's house. It was hot and muggy; Amy had a pool, a small above-ground number, but it did the trick. They took dips then dried themselves in the sun on the small wooden deck next to the pool. Jenny wore a one-piece blue swimsuit that accentuated her compact figure; she had small, pert breasts and a pleasantly thick rear. Amy wore a halter top green bikini, displaying a voluptuousness Mikey hadn't realized was there. His eyes kept wandering to Amy's hips, her bare stomach, her large breasts. He hoped Jenny didn't notice.

When Jenny went inside to call her parents, Amy turned her entire body to face Mikey. She brought one hand above her temple to shield her eyes from the sun. She'd gotten out of the pool just a few minutes earlier. Droplets of water trickled across the goose bump–covered flesh of her stomach.

"When do you head up to school, Mikey?"

"Week before Labor Day."

"Oh, that's late, right? Isn't Jenny leaving in the middle of August?"

Mikey nodded, a slow, uncertain movement. Amy wasn't going away to school. She was staying home, going to CSI.

"We should hang out. If you want to come over and jump in the pool or something. You know, after Jenny goes away."

Mikey couldn't see Amy's eyes under the cup of her hand. He nodded again, less uncertain. He raised his right knee and shifted his towel over his groin. With his left hand, he guided his developing erection flat against his thigh. He tried to keep his gaze on Amy's forehead.

He heard the porch door slide open, then the pad of Jenny's bare feet on the deck. She sat down on her lounger, her sunglasses perched on her head.

Amy completed her rotation onto her stomach, her face turned away from Mikey. "What did your parents say?"

Her voice was a lazy slur. "Nothing. Same old stuff."

Mikey stood up and slipped into the pool in one quick motion. He turned back to Jenny, pushing himself right up against the side of the pool to stifle his erection. He felt it bow against the wall of the pool and slowly recede.

"My father said good luck tomorrow. Ame, his uncle is picking him up at four thirty in the morning. Can you believe that?"

Mikey smiled. He'd managed to keep the job out his head most of the week, even though it popped in here and there.

"How bad can it be?" he said. Then he bent his knees and dropped his head below the water's surface.

The next morning, Mikey waited outside his parents' house in the predawn blue. Per Tommy's instructions, he wore jeans, boots, and a long-sleeve T-shirt. He stood there half-asleep until his uncle's battered gray van turned onto the block and cruised to a stop in front of him. They drove in silence to a deli near the expressway. Mikey ordered a ham and egg sandwich on a sesame bagel. His uncle paid the tab, handed Mikey a tall coffee as they walked back to the van.

"Thanks, Tommy, but I don't drink coffee."

The driver's door creaked open, slammed shut. Mikey could hear the words before his uncle opened his mouth.

"You will."

Tommy was so predictable.

The highway was empty. They flew across the island, the complaints of sports fanatics drifting out of the radio. The Yankees had blown two games in the ninth inning over the weekend. The callers were apoplectic; they wanted a new closer, a new manager, a new owner. Mikey took a few sips of coffee. It wasn't terrible but he'd rather have a Coke. Or a Snapple. Something cool.

As they ascended the upper level of the Verrazano, the sun crept into the sky. A soft yellow haze spilled out over the whole city. Mikey could see the rides out on Coney Island, the skyscrapers at the base of Manhattan, a pair of yellow ferries passing in the harbor.

Mikey let out a long, silent yawn that pushed his chin down to his chest.

"You should sleep now."

The van descended into Brooklyn and the highway thickened with cars, buses, and trucks. The callers had moved on from the Yankees; they were decrying the Knicks' latest draft pick.

Mikey closed his eyes and nodded off.

 

* * *

 

"What do you think, has the kid gotten a taste?"

"I don't know. Ask him. Kid, you gotten your first taste yet?"

"He hasn't gotten a taste. Look at him. He's all skin and bones."

"Kid, stick out your tongue. Let us see if you've gotten a taste."

"Nicky, take a look at the kid's tongue. Tell us what you think."

Big Nicky strode over to Mikey. He was huge, a colossus.

"Let me see your tongue, kid."

Mikey stuck his tongue out. He already knew that you didn't say no to Nicky, even for something this stupid. Nicky leaned down and inspected Mikey's tongue. He took his time, rotating his head so he could examine the sides. He stared down Mikey's throat. The other guys were laughing, enjoying the performance. Mikey felt ridiculous, standing there, tongue extended, but he couldn't show it. Nicky lifted his hands from his knees, delivered the verdict.

"This kid has definitely gotten a taste."

The others broke into hysterics. A few even cheered. Nicky thudded a hand on Mikey's shoulder, lowered his voice.

"Kid, young pussy is the best fucking thing in the world. Enjoy it while you can."

His uncle piped up, ending the party: "All right, all right, you've had your fun. Enough fucking around. Back to work."

The guys shuffled off, their bodies tilted one way or the other by the pails of concrete they carried. Nicky reached down and lifted two of them with ease, one in each hand, like they were cans of soup. He walked down the ramp and winked at Mikey as he passed. Mikey retrieved another bag of dry cement and carried it over to the mixer.

His uncle slapped him on the back. "Having fun yet?"

Mikey tore the bag open. A chalky gray mist rose into his nose and then down to his lungs. He coughed; the spasm knocked a dose of sweat off his face. He felt an ache in his lower back, in a spot he never knew existed. He glanced at his watch. It was just past nine. The day wasn't even half over.

