Michael S. Ch. 2 ("26") Stray Dogs
26
The man behind the wheel is shifting gears swiftly, driving on the bus lane and flying by the slower cars on his left. He passes the sluggish busses at the last moment, swinging over to the left lane, causing tire–screeching braking, violent honks, and abundant cursing behind him. Unfazed, he's speeding away. He's holding the steering wheel with both hands, except when shifting gears. It isn't for safety: he's simply enjoying the feel of leather and expensive wood in his palms.
The smell of new plastic and leather is teasing his senses; he inhales it thirstily. He keeps peeking at the buttons on the central console, every now and then pushing one and checking the results with a satisfied glance: lights on; sunroof open; navigation system activated.
The stereo is screaming, the giant subwoofers in the trunk making the coupe's entire chassis vibrate: as soon as he entered South Side, he tuned into his favorite radio station and turned the volume all the way up.
The reception gets better as he drives down the boulevard: the radio station is broadcasting from his old neighborhood, just a few blocks away. Still, his hi–fi sound system is picking up a lot of static, bringing out the broadcasting's poor quality. The station probably has second–hand equipment, or no license, or both. Strike that: they most definitely have no license. No regulator would ever let the DJs swear on the air or play songs with those lyrics, it's against every public broadcasting rule and regulation. That's a professional opinion: he's a fucking lawyer and knows what he's talking about.
A wide grin brightens his face: he'd never let himself get caught playing music so loud uptown where he lives now. Especially this kind of music. Uptown, they say only South Side gangsters and pimps listen to something like this. Fucking pussies, what do they know about gangsters and pimps. If you listen to folks in his new, posh neighborhood, everyone in South Side is involved in something shady, they're all thieves, beggars, or worse, parasites living on government subsidies paid with taxes collected from uptown, freeloaders who pilfer and soil the uptown neighborhoods every time they venture there, which, thanks to the new mayor and more aggressive law enforcement, doesn't happen as frequently as it once did. Those pussies never been to South Side but think they know everything about it. And they can't even appreciate good music.
The speedometer is pushing close to eighty miles an hour. A cloud of dust is growing behind him. The road is less and less well–kept as he's speeding further into South Side, toward the periphery. The coupe is shaking more and more often, running from one pothole to another. At that speed, he's not even trying to avoid them: the car would probably flip over if he veered suddenly. The shaking feels manly, though: tough and short, like a gun's recoil. The car has hard suspensions, just like it should. He loves it, and his friends will too. As soon as they hear the engine revving, everyone's gonna line up to drive it.
It's gonna get dark pretty soon. He's running late; he spent the whole afternoon at the dealership. His buddies have got to be drinking the third round by now, except for Mike, who's also running late. Mikey called a few hours ago and said he was going to stay past his shift and perform some procedure for a poor patient. He's probably just about done by now.
Man, they're going to love his toy. Hopefully they're not gonna be too drunk to take it for a ride by the time he gets to the pub.
The music is suddenly cut off by strident phone rings, broadcasted through his car's speakers at hundreds of decibels. Fuuuuck! He quickly turns down the volume and pushes a button on his steering wheel.
"Hello?"
His voice sounded cold and professional.
"Whassup, Paulie," Mike is shouting at the other end of the line.
Mike is already in his car, Paul can tell by the background engine noise. Mike really needs to buy himself a new car.
"Yo, you scared the shit out of me! They got my cell phone hooked into the car's sound system and when you rang it fuckin' blew a hole in my eardrums!"
Paul's screaming inside the car, not sure where the microphones are.
"Dude, stop screaming, you're gonna fuckin' break my eardrums," Mike shouts back. "Did you just get the Porsche?"
"Yeah, an hour ago. I haggled with those fuckers for half a day, they gave me all kind of shit, they only dropped the price when they saw me walkin' out the dealership's door."
"They didn't know how much you wanted this model! You weren't gonna walk away, that's the only dealership in town where you could buy it."
"That's the only dealership in the whole fuckin' county, dude!"
Paul chuckles. Both of them know it ain't so, not even close: it's an expensive car, but not that expensive. He wanted a particular model, though, and that was the only dealership within a couple of hours' radius that carried it. Still, it's fun to boast a little.
"How's it handlin'?"
