Stealing Liberty    11/4/18

Part One

She coos in my ear the best reward. In essence she dangles the carrot of all carrots. I stop my sketch and rise from the desk in the rear corner of the living room. I will try to fetch him. I dress for the cold. Yet the wind blowing gustily across concrete makes me think otherwise.

On the way I sidestep de-poo-shit. Streetlights spray tawny puddles. Cars are packed tight like ice cubes in trays. I can almost sniff the Bronx Zoo and nearly see through the Saturday evening shadows to the adjacent Botanical Gardens. After walking about three blocks I approach the building on Haley Street where Benny lives, escaping the windy chill.

Benny’s been a friend on and off since my freshman year in high school. He’s now a cop. I’m an unemployed painter with local 284. Our parents still reside in the same neighborhood where we had grown up about two miles away.

In the vestibule I press 6N. Thinking he must wallow in indecision, I mosey toward my reflection in the glass of the outer door through which is dark pavement. At once I reverse and curse, lunging to catch the buzzing.

I unplug my right earplug and release bluesy chords into the lobby where cooked cabbage chokes me. On the sixth floor, exiting the elevator, I inhale tomato sauce and pork with a pleasurable breath, strolling to his door, which is ajar.

“Que pasa?”

Benny resembles a pillar. Even in high school he had had a bodyguard physique. In fact that’s how we had become friends at Christopher Columbus. A gang called CC”s Heroes would recruit certain white kids. I had rejected their advances and that had made me a target. Either join or get your ass kicked. It’s a standard threat which means nothing of course without a hammer behind it.

I had gotten my ass kicked. My face kicked. My stomach and ribs and chest kicked. I had told my parents I had been jumped and mugged. The next day our family doctor determined my red bruises and black eye (after he had shined a light into it) would eventually heal and said I should come back in a month. So I had returned to school after two days off. That’s when Benny tapped my shoulder before I entered biology class.

“We ain’t no gang but we’re black and yellow and green and white and we call ourselves Full Court ‘cause we like to play ball full court. You play ball?”

Seeing Benny for the first time, as a sophomore, had made me think of a tall refrigerator.

“Sure.”

“Are you good?”

                    “I’m decent.”

“Know that park off Zerega?”

“Definitely.”

“Come by today.”

I had accepted his offer so many years ago and hear presently his husky voice like his build:

“Are you my chaperone?”

“Somebody has to rouse your ass.”

“Grab a beer before you start trying.”

In the foyer I kick off my sneakers, hook my coat and scarf on the doorknob.

After detouring into the kitchen, I sit on the sofa and reach for the bottle opener on the coffee table.

“You want to go. For some reason you desire a hand-holder.”

“Pssh. Starfish just sent me another text and wants me feeling totally guilty if I don’t make it. She bugs you like this?”

“She’ll make you feel bad like any mommy can.”

Benny groans upon the recliner, tossing his phone onto the table, while the muted TV plays a college basketball game. We mimic each other, sipping beer, stretching our legs, watching. He flicks on the sound. That’s much better. It’s not the announcers. It’s the ball hitting the parquet, scratching sneakers and the roar of spectators. We ooh and aah when needed, commenting here and there. But I’m on a mission. I’ll either corral him or come home with an empty lasso.

At the next commercial I say: “Little dinner party be good for ya.”

He shrugs with indifference: “Clarissa’s pretty?”

I nod: “But her personality’s sweeter.”

“Why’d her boyfriend dump her?”

“Why’d your girlfriend dump you?”

Benny pummels me with a glare like an uppercut he has perfected over the years.

While sitting I sway: “Okay. I know. Your ex wants to date a lawyer. Clarissa’s ex desires to be Romeo, I guess. Starla can dump me anytime. Your prospects are better than mine. I can get cute and go after Clarissa. It’s like spin the bottle, isn’t it?”

He holds the beer against his chest like a prized possession, moans: “I’m depressed, not in the mood for socializing or making a new friend. And possibly feel like shit all over again.”

I try a flying-kick scowl, but he waves it off.

“You have to practice it. Everyday. And having a gun strapped to your ankle doesn’t hurt.”

He raises the bottle to his lips.

I go for the jugular: “Benjamin, how long will you bathe in your feeling-sorry-for-yourself tears? Man, you’re like whipped cream. Confront what is true: Gina has a new beau and you’re stuck in a big rut. Man, you need to bust out and escape your mental cage.”

I feel proud of my speech, enjoying the beer.

“Ollie, you ran over so many speed bumps, I’m shocked your skinny ass is still sitting on my couch. You’re lucky I’m sane. Because if I was insane you would suffer the same fate of a roach I ran into this morning.”

He tilts his bottle over his mouth.

“But you did remind me of something. Your voice gets whiny like a girl’s when you speak for more than seven seconds. Remembered how my mother used to read Dear Abby. Sometimes I read along with her. Those people who wrote sounded like they’ve been beat. Ollie, you sound like Dear Abby and I sound like someone who’s been beat.”

