Tin & Spit

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Friday, October 20, 2006

Summer Takes














Summer Takes

by Sam Ford


Joey Perez was out of breath by the fourth floor. He was in good shape, hit the bench at least twice a week, but the Salem’s were starting to take their toll. He huffed his way up to the sixth floor, trying to ignore his lungs. Pretending they didn’t exist. The steps of the building were made of old granite and they were chipped and split all over. The stairwell was tight as a noose, and Joey wondered how the hell people got beds and sofas and shit up six flights. He could hear voices from the surrounding apartments. TV’s were on – Mets struggling through seven innings coming from 4B, “Law & Order” being handed out from 5D. There were real people’s voices too. Dinner being eaten. A small dog yapping at the echo of a thousand footsteps. A couple fucking their way through the walls.

Joey picked a wedgie out of his ass. He was wearing a pair of Karl Kani’s from ’94 that had been his brother’s. Joey believed they were the only pair of jeans that fit him right. Sagged just perfect and didn’t taper too much at the cuff. He also had on his white and red Uptowns which were still clean as a whistle. He took a fresh wet rag to them every night before bed. His shirt was just a plain white Hanes t-shirt in a size XXL. “Shit Stained Hanes”, his old friend Josh used to say in junior high school whenever one of them opted to rock the plain tee instead of the Hilfiger or Polo or Guess shit that was flying around back then. Joey had been tiny in junior high and high school. Shitty acne too. He had his growth spurt almost as soon as he graduated. Now he stood about five feet, ten inches. 150 pounds. And his mom had invested in a good dermatologist.

Joey found 6A and knocked on the door. It swung open like a casket and a middle-aged man with a bowling ball for a belly stood there in his boxer shorts and a wifebeater. An unlit cigar was wedged in the corner of his mouth. It seemed glued there. Wisps of hair sprung from his scalp, some of it sticking straight up as if in salute, some of it limp and defeated.

“Excher cheeze n’ saysige?” the man belched.

“Yeah,” Joey said. “Fourteen dollars.”

The man had a twenty balled up in his chubby hand. “Keep a dolluh fuh yuhselph,” he said.

Joey handed over the pie and noticed a healthy glob of drool begin to form across the man’s mouth.

“Fuckin’ pizza.” the man said. “Iss good shit, y’know?”

Joey didn’t respond. He handed the man a $5 and split.


****

Downstairs, Joey lit a Salem and Jay-Z started rhyming from the pocket of his Kani’s. Joey answered his cell-phone. It was his girlfriend, Lisa.

“Where you at, nigga?” she moaned.

“I’m still on my deliveries, girl,” he said. “Chill the fuck out.”

“I wanna’ go to the club tonight. Jenny said ladies get in free before midnight. You gotta’ get back to the Bronx before midnight if you wanna’ go with me, Joey.”

“Fuck that club shit. Let’s just chill at your place and watch Saw or some shit.”

“Fuck that movie, nigga. You seen that movie two-hundred-thousand times. Just ‘cause you’re a pussy about the club. Just gonna’ like sit there and shit and watch everything. I’m a have ta’ dance with my girls.”

“I’m a do my best get back, aight?”

“Before midnight.”

“Yeah.”

“Before midnight, Joey.”

“I said yeah, Lee. Get off my dick.”

“I love you, Joey.”

“I love you too,” he said.

“We won’t stay out late, okay? Just enough to get my drink on and chill with Jenny and Bibi and shit.”

“Yo, if I can’t make it just roll without me.”

“Nah fuck that, nigga. You have your ass out here.”

They hung-up and Joey took a long tug off his cigarette. He liked Salem’s ‘cause nobody else he knew smoked them. It was Newport’s and Marlboro’s back in his neighborhood. Joey had seen the movie Bad Boys a few years back, and Sean Penn’s character smoked Salem’s. That had something to do with it too.

Joey walked up 6th Avenue. The fat man’s apartment was on Bleecker and Carmine. Joey had an eleven block walk. He liked Manhattan but not this part. 6th Avenue and turned into a strip of tattoo shops, falafel joints, sex shops, and general garbage. It was the dirty boulevard that separated the Village from the West Village, the community and progression of NYU from the peace and quiet and money of the West Village maze that stretched to the river. Joey imagined it was kind of like what Times Square had been in the 70’s and 80’s. Now Times Square was fucking Disney World and 6th Avenue between Bleecker and 8th Street was like a cesspool.