"Dude, it's handlin' so fine, it's almost like it fuckin' predicts your move before you make it."
He's screaming again.
"Dude, you got to fuckin' stop screamin'! I'm fuckin' hangin' up on you," Mike threatens him, his voice drowning in the engine's noise.
"Alright. Where you now?"
"Just turned on South Boulevard."
"I'm ahead of you."
"Yeah, I can see the dust cloud from, like, a mile away."
He smiles. He knows Mike's smiling in his car, and enjoys sharing the silence with his friend.
"Dude, I've been thinking of something."
"What is it," Mike says.
"We've got to stop sayin' fuck every other word, or we're gonna go out of business. I mean, you or Johnny call me at work, I start talkin' to you the way we talked back home, and when I hang up there's silence in the room. The clients are lookin' at me like I'm from another planet, or worse, like I'm from South Side!"
"I know! I fuckin' do the same thing! My office assistant is desperately waivin' at me, tryin' to signal there's patients in the waitin' room. I can't fuckin' help it!"
Paul grins, imagining Mike gesturing with both hands while holding the steering wheel with his knees.
"Well, seriously, we've got to stop sayin' it. We're gonna start losing clients. We've got to fuckin' control ourselves."
"Then why the fuck do you keep sayin' it?!"
Mike has a good point. Paul nods in admission.
"Alright," he agrees. That's the last time we said it. No more fuck except when it's just us, in person, where no one else can hear us, okay?"
"Alright. We've got to convince Johnny, though. And Nick. Pete's gonna go along for sure, he doesn't say it that much anyway," Mike says, before being cut off by tire screeching, honking and shouting at the other end of the line.
"Sorry," Paul says after a torrent of cursing, "this fucker decided to switch lanes right when I was passing by."
"There you go again," Mike seizes on the slip.
"That doesn't apply to driving," Paul protests. "We have to make an exception for cursing while driving," he pleads.
"No exception," Mike declares, "we've got to put a system in place, like, every time someone says fuck, no matter where and why, he's got to buy a round of booze to everyone else. What say you?"
"I say from now on we're gonna get fuckin' thrashed every Friday night!"
They burst into laughter. He turns up the speakers, Mike's laughter is entangling with his own and both get broadcasted back to themselves through his top–of–the line hands–free phone system. The coupe is eating the asphalt, leaving potholes and dust behind it.
# # #
The smoke in the bar is thick, their table full of empty bottles of beer; more beers are on their way, and Mike is trying catch up with his already–tipsy friends.
He was the last one to arrive at the pub. By the time he got there, Johnny, Nick, and Pete were already half–drunk, outside in the parking lot, circling around Paul's Porsche and talking loud and at the same time. He was still thinking of Maria, replaying in his mind their meeting the night before, and didn't join the party right away. He parked a few yards down the street, slipped quietly towards the parking lot, and stopped in the shadow of the adjacent building. He leaned against the wall and watched his friends in silence, half–listening to their banter.
They were begging Paul to let them test drive his coupe. Paul would not budge. He had parked the Porsche at the rear corner of the lot, away from clunkers and drunkards. He let them go inside the car, but would not give away the key. Nick, a little more sober than the others, was pleading with Paul to at least take him for a ride on the passenger seat and burn some rubber in the parking lot.
"Okay, I'm not gonna drive, you drive," Nick was saying, "but you spin it a bit here in the lot, alright?"
"No way," Paul protested, "are you out of your mind? These tires are almost a grand a piece!"
"Then what the fuck did you buy it for?"
From the driver's seat, Pete announced he was going to puke. Everyone burst into laughter, except for Paul. Pete had a history of throwing up in the wrong places when he got drunk.
Mike couldn't tell whether or not Pete was joking, but it seemed Paul wasn't going to take any chance –
"Get the fuck out of the car, buddy, right now! I'm serious!"
By now, Paul must be having second thoughts about flaunting his toy, Mike pondered with a smile.
Pete started to choke and bent down, his forehead resting on the car's steering wheel.
Paul ran around the car to the driver's side, opened the door, grabbed Pete by his collar and forcefully tried to pull him out.
Pete was as heavy as dead weight. He choked again. This time his mouth filled up from inside. His cheeks swelled for a moment, then he let go the mix of booze and undigested food just as Paul dragged his head and torso out with all the force he could muster.