He wipes his lips. “Damn right: I’m depressed and in a rut. Gina’s with someone and I got nobody. Yeah that’s painful. But I don’t want to be a person in a Dear Abby letter. You as as Abby is probably right. Need to get off my rump.”

I manage a poker face: “So how about some socializing?”

“I’m receptive for a small gathering.”

“That’s my brother.”

“But don’t think you can get away with shit, ‘Benjamin?’ No one calls me that unless it’s mother. You know that. If you annoy me like that again, I’m testing your biceps strength with a solid punch.”

“Hurts already. So goin’?”

“Why the hell not? I’ll get ready quick.”

I empty my last drops of beer onto my tongue, then slump across the couch, recall that I had met Gina once, and sympathize more fervently with Benny over his loss.

ii

Starla wrings the defrosted spinach over the kitchen sink, thinking she would like to do the same to her boyfriend’s throat. She of course loves him and will cause him no harm but he’s not reciprocating in the way that she wants. She understands he’s just twenty-five and she’s twenty-seven. But after almost a year of living together, she hears more and more flak from her parents over their living arrangement. Although she loathes admitting it to her parents, Starla agrees for the most part with their criticism: Oliver should ask her for her hand and anything less is unacceptable.

        So far, she has resisted overtly pressuring him. She has dropped hints that an expensive ring is not necessary. She has tried to impress upon him that commitment is more important than a material object. She has also pushed aside the temptation of giving him an ultimatum. Yet she wonders how much longer she can make excuses for him when she thinks her parents are right.

        While she follows the recipe in the vegetarian cookbook open on the dining table, she contemplates being single. The images make her cringe. In college and farther back in high school, she had always preferred a steady friend, even if her companion had only lasted a week, and she had always had a backup to fall on. After college, when she had shared an apartment with a girlfriend in another section of the Bronx, she had experienced the bar scene in earnest. The casualness and superficiality of playing darts while drinking beer while trying to find someone had thoroughly demoralized her. At that moment in her life, she had realized the goal of simply finding a reliable boyfriend had seemed virtually impossible. Some guys had wanted just one thing. Other guys had had no interest in being a dependable pal no matter what. And other guys would give her no attention at all once she had told them that she’s a social worker.

        Eventually she would cultivate a decent stream of rotating friends. But none of those men would she ever ask to live with her in her current apartment, which happens to be a co-op her parents had helped her purchase in the Pelham Parkway section of the Bronx.

As life will have it, when she finally finds someone she really likes, even loves at this point in their relationship, she may not have anybody at all when the other person is not quite experiencing the same depth of feelings that she is. While she puts the lasagna together in the glass baking pan, she realizes she must have a backup plan. She immediately considers Benny. But that wouldn’t be too cool on her part, especially when he’s Oliver’s friend. Additionally, the goal of tonight’s dinner is for Benny and her single friend Clarissa to strike up a friendship. She must get more serious at the hospital where she works on settling on someone who could possibly replace Oliver in the short term so that she can avoid being totally single if it comes to that.

Feeling motivated to do just that, she puts on the oven as she follows each step of the recipe, laughing at herself for being so methodical. Then again this is her first attempt at spinach lasagna, which certainly looks scrumptious and pretty sitting in the cooking dish before it goes into the stove. She starts to wash the stuff in the sink when the intercom buzzes, thinking that it must be Clarissa.

iii

“Meet and greet,” I murmur as we exit the elevator on the fifth floor. “This girl may hate you. You may like her. Or vice versa. Think small. Simply making a friend.”

        “Understand.” Benny grumbles huskily. “Starla explained the rules in too many texts.”

        I unlock the door: “Que pasa?”

Starla comes forward, embraces me and kisses my cold lips, whispering: “Good job.”

I will remind her for my best reward later.

“Hi Benny.” She gives him a friendly peck. “So glad you’re here.”

“Seriously, after talking to Ollie, wouldn’t miss it for anything. Thanks again for the invite.” His raspy voice sounds appreciative as he hands her a bottle of chocolate liqueur, removing it from the bag. “I don’t want to be on your bad side.”

She smiles warmly: “Never. Hmm. Excellent choice. You didn’t have to. But thank you. I’ll toss the garbage. What’s important is that you came, as you realize. It shows you want to start a new chapter in your life. Give Ollie your coat. Leave your shoes next to his.”

She  quickly steps into the kitchen, leaving the chocolate liqueur and bag on the counter, and now hooks his arm as they enter the living room.

“Sit and make yourself comfortable. Chips and dips and celery sticks. Merlot in the decanter.” She tugs his arm. “First say hello to Clarissa.”

I hear silence then a recovery with a brief stutter.

“I,I’m,m Benny. Heard so many nice things about you.”

“I’m Ollie.” I squeak my voice in the background, waving. “Gee you’re pretty.”

Clarissa laughs, stands and shakes Benny’s hand.

“I’m a fool.” His smile has length. “Should’ve arrived much earlier.”

“All right.” Starla guides Benny to the other end of the couch. “Remember let’s be friends. First and foremost.”

“Totally.” Benny nods. “She’s like you described her. Very nice.”

