Part 2

Utter darkness gave way to grey gave way to an almost unbearable light when Ray opened his eyes again. As he got his wits about him, he realized he was no longer in Brooklyn.  Instead, he was fast approaching the Statue of Liberty. He was being borne ahead by an aggressive northwestern wind that chilled him to his very soul. As he flew by the illuminated Lady on his left, he disbanded a denizen squabble of seagulls that hovered around her crown. He had never been so close to the icon of immigrants. It scared him. She was uglier than he imagined and her countenance was foreboding and stern. Maybe it was the years of erosion. Maybe she had always looked like that. Not long after he passed the birds, he heard what sounded like another bird calling from behind him: “Eyyyooooo!”

“Dwayne?” said Ray, steadily twisting his body around amidst the current.

“Yo, Ray, what you—dayum! What happened to your head?”

“What you mean?”

“That shit bloated as shit my nig! That shit a balloon!”

“Nigga, I know you ain’t talkin. You got a slug on both sides of your neck, lookin like a black Frankenstein. And your head been that big ever since I known you.

“Whateva nigga.... I guess Rico got both of us bad.”

“Shit… he better hope he changed his address by now, because when I run through his crib, I’m leavin pounds of silver—and I’m not talking about medals.”

“Nigga, you reckless as hell. You think you got him back there?”

“I don’t know. I was still swirly from Tavon’s party. I was dumb mad when you started blowin up my cell: I had shorty Key-Key about to give me the bidness.”

“Please, you’ll be aight, nigga. She’ll be there when you get back. But if you and Tavon didn’t come through when you did, I woulda been all fucked up, duke!”

“I got there too late anyway. I pulled up and that dumb nigga Nelly-Nell was lettin off with two automatics as if our whole crew was there.”

“It don’t matter; that nigga couldn’t aim no way. He only hit Keys before Tavon pushed his wig back on some grandmova shit. Then you got Herston from behind me before he could Mike Tyson my shit. Then that bitch-nigga Rico came out of nowhere and got you and me on some Clint Eastwood shit.”

“You right. I stepped out from behind my whip, he got my neck and then I just fell. And then I woke up and I swear I’m still done off that Patrone. Son, how we floatin in mid-air anyway?”

“Man I don’t know, we high! It’s like we glidin over the hood my nig; we movin on up! Ya feel me?”

“My nig, I figgadeel you.”

Queens looked much different from the air, especially at night. The city didn’t look half as bad; in fact, it looked slightly similar to the suburbs, except some houses were smaller and closer together and some didn’t have any lights. The wind, which changed its course to a northeastern bent, led the friends over the never-ending metro line, which resembled the spine of a heartless grey monster while the surrounding factories and slums comprised its scaly back. They flew by Citi Field unnoticed, the whites of their teeth and their eyes one thousand times less conspicuous than the lights of the planes leaving La Guardia. Cheers erupted from the stadium as they passed, but not for them and neither for the Mets. The Subway Series was a non-event this year. The Mets had too many injured stars; the Yankees had enough healthy ones to assemble a constellation.

The commanding wind banished the clouds that had loomed over the young men just a few minutes ago. Ray and Dwayne, usually loquacious, were dead silent and in awe of what they were being ushered into: life as they had never seen it. The far-away shore on either side of the Long Island Sound was mostly dim. The stars, unobstructed by buildings, looked truly primordial. The moon, full, and lining the water below with a hypnotic ray of silver, was truly a midnight sun. It made Lady Liberty's face look like a waste of inspiration. What Ray and Dwayne saw was beyond words. Beyond a postcard. They saw the night of the first day.

It was still dark and early and apparently I looked the part.

One of the local firemen picked up a couple of bacon egg and cheese sandwiches to go along with the bagels he picked up for the rest of his crew.  Firefighters, policemen, and the like get fifty percent off their purchases.  That's the same as an employee discount.  Good deal.

It was too early for my face to be concealing much.  He suggested that I join the fire department.  Good pay.  Good benefits.  Security.  Etc.  Good deal.  He told me that although he backed into it, he's been a part of the crew for twenty-seven years.  He told me to get a wife, to settle down.  Etc.  I told him I wanted to do something with my major.  He told me to think about it and let him know, because he would put in a call for me.  This won't be the first connection I leave dangling. 

Some settle because that's what they want to do.  Others settle because they give up and throw in the towel.  I'm still wiping my face with my own.  This isn't me forgiving my father.  This isn't me attending the love of my life's wedding.  This isn't my last semester of college.  This is me versus myself: the bout of my life.  I never thought I'd be suicidal. 

Peradventure, misadventure

I was walking briskly from the back of the parking lot to catch the 1:40 showing of "A Serious Man."  I stopped near the sidewalk to drop eight quarters into the toll box.  I had a hunch that the mud-colored Toyota Camry that I had just passed was still idling there.  When I turned around, she was looking at me through her passenger-side window with the eyes of a detective who's been on a stakeout for twenty hours straight.  I must have returned her stare with a criminal's glare, because she wavered for almost five seconds before she asked, "Do you work here?"  With the politic of someone who's been here before, I responded with a simple "No."  I finished paying my debt, then walked across the street, slightly pulling up my plaid pajama pants, so as not to get them wet in the puddled potholes. 

***

I waited patiently as the mother's son kept adding things to his order.  More bacon; toast the bread; more sauce; can you toast the bacon and cheese?  MORE?  I suppose it was a twist when I asked for olives, green peppers, provolone cheese, and LTO.  The man making my sandwich didn't waver, because he'd taken me there before: "You don't like meat, sir?"  There I was again, having to explain myself to someone who sees me weekly: "I do.  Sometimes I get turkey."  It became clear to me that the man only recognizes me when I get a Veggie Delite.  As I left the store, I took solace that I don't have the mind of a vegetable.  I told myself that the misadventures of the day were only a product of chance, of uncertainty, of expectation: a benign fusion.  I got into my black car and drove neither here nor there.