Not a single drop landed in the car. Paul breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he saw his shoes.
"Fuuuck! You fuckin' moron! I just bought these shoes!"
Nick and Johnny were laughing so hard they were starting to lose their breath.
His guts contracting spasmodically, Johnny leaned forward, hands rested against the Porsche's hood. He started to cough and then choke.
"No, no, no! Johnny, get away from the car!"
Paul's panicked warnings only made Johnny laugh harder. Saliva started to drool in an elongated drop from his open mouth and towards the hood.
"Johnny, move the fuck away from the car!"
Still laughing in spasms, Nick grabbed Johnny and pulled him away. Johnny was slowly catching his breath. He wasn't gonna puke, not right that moment.
Pete, his feet still inside the car, was hugging Paul by his knees, hanging in a precarious position above his own vomit. He was done throwing up.
"Help me up, dude."
"I should fuckin' let you drop in your puke."
"C'mon dude, help me up, I can't hold on much longer."
Nick and Johnny came around and helped Paul drag Pete out and away from the car, careful not to step in the hodgepodge that had come out of his stomach.
From his vantage spot, Mike noticed the stray dog before his friends did. It had approached quietly, wagging its tail as it drew nearer. It was almost fully grown, but its friendliness revealed the puppy inside: older dogs knew better than to get too close to a group of bawdy, half–drunk twenty–somethings. This one couldn't have been more than a year old. The dog sniffed around, found the vomit, smelled it carefully, and started to eat it methodically. Nick saw it first.
"Look at that mutt."
"That's fuckin' disgusting," Paul exclaimed.
"When it's done with that, you should let it lick your shoes clean," Johnny pointed at Paul's stained shoes.
The dog finished eating, sniffed the surroundings for more, then wandered towards the Porsche and smelled one of its tires. Suddenly, it turned around, lifted one of its rear legs, and sprayed a long stream on the wheel.
"Fuuuck!" Paul screamed.
Johnny and Nick instantly burst into hysterical la l ughter. Paul dashed towards the dog and tried to kick it with his foot in a wide swing. It looked like he'd get it, but just when the tip of Paul's shoe was about to reach its nose, the dog bounced out of his range, then stopped and looked at him playfully, with its tail up. Paul lost his footing and staggered for a few steps before regaining his balance.
"Fuck me! It's all my fault, I was dumb enough to take a new car to South Side, I'm getting what I deserve."
The dog was watching Paul with curiosity. It leaned back, stretching its front legs, then jumped towards him, but just outside his range, quickly bounced sideways, and stopped, ready to jump again.
"What the fuck do you want?" Paul chastised it.
The dog barked back, its tail wagging. Its mouth was half–open as if in a smile, tongue hanging on one side.
Done laughing, Paul's friends were watching the scene with amusement.
"It ate, took a piss, now it wants to play. Stray dog's life."
Paul quietly looked at the dog, then down at his shoes, and back at his friends. A tight–lipped smile slowly lit up his face. He sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
"Why the fuck do we keep coming to this dump? There's plenty of cool bars uptown, but every week–end we end up in some hole on South Side."
No one answered. They were all smiling. The dog barked impatiently and inched closer to Paul, trying to lure him into a chase.
That's when Pete saw their friend walking towards them –
"There's Mike!"
"Cheers, everyone."
"Mikey!"
"Dude, you don't know what you missed," Johnny began to tell him enthusiastically, "see that puppy there? It pissed all over Paul's car," he continued, pointing at the dog. "And this other puppy here," he said, pointing at Pete, "he puked all over Paul's shoes, and in his car!"
"He didn't puke in my car!" Paul objected.
Mike listened patiently as his friends retold what he'd just seen. He smiled as they generously added fictitious details over Paul's vain protestations that it didn't happen that way. The story as they told it was, admittedly, funnier than what he had just witnessed from a distance, and after all a few exaggerations were in order if all they did was make the story more copious, the listener more entertained. They laughed again, though not as hard as the first time, and made a final attempt to convince Paul to let them drive his car, to no avail. The dog kept barking for a while, trying to get someone's attention, then strolled away to other attractions. A few minutes later the night's chill drove them inside the bar.