There were a couple of heads playing nocturnal 3-on-3 at West 4th Street. The Taco Bell across the street was almost blinding in its fluorescence. There were maybe ten or eleven patrons inside sucking down burritos and nachos. They all looked like zombies in their own way. One man had a big open gash on his forehead.

Joey kept walking, every once in a while glancing down to check his Uptowns for scuffs. Lisa had bought them for him for his birthday. He wanted them to last.

A drunk hippopotamus stepped in front of Joey. He swayed and reached out his hand, nearly touching Joey’s chest.

“C’mon, son,” he said to Joey, running the back of his hand beneath his runny nose. “Gimme some muthafuckin’ change so I can take your girl out.”

His kept hiking up his pants. He smelled like he’d slept in his own shit for weeks.

“Fuck you, nigga,” Joey said. “I hope you die tonight. Get outta’ your fuckin’ misery.”

Joey started walking away from him, but the big hippo continued to pursue. “Yo, at least buy me a beer from this store, dog. Whassup, nigga? Whassup wit good-lookin’? Whassup wit good-lookin’?! Hard times fuh a nigga, man. Help me out, man. Help me out, man!”

Joey walked away from him. He walked and walked until the man’s voice was just another sound swallowed by the City.

****

Joey stepped into Carlo’s Best Pizzeria on 13th Street and 6th Avenue to the tune of:

“You got more deliveries, Joey.”

It was Carlo himself doing the singing. He was a tall, heavyset old-school Italian with grey hair combed back. He looked exactly like Danny Aiello and most people who ate a slice at Carlo’s swore they were eating in the pizza place that Do The Right Thing was based on. Carlo was wearing a slightly stained v-neck t-shirt that showed off his sprouting chest hair. He was sweating like a whore in church.

“8th Street and 6th Ave first,” he said to Joey. “Then you come back for 14th and 6th.”

“Carlo, you think I could cut-out at like ten tonight? I gotta’ get back to the Bronx a little earlier.”

“Joey, it’s fuckin’ June. Saturday night. We’re gonna’ be rollin’ along till like five in the morning. You know the deal.”

“But you got Bo and Eddie workin’ too. They can handle the deliveries between the two of them.”

“We’ll see. How’s that? Fuckin’ we’ll see. I must be some sorta’ fuckin’ pushover. How ‘bout we’ll see, eh? You do these deliveries, come back, we’ll see where things stand.”

Joey took the pizza box for 8th Street. It smelled like anchovies. Joey winced. He wondered who the hell could eat anchovies in this heat.

****

The walk back down 6th was just as rough as the walk up had been. A haze of people clumped about like roaches and rats. Screaming laughing running. Staring at each other like food inspectors. The long sick prowl. Rolling over each other in a humid knot of sweat and breath. The whole thing had an angry energy pulsing through it. Faces were shiny and glazed. Eyes were bloodshot and weak. The boys had their hair stiff and wore short-sleeve tight fitting button-down shirts. The girls barely wore anything.

Joey was missing Lisa pretty bad once he hit 9th Street. He hated thinking about her but he didn’t have a choice. She had him pretty good.

The apartment building on 8th was a prewar spot just like the one on Bleecker had been. That meant no elevator but Joey was used to it. He buzzed 3C and a female voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Pizza,” Joey said, embarrassed about how loud it came out.

The door buzzed and clicked. Joey pushed it open and stepped in.

Three flights later he was knocking on 3C. A chiseled Asian man answered. Shorts and a tanktop. Joey was surprised at how common this outfit was when it came to his deliveries. It was like a uniform. We’ll order in so we don’t have to get dressed. Joey didn’t wear shorts. Back in high school they called him “Puerto Rooster” on account of his skinny legs. Between that and his acne, Joey went through a lot of bitten lips back in the day.

“How you doing?” The Asian man said.

“Sixteen dollars,” Joey said.

The man handed Joey a $20.

“Keep the change.”