 

* * *

 

At the end of the shift, Mikey was whipped. He'd spent the whole day mixing cement. Eight hours. A rushed half-hour for lunch. His hair was caked with tiny flecks of concrete and his jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt were heavy with sweat. His forearms throbbed and his legs hummed with nascent cramps. Two oysters of ache lay tucked behind his shoulder blades. He sat on the asphalt of the enormous parking lot and waited for his uncle. The other guys split into groups of three or four and piled into cars, except for the handful of Mexicans who just walked out of the lot into the bustle of Queens. Mikey closed his eyes, fell into a grimy half sleep.

Tommy flicked Mikey's ear, waking him. Mikey pushed himself up and lurched toward the passenger door of his uncle's van. Tommy laughed and tossed him a set of keys.

"You slept on the way in."

Then Tommy climbed into the emptied-out back of the van and laid down. He was asleep before the van left the parking lot. Mikey was terrified. He'd never driven in traffic like this. It was chaos, every man for himself, stop-and-go speeding up to a harried group crawl before reverting back to stillness. Sudden explosions of movement, cars swerving across two lanes, the noses of yellow cabs butting in everywhere.

And Mikey's eyes were shutting on him, despite the fact that it wasn't even three o'clock and the van was beset on all sides by hostile, honking drivers. When the van settled into line for the toll on the Verrazano Bridge, Mikey engaged the cigarette lighter. He pulled it out, and when the concentric circles had faded from orange to brown, he singed his left forearm. The pain jolted him awake and he drove the rest of the way home watching a blister form where the lighter had touched his skin.

His house was empty. He took a quick shower, turned on the fan in his bedroom, and slipped under the sheet. He'd just rest for a half-hour, an hour at most, and then he'd go the gym and lift or take some swings in the backyard. The phone rang but he didn't have the energy to get it.

Mikey heard his mother calling him. He opened his eyes, looked at the clock. It was almost eight. He'd been sleeping for three hours. He was still sore. He threw on shorts and a T-shirt and staggered downstairs. His mother and his brother were waiting for him at the kitchen table. He gorged himself on chicken cutlets and rice for twenty minutes and then excused himself and went back upstairs to sleep.

Later, he heard his mother yell something up to him but he didn't answer. He just rolled over and went back to sleep. When the alarm clock sounded at four a.m., he sprung awake, reinvigorated but miserable, astonished that people actually lived like this.

 

* * *

 

The week took forever. Every day was a marathon of dust and toil. Mikey stopped showering in the morning, slept the whole way in. He started putting names with faces. A few of the guys were all right. They joked around, they made him feel welcome. A few of the guys were assholes. They didn't like him, could never like him. This was their life; he was just visiting.

The Mexicans didn't joke or judge. They just worked.

On the drive home every day, he stopped at a deli near Shea and bought a liter of Coke. It kept him awake but overfilled his bladder. One day, he pissed right into the empty Coke bottle as the van sat in traffic on the West Shore Expressway. The sound woke his uncle, who peered in from the back, laughed, and went back to sleep. It wasn't ideal but it beat the cigarette lighter.

At the end of his first week, Jenny offered to cook him dinner. He hadn't seen her all week. He'd been too tired to do anything but sleep, eat, and watch television. Her parents were away for the weekend. Tommy dropped him off at her house.

He was going to take a shower and then maybe a nap but within two minutes, he was on the floor bare-assed and Jenny had him in her mouth. He was in ecstasy, the job a distant memory, when she said she wanted to feel him inside of her. She told him it was safe because she had just finished her period. She crawled up his torso and lowered herself onto him, slick and easy. It was different with nothing between them, primordial and elemental, the mystery finally revealed. He felt out of time, alone in the world with Jenny. After a few minutes of euphoric thrusting, they came together. She collapsed onto his chest, breathless.

He fell asleep right there on the hardwood floor with his shirt off and his jeans and underwear clustered at his ankles. When he woke up, Jenny was setting the table and the air was thick with the smell of homemade tomato sauce.

Mikey took a quick shower. A bolt of anxiety rippled through him as he loosened the grains of concrete in his hair. They were always careful; they'd always used condoms before. He hadn't even used the "pull and pray" method that Pete joked about. Jenny had just slid down on him, hadn't even really asked. Sure, it was fantastic, but it was too risky. She shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have let her. He wouldn't let it happen again.

When he got out of the shower, dinner was ready. Spaghetti and meatballs with her grandmother's gravy, a simple salad, a fresh loaf of bread from Galluccio's. Jenny stood at one end of the table, a kitchen apron around her midsection, a satisfied smile on her face. In that light, in that pose, she looked like her mother. Mikey sat down. Jenny brought the platter of food over to his plate and loaded it with pasta and meatballs.

"Isn't this nice?"

Mikey didn't answer. He ushered a large meatball into his mouth and tried to ignore the dry aftertaste of cement that lingered in the back of his throat.

 

* * *

 

The summer droned on. July was brutal but fair; blistering heat but no humidity. The sun baked them in the still air of the empty stadium. Mikey understood why they started work so early: the mornings were bearable, the afternoons hellacious. After lunch, time hit the brakes. Mikey's legs grew sluggish and his stomach swelled with bread and meat from lunch. The air stung like lava. Nothing to rush the day. A nerve-wracking drive home on the horizon.