# # #
It's been almost two hours since they came back inside the pub. In a few minutes, it will be midnight. His friends' voices are getting hoarse from too many cigarettes and loud talk. Mike is half–listening and not saying much. The conversation's been wandering from Paul's car to Nick's new country house and Johnny's latest get–rich–quick idea, with occasional breaks for jokes, their usual barroom philosophy, and raunchy comments about the women sitting at the bar.
Johnny managed to bring the discussion back to his new idea and now is talking about borrowing money from a bank to flip a rundown building he found in South Side. He quickly mentions straw buyers, appraisals, securitizations. Sounds rather complicated, but Johnny seems to have thought through the details: Nick and Paul have been asking a bunch of questions, and he seems to have answers to all of them.
Mike's watching Johnny explain with excitement some details of his scheme, pause for a second to drag from his cigar, then exhale the smoke while continuing to talk. Johnny should really quit smoking, he thinks; his teeth are already starting to turn yellow. His lungs must be looking pretty bad already. Johnny's been smoking since first year of high school, just about the time he and his other friends started too, only he quit when mom got sick and hasn't smoked since. Clogged with nicotine, Johnny's lungs must be at least ten years older than his age.
Mike takes a sip of beer, leans back in his chair, and studies his friends: Johnny gesturing, the others occasionally interrupting him, everyone talking louder and louder. He wonders how they'll be ten years from now, how he'll be; perhaps a man with a wife and children. She could be his wife, Maria. He voices the thought again in his mind, and this time he could almost hear it: I want Maria to be my wife.
He sighs long and deep, his gaze looks up and away and the friends' voices fade, he's in a different place now – the café where he met her last night. He can feel her perfume as if she's in front of him, just the two of them, and like last night he's feeling the knot in his chest as if she just uttered the words –
"I have a boyfriend, or I should say a fiancée. He has asked me to marry him not long ago. I said yes."
That's the first thing she said after they sat down in the café. She was serious and a bit sad as she said it; it sounded almost as if she was reproaching him. Her eyes are so beautiful, he couldn't stop thinking even as her words felt like a knife stabbing him slowly and deep.
The pain still feels vivid now. So do his other memories from the night before, as he rewinds their meeting: she's across the table from him and doesn't know what to do with her hands – she kept them crossed over her breasts at first, then laid them on the table, in front of his, tapping nervously with her fingers, and just before starting to speak she joined them, as in a prayer. Her hands are beautiful, he thinks to himself as he absorbs the blow, slender and gracious, like her body. He forces his mind to think of everything he loves about her, so as to not let any room for the overwhelming despair. He has prepared for this moment since she asked for the meeting. He expected she would tell him about her fiancée because he knew she was engaged; what he didn't expect is that it would hurt so much to hear it. The truth is, he thought this whole meeting would start differently: he'd planned to start the conversation himself, offer an apology, then tell her he's leaving the clinic, effective right away.
Before going to meet her he drafted his resignation and left it on his desk, in an envelope addressed to her father. His letter said he did something unbecoming. He's agonized for hours about the right word: how could he explain in impersonal terms the fact that, earlier in the day, he had pulled the daughter of his mentor, boss, and owner of the clinic into the X–ray room, shoved her against the door and kissed her fiercely, biting her lips and ripping her shirt, until she pushed him away and ran out.
There was something else that had happened in the X–ray room, which he could not dare mention in the letter to her father: before she ran out, before she pushed him angrily, she had responded to his kiss.
# # #
As she continues to talk to him from across the table, he remembers that kiss vividly, her lips pressing against his, her tongue exploring his mouth.
What is she looking for, how is this meeting going to end, he wonders. Now she's telling him about her plans, about how she expected her future to be, together with the other man. He met him, a nice, well–mannered guy, about his age, and as she utters his name he thinks about the two of them, her and her boyfriend, naked in bed, making love.
Again he gets a knot in his chest, but this time his mind fills with anger. He looks down so she doesn't see the flash of fury in his eyes; he imagines pushing her away and grabbing the other man by his throat, slamming him down on the floor, and punching him till he crushes every bone of his face. He wants to say something to her right now, something that hurts her, he wants her to suffer as much as he does, but when he raises his gaze and their eyes meet his heart fills with love and sadness and anger at himself for thinking about hurting her. He feels tears in his eyes and looks down again, but not before she sees them. She also notices the swelling veins by his temples and the clenched fists of this man who's so different from all others she's known, hard to understand and more than a little unpredictable, as she learned earlier in the day.