“Thanks a lot,” Joey said, attempting a smile as he headed down the stairs.

****

The 14th Street building was one of those nicer spots. It was on the northeast corner of 14th and 6th. Elevator, fixed air-conditioning in all of the apartment windows, a gym on the ground floor. Joey wondered if there was a pool on the roof.

He took the elevator to the 17th floor. He had three large plain pies in his hand. Joey used to love pizza growing up. But by now it’d lost all of its novelty. He was numb to the smell. He resented people who blotted the grease off of their slices. He was skeptical of people who didn’t eat their crust. He had encountered all of the idiosyncrasies when it came to the food, and now they made him feel tired. Occasionally he would dream of pizza pies flying through the air and cutting people’s heads off.

The elevator doors split open with a ding, and Joey stepped out onto the carpeted hallway. He was looking for 1704. He could hear noises floating in from one of the apartments down the hall. They were party noises. Young party noises. Joey could tell by the music being played (commercial hip-hop), and the girl’s voices (“oh my god, how are you?!” “I know!...”), the guy’s voices (“whassup, man?!” “Oh SHIT!”).

Joey hated delivering to parties. There was always at least one drunk asshole who would either make fun of him or try to get him to stay.

The door to 1704 was slightly ajar. Joey never knew how to play this scenario. It was either A – ring the bell, B – knock, or C – just walk in. Joey was never one for “C.” “A” seemed kind of pussy. So he elected for “B.” He knocked once. He knew immediately it wasn’t loud enough. When he knocked again, a tall blond female answered. Joey looked at her and then quickly looked away. He knew she was beautiful. She looked like magazines.

“It’s thirty-six dollars,” he said.

“Hi,” she said.

Joey glanced at her again. She was smiling at him. The music was loud and Joey could see many people inside the apartment behind her.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked. “I have to get my purse.”

“Nah, I’ll wait out here,” Joey said.

“What?” she asked moving in close to him.

Joey thought she smelled like good flowers probably did. She was looking right at him. The dermatologist had earned his paycheck, but a couple of scars remained. Joey could feel this blond girl zeroing in on them and his face started to blush over the color of Carlo’s extra special extra secret pizza sauce.

“I’ll wait out here thank you,” he said.

She smiled at him again and sashayed her way back into the apartment.

Two big dude-type jock sorta’ guys (the kind Joey knew called each other “faggot” and gave each other huge hugs when their sports teams won) spotted Joey and walked towards the front door. They were both tall and muscular and white. Red faces and hair like metal with all the gel rubbed in. One of them spoke:

“What’s up, kid?!” he bellowed.

Joey hated this part. He wanted to kill this motherfucker right here and now but he just kind of shrugged and gave a mild “’ssup?” in response.

“Yo, come on in and have a beer, dude,” the same one said. “There’s fuckin’ weed and shit. Whatever, y’knowwhatI’msayin’? Come in, man. Take a load off. It’s hot as balls outside.”

The other kid just looked Joey over. He was wasted, his mouth open and wet around the lips, his eyes sagging out of their sockets.

“That’s okay,” Joey said.

“Alright, dude. Don’t say we didn’t offer…”

The blond returned with the money. Three $20’s. She handed them to Joey.

“You only need to give me $40,” Joey said.

“No,” she said. “Keep it. You’re cute.”

The dude who had been talking to Joey looked at her. “We invited him in but he’s chickenshit or some shit.”

“Why don’t you come in?” she asked. “Can you?”

“No thanks,” Joey said.

“C’mon,” she said. “Smoke a bowl with us.”

The other guy, the quiet one, suddenly grabbed Joey by the arm and pulled him inside the apartment. Joey flung his arm down violently and stepped back from the kid as if anticipating a fight. The girl laughed.

“Chill out,” she said. “My name’s Aphrodite.”

Aphrodite wore these low-cut jeans that almost showed the top of her ass-crack but didn’t. She had a white tanktop on. A black bra. And Joey suddenly understood why kids beat each other up and lifted weights and bought shiny things. Joey suddenly understood things about nature and those things seemed unfair to him.