“Thanks.” Clarissa blushes for a quick second. “You also come as advertised.”

“Okay. We’re off to a good start.” Starla beams at them before she departs to the kitchen. “Start a conversation. Ollie, be a good host. Dinner will be ready soon.”

I pour Benny a glass of the wine, refill Clarissa’s, then fill one for me. I sit in the rocker. A conversation about the weather naturally happens, which leads to other topics. While we enjoy each other’s company, I realize, sipping, I’m envious of Benny. He has a great chance at a wonderful girl. I’m tied down, though not officially, certainly unofficially. As I rock, I daydream about lustful possibilities.

“Fifteen minutes no more.” Starla suddenly returns and plops on my lap, laying her right arm across my shoulders. “So, Benny, how’s crime fighting?”

While he talks about his latest arrest, I nudge Starla into a better spot, which is not as sensitive. The tasty aroma from the kitchen begins to elicit my hunger. My stomach bugles. But nobody hears the weird sounds.

“I want to help.” Clarissa gets up.

“No.” Starla raises her voice, heading to the kitchen. “Enjoy the moment. You got a handsome man and a taken man. Things could be worse.”

Clarissa and Benny begin a new conversation. I join in now and then. But my salacious reverie interferes with my attention span.

“C’mon, guys,” Starla shouts.

Our guests marvel at the feast on the dining table. Besides spinach lasagna the spread includes whole wheat Italian bread, artichoke salad, olives, cheese tortellini, a broccoli soufflé and steamed cauliflower. We drink either water or bottled sangria.

“Everything’s so delicious,” Clarissa says. “I’m stuffed but would eat more but nothing’s really left.”

I squeeze Starla’s hand. “See?”

Benny grins: “Best vegetarian meal ever. Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome,” Starla replies. “My pleasure. So happy to have over friends.”

She and I clear the table. Clarissa and Benny help with the cleanup until Starla orders them into the living room. She fills up the dishwasher. I sweep. In no time the kitchen appears as though dinner had never happened.

        “You guys want to play Scrabble, right?” Starla asks.

        “Sure.” Clarissa nods. “That was the idea. It’ll be fun. Girls versus the boys.”

I get our favorite board game from the foyer closet. It hangs on a hook in a large green cloth bag. I hand it to Starla and now remove the folding table.

Benny grabs the table from me, whispers in his husky voice: “Your girl cooks great, looks great but, man, does she ever take a break? I know this was her plan, but I was hoping she would deviate and we’d relax and bullshit for the rest of the evening.”

“Not Starla.”

 I hold four folding chairs, two in each hand. Starla turns on the second lamp in the living room. Clarissa now unfolds the chairs, taking one at a time from me. Benny sets up the faux wood table then stands next to Clarissa, seemingly infatuated. I empty the decanter into four glasses, ignoring my jealousy.

        Starla announces: “We use a two-minute egg timer. Dictionary’s for word challenges. If you spell a word wrong, you lose your turn plus ten points. If it’s right get an extra ten. Each team keeps score so there’s no argument.”

        Benny expresses confusion, says aloud: “Don’t you have a pad? App takes care of everything. This is so yesterday.”

        “Yes, Benny.” Starla answers for me. “Ollie and I have tablets. His and hers. We have the app you’re talking about. But some things are better old-fashioned.” She winks at Clarissa. “If I had candles I would use them. Too bad we don’t have a fireplace because wood would be burning.”

        “Too bad,” Clarissa reiterates.

        Benny and I are on one side of the table. Clarissa and Starla are on the other side.

Each team has a tile holder. I push the pen and paper toward Benny. He pushes them back toward me. Clarissa and Starla seem to share the same long smile. They giggle as though they tell each other invisible jokes. Clarissa fondles the tile bag. Her long pretty fingers with grape nail polish go into the bag and mix the tiles around and around, up and down. Her long pretty fingers come out. She holds the bag in the palm of her exquisite hand.

        “One of you pick first,” she says to Benny and me, “to see who goes first.”

        The intercom like a whip of unexpected thunder starts to buzz lashing our collective peace and wrecking the tranquil atmosphere. I jerk off the chair, almost falling to the floor. Starla twitches. Clarissa and Benny recoil as well. We now breathe as though we refrain from any noise, hoping for the return of serenity, but more buzzing rifles through our ears. Starla and I are puzzled, eyeing each other.

        “Hate that,” she says to me. “Delivery guy ringing a bunch of apartments.”

        More clanging erupts after a brief cessation.

        “Check your phones,” Clarissa suggests. “Maybe someone’s trying to reach you. Hopefully there’s no emergency.”

Starla exhales annoyance and goes into the kitchen.

“No calls, no texts,” she says coming out. “How about you, Ollie?’

“Nothing.” I gesture at my phone, lying on the nearby end table.

        “Well, it stopped,” Benny remarks.

        The latest buzz blasts the air with heightened purpose.

        “I’m not quite detective-ready,” he admits huskily.

        “Yes,” Clarissa nods.

        I head into the foyer, cursing under my breath, thinking how peculiar it is for a deliveryman to continue like this.