She also learned something unexpected about herself in that X–ray room and isn't sure what that means, she isn't sure why she's there with him, what is it that she's doing, why is she telling him about her boyfriend, or rather fiancée, and their marriage plans; but she does not want to stop and let him respond, she's afraid of what he would say to her and how she'd react.
She tells him about her childhood and her father – who seems a different man from the kind, patient mentor he's known at the clinic – her passions and dreams, at times it sounds like a memoire, or a job interview, and as she talks he begins to relax, his dark thoughts slip away. He's studying her, looking deep inside her eyes, at times so intensely he makes her look away. He smiles when her stories turn funny and gets serious as she talks about her stern dad and her struggles to rise to his expectations.
He can't tell how long it's been when she says, oh gosh, I can't believe I told you all that, I don't think I ever talked so much in my life, not even with my girlfriends, you're going to get the wrong impression. She sounds embarrassed and warm and sincere.
They sit across the table, face to face, in silence. She is avoiding his glance. With a soft, calm voice, he responds –
"I will not ask you to let me hold your hand, even though I would so much like to, because I know I'd make you feel uncomfortable and, despite what happened earlier, I'd never want to do that. Yet I think that if I only ask you to let me hold your left hand's small finger with mine while I answer you, you'll only find it a bit unusual, but not uncomfortable, and perhaps you'll agree."
For a second, she does not say anything. He holds his breath. She keeps looking down. Imperceptibly, her left hand moves towards his, her small finger first. She has long fingers, delicate but not frail, with fingernails cut short, almost boyish.
He caresses her hand with his gaze, exploring every patch of her skin, the line of her tendons and veins, the shape of her wrists. His lips slightly stretch in an inconspicuous smile. He'd like to cuddle her hands for real. He'd like her to feel safe in his presence.
Slowly, he moves his right hand to meet hers. Their hands, sliding on the table toward each other, take forever to breach the distance between them.
He does not hurry. The expectation of her touch fills up every pore of his skin, every neuron of his brain. Through some yet–undiscovered force surrounding their bodies, he feels her finger with his, even before touching it.
# # #
The touch: the tips of their small fingers reach each other. To him it feels like a silent, overwhelming explosion of energy, erupting from that tiny, barely perceptible point of contact between their bodies, flooding his mind and every one of his cells with sensations so intense as to cast into oblivion all else around him, but her.
His heart is pounding in his chest. He tries to quietly regulate his breath as to not draw her attention, but his cells are screaming for more oxygen to fuel the frantic burnings. All his other senses seem paralyzed, except for those in the tip of his right hand's small finger, and all he feels is the touch of her skin and the unstoppable flow of energy, going back and forth with the speed of light through that minuscule, yet gigantic gate that opened between them.
She must feel it; she cannot not feel this, he tells himself.
The surge of energy in their touch is winding down. The flood turns into a calm, steady stream of continuous, subtle electrical impulses between their bodies. He can't tell how long it has been. He looks at her. Her gaze is still pointed at her finger. Or perhaps his. Her eyes are so beautiful.
There's no change in her demeanor. Her breath seems normal, at regular pace.
Did she feel that as well, he wonders – or was there anything to feel? What if all these sensations, expectations, hopes only took place in his imagination? What if that was just a simple touch, with no such thing as a transfer of body energies or electrical impulses, and everything else was a figment of his mind, incapable of objective thinking, overwhelmed by some self–induced emotion caused by his feelings for her? What if she was quiet because she was feeling awkward, embarrassed?
But she did move her hand towards him; it was she who initiated the touch.
Or was it really her, he questions himself; what if she was just trying to avoid rejecting him in a more direct, painful way? And yet their touch felt so intense. She must have felt that. Should have. Perhaps.
Slowly, he begins moving his finger along hers.
She follows.
Their fingers engage in a tacit, tactile dance, discovering each other, retreating only to reunite more eager than before, communicating in a language not yet invented but known by them both. Mesmerized by the magical dance of their fingers, they forget about the flowing of time, or maybe time itself, mesmerized, forgets to keep flowing.