The kid who’d grabbed Joey disappeared into the belly of the party. No one seemed to notice that anything had happened at the front door. The kid who’d been more talkative handed Joey a bottle of Bud and wandered off, throwing his hands in the air and waving them like he just didn’t care. Joey heard him shout, “Aww yeah, aww yeah!” Joey felt like he had been transported back to ’95 when cats were blasting Naughty By Nature and wearing beanies and shit. He half expected some drunk dickhead to ask him if he was down with O.P.P..

Aphrodite took Joey by the hand and led him into the soiree. It was sort of dark and there were kids everywhere. Joey lit a Salem for protection. Heads turned once Joey entered the scene. There were a few whispers, but nobody seemed to give much of a shit. A couple of girls were dancing. Some kids were making out. Everyone kind of looked the same to Joey.

Aphrodite guided him into a large bedroom. There were a few kids in there smoking herb and talking. She took him into an unoccupied corner.

“This is my room,” she said.

Joey didn’t respond.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Joe.”

“How old are you?

“Nineteen.”

“I’m eighteen. I just graduated.”

“I graduated a year ago,” Joey said.

“Are you in college?” she asked.

“No,” Joey said.

“I’m going to Princeton,” she said.

“Where’s that?”

“You don’t know where Princeton is?”

Bring ‘em out, bring ‘em out, bring ‘em out!" Joey’s cell-phone rang. He could tell from the caller I.D. that it was Carlo’s.

“It’s my job,” Joey said.

“Fuck it,” Aphrodite said.

Joey looked at her. She was smiling that smile at him. Her teeth were a little fucked-up but somehow that made her prettier to Joey. His pockmarks and her snaggles. Her blue eyes were like the water he’d seen in the postcards from his Aunt in San Juan.

He answered his phone.

“Hello?”

“Where the fuck are you, Joey?” Carlo said. “There’s five other deliveries gotta’ go out immediately.”

“I’m walking back now,” Joey said.

“Where the shit are ya’? I hear music.”

Joey hung up.

“I gotta’ go,” he said to Aphrodite.

“Don’t,” she said. “Smoke with me first.”

“I don’t really fuck with weed and shit,” he said.

“No,” she said. “It’s opium.”

“What’s that like crack?” Joey asked. His stomach churned with embarrassment.

“No,” Aphrodite said. She pulled out a glass pipe that looked hand-blown, streaks of blue and green stretching across the neck like ocean waves. She studied it for a moment and got serious. “It’s like a really ancient drug. It’s Chinese. It’s good. I’ve only done it a few times but it’s really good.”

“That’s aight,” Joey said. “I gotta’ go back to my job and shit.”

Aphrodite leaned in and kissed Joey softly on the mouth.

“Now will you stay?” she asked. “You’re cute.”

Aphrodite took a veteran’s hit off the glass piece. She blew a waft of blue smoke out into the room. She handed the piece to Joey and he took a light toke. He coughed out the exhale and once again turned scarlet with shame. Aphrodite ignored it. She touched his cheek. When Joey was real young he would get terrible migraine headaches. His mother would sit on the bed as he laid there and stroke his face with a cool washcloth. That’s how Aphrodite’s hand felt.

“What’s you name again, baby?” she asked him.

“Joe,” Joey said.

“Well I’m gonna’ call you Joey.”

“Okay,” Joey said.

He passed her the pipe and she hit it. She coughed a bit and broke out into an honest giggle.

“You’re the delivery boy,” she said.

“I prefer pizza-man,” he grinned. Joey had trouble understanding where the thought came from. And in his mind it sounded like someone else’s voice. A tiny piece of him, the piece that hadn’t smoked opium, whispered, “why did you just say that, dickhead?"

Aphrodite laughed to herself and moved in to kiss him again. Joey half backed away. She stopped. He tried to lean back in to kiss her but she handed him the pipe instead. He took a pull and sprayed the exhale over her head. He looked her straight in her eyes. They were sort of turning and deepening. Like swimming, Joey thought. You could swim in those eyes right there. Joey had never been swimming in his entire life.

A fresh-faced, good looking kid approached the two of them. “What’s up, Amy?” he said to Aphrodite.

She turned and faced him, startled. “Oh…Hey, Mike.”