He suddenly speaks to her, the words flying out of his lips faster than he could fathom them in his mind –
"I cannot work, cannot sleep, cannot focus. I yearn for you when I'm awake and when I'm asleep. I dream of you night and day. I wake up in the morning and the bed sheets smell like you; I wonder when you left. I drive to work and try to hold your hand, imagining you're sitting next to me. I look at strangers on the street and see you. I go to bed at night and reach to the empty pillow to my right, expecting to touch your hair. With every breath, I sense your scent and feel you're behind me; all I have to do is turn around, and I'll embrace you. When you're not near me my thoughts are inundated by your image and I can barely breathe; when you're next to me my heart is beating out of my chest and I see nothing but you."
# # #
His voice is barely a whisper, Maria thinks; but she can hear his words clearly, every one of them. He sounds fiery, prayerful, and passionate again. Yet, there is inescapable certainty in what he's saying.
She's looking down, but senses his gaze reaching inside her, unsettling feelings she has refused to acknowledge even to herself. His words set free a river of emotions, overflowing her reason, sweeping away her defenses. She tells herself this is not how she expected their meeting to go. She resolves she must run out of the café, right away.
She remains on the chair, unable to move or find something to say. In her mind, she watches her world slowly crumbling down, every anchor that has seemed secure blown away, her engagement, upcoming wedding, the path she decided her life would follow: they're all diminishing, moving away from her like feathers in the wind. Then she sees she is the feather carried away by the wind, leaving behind all that's been certain in her life and beginning an implausible journey, one over which she has no control. She feels unsure and vulnerable. She desperately needs to grasp something steady and strong.
She realizes she's holding his hand.
His grip is firm; she is holding him tight. Their fingers, closely intertwined, are not playing anymore. She squeezes his hand as hard as she can. He responds in kind, but careful not to hurt her. His grasp feels secure.
"I must go," she says, raising her gaze.
She's studying his face, her eyes wandering over his chin, lips, meeting his eyes and probing deep inside them. She feels no more hesitation, no hurry.
# # #
She starts getting up. He rushes around the table to pull her chair. They're close again, almost as close as they were earlier, in the X–ray lab. He feels her fragrance and breath. She pauses for a moment, but does not step back.
"I'll see you soon," he says.
"You will," she answers.
He slowly tilts his head and leans towards her. She bows hers down slightly, avoiding the kiss but touching his cheek with her forehead, by the corner of his mouth. He inhales deeply. Her smell gives him shivers. He presses her against him with his arm and eagerly seeks her mouth with his.
"Not here," she whispers, the tip of her lips almost touching his ear.
"Not now."
# # #
Since last night, he's made love to her in his mind in countless ways. He imagined laying her down on the table in the café, right then when she whispered the unspoken promise in his ear, ripping her clothes off and possessing her, then again in her car, and at his place, on and on, the whole night.
In the morning he woke up seeking her. He rushed to the clinic but could not see her till noon: she had been in surgery the whole morning. They greeted each other professionally in the cafeteria and sat down to eat at the same table. She told him about the morning procedure, then casually mentioned this movie that was coming out over the week–end – which was tomorrow, he realized as his heart started to pound in his chest.
He could only smile and mumble that he heard it was a great movie. He scrambled to remember who was playing in it, or what it was about, but to no avail, and as he grew frustrated she laid her hand on his and asked if he'd like to grab something to eat before they go to the movie theatre.
# # #
He stayed late at work to wait for his pauper patient. Around five, he heard her saying good bye everyone as she walked out.
"See you soon," he replied from his office, and immediately thought what if somebody heard him, nurses or office assistants, would they suspect he's going to see her the next day? He couldn't remember how he usually bid her goodbye and wondered if he sounded any different today. He realized nobody else replied to her. If they didn't hear her, they probably didn't hear him either, or maybe everyone on the floor was gone already.
He forced himself to study the patient's file. It was a simple procedure, he had to remove a growth from the man's armpit, it would take half an hour tops, with some chit–chat, then sterilization, local anesthesia, cut, clean, apply band–aid, a couple of instructions, do's and don'ts, and he's good to go.