“Who’s your friend?” Mike asked.

“This is Joey,” she said.

“The pizza guy? Neil told me you were with the pizza delivery guy.”

“Yeah. We’re just smoking.”

“My opes?” he asked.

“Mine,” she said. “I had it delivered today.”

“You’re a sucker for deliveries, aren’t ya’?” he smiled mischievously.

Lisa smiled back and got up to face him. Their faces came together and they kissed hard and full. Joey watched for a few seconds and then staggered to his feet.

“Wait, man,” Mike said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your shit.”

Joey kept walking until he was out of the room out of the apartment out of the hallway out of the elevator out of the building out on the street.

The air seemed cold somehow, but Joey was sweating his ass off. He took his bandanna out of his back pocket and tied it around his forehead. He heard a thousand sirens shrieking through the night. Sirens in the City in the summer were a volatile cocktail. They seemed to descend on top of one another and they all felt personal. Wherever you were, they were coming for you.

Joey walked for a while until he realized he was headed uptown. His eggs were scrambled. He tried to laugh it all off, but the laughter sounded demonic. He could feel his heart beating in different parts of his body – his knees, his gums, his fingers. He sensed people looking at him from their apartments. Pointing him out to other people. Whispers, gossip, 311 phone-calls.

He turned around and started walking south.

****

“Fuckin’ A, Joey, you know that…?” Carlo announced as Joey entered the shop.

“It’s cool it’s cool,” Joey mumbled.

“It ain’t fuckin’ cool, Joey. That delivery was a block away and it took you forty-five minutes.”

“Soway and shit,” Joey said.

“Wha? What the fuck you sayin’?”

“Here. Here you go.” Joey put the sixty dollars on the counter.

“Was only thirty-six, Joey. You got a fourteen dollar tip?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you haf ta’ do for that fourteen dollar tip?”

Joey’s cell-phone rang. It was Lisa.

“What’s up, baby?” she said.

“Chillin’ chillin’,” Joey said. Carlo looked Joey up and down. Joey tried to dodge his eyes.

“Are you comin’ out?” Lisa asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you gonna’ make it back before midnight?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Okay,” Joey said. He hung up and felt Carlo’s stare still working on him.

“I said what’d you haf ta’ do for the fourteen dollars, Joey? I asked ya’ and that’s what I asked ya’.”

“Nuthin’, man,” Joey said. “Could I break out now?”

“Say wha? Are you fucked-up?”

“Nah, man.”

Carlo’s lips pinched with a skeptical frown. He punched open the cash register and cut up one of the $20’s. He handed Joey a $10 and four $1’s. Joey took it and put it in his pocket.

“Could I cut-out now?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Carlo said. “See you tomorrow. Get home safe.”

****

In the bathroom, Joey ran the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. He glanced in the mirror and then turned away. And then he looked back. He stared at himself. You’re an ugly muhfucka, he thought.

He stepped into the storage room. Bo was there writing in his notebook. Rapping to himself:

“Niggaz rhyme like they shittin’ out Number Three super-sized…Pissin’ out they ass like they asshole is cryin’...But these rhymes is flyin’, nigga, ask the city…Got the hard rocks noddin’, got the stoic bitches giddy…”

Bo looked up and noticed Joey. “Yo, you heard that shit, son? I got a meeting with Def Jam next week.”

Joey grabbed his bag.

“Whassup?” Bo asked.

“Goin’ home,” Joey replied.

“Carlo let you go? What the fuck…?”

“Yo, good luck if I don’t see you…”

“Aight, dog. One.”

Bo stood up and gave Joey a pound. Joey felt like crying for some reason. Instead he walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

****

On the train Joey listened to the new Nas shit and watched a shirtless black man sleeping on the row of seats across from him. He was very thin, his ribs pushing up from underneath his flesh like they were trying to get out. His skin was dry and he had some scars in places. Joey guessed they were knife wounds. He had a think nappy beard that was dredded-out in some places. The air conditioning wasn’t working and Joey wondered how the guy could sleep with that beard.

There weren’t too many other people on train. It was 10:30. Joey was really gonna’ try and convince Lisa to stay in and watch Saw.








Brooklyn, NY (10/20/06)