The growth wasn't malignant, he had checked it already, just a big, overgrown brown mole that kept getting torn off. The patient was in his fifties and a construction worker – been a carpenter since eighteen, the man had told him, talking a bit louder than he should have. One could immediately recognize the South Sider in his demeanor and speech – the man was trying to sound self–assured but his tone gave him away, he was worried, someone must have told him his mole could be cancerous, he probably laughed off the remark when he heard it, maybe made one of those dumb comments, like I'll be long dead from booze and cigarettes before that pimple kills me, but the seed of doubt had been sowed in his mind.
He's seen these kinds of patients before, coming in his office with a boatload of worries but flaunting self–confidence, measuring him up and down and not knowing whether to call him doctor, sir, or boy. Oft'times they'd settle for Doctor Mike. They weren't trying to sound funny, these folks were too simple to be subtle, he could see they thought he was too young to be a doctor. A real doctor must have grey hair and glasses, they felt, this kid was probably a student who was learning his trade on them, he wouldn't know what ailment they're suffering from, or worse, he may put the wrong diagnosis.
Sometimes they had the nerve to ask him if the older doctor was going to come in and take a look, men in their fifties and sixties usually said that, and it really ticked him off, he was spending his own spare time, without pay, to treat these fuckers and they didn't even appreciate it, didn't show him respect, they couldn't afford to even say hello to him if he was to charge them for his time as much as he charges folks from uptown. He'd get pissed off and balk at them in the brash, direct South Side way, putting them down, and they'd be taken aback: this kid talked the street talk, he was a doctor though, or so he claimed, surely a cocky one for that matter. They'd sometimes ask him where he's from but he'd give vague answers – I grew up around here – then he'd cut them short and say, let's talk about what's bothering you. He was there to treat them not to have personal conversations, he made that clear, and as they started telling him about what was bothering them they'd slowly open up and talk about their concerns, anguishes, pain, describe their symptoms in words his other patients would never use: I got blood in my shit, doc, my dick hurts so bad when I piss it's giving me a blackout, doc, my privates smell foul when my man gets on me, doc – folks too plain to be polished, scared of things they did not understand, worried they won't be able to work and pay the bills or provide for their families, concerned their illness will get worse.
The human body has an almost endless capacity to heal itself, he'd say confidently; you'll get better before you know it, he'd assure them, and as they looked at him with childish hope, men and women with bodies worn out ahead of their time, clinging to his encouragements no matter how empty, he'd start feeling sorry for them.
He hated this shit of fate; it wasn't fair, life wasn't easy for these folks and dying wouldn't be any easier. Those untreated ulcers, high blood pressure, and cancers detected too late will grind their bodies down before killing them, the world is an unfair place but why should this be his problem, why does he have to worry about it? But he does, human life is so short and brutish, the human body so fragile, it starts to deteriorate so soon and for most of its existence it keeps getting worse, until a vital organ breaks down in a heart attack or stroke, or an anomaly in some tissue begins to multiply itself and spread throughout the body. It's a shame it happens so fast, the decay, human beings are systems of fascinating complexity but so fleeting, yet what's even more fascinating is the ability of the brain to endlessly fool itself, hope is the ultimate irrationality, a fiction flying in the face of all evidence, but maybe the one thing that shields them from madness, allows them to continue to slug along with their shitty lives that keep getting worse while they keep hoping it'll get better.
He was puzzled by how grown–up men and women could for one moment be worried to death about the future, only to voice the most baseless hope the next instant, pick up some random comment he made, or meaningless test result, and turn that into great news. He's seen patients with terminal cancer trying to convince him, their doctor, it's just a temporary thing: I'm gonna get better, doc, am I not, you said it yourself, told me I'd feel better before long. They were trying all kind of primitive, worthless remedies, the stuff of urban legend – if you only drank this tea, or ate the root of this weed twice a day, your body energy will improve, a prayer won't hurt either, and look doc, I've been on this treatment for only a couple of days and I'm feeling better already! No, you moron, that's not a treatment, you're not going to get better, it's just placebo, but how the fuck can I explain to you what that means? Better keep drinking that snake oil, hopefully you'll die in your sleep, before you realize how pointless your struggle is.
And so they die before their time, of illnesses that had been long eradicated according to professional magazines, for lack of treatments that were widely available in government statistics, and as if that wasn't enough, the waste and decay, they kept themselves busy hurting and killing each other, inflicting more damage to bodies already damaged.
He saw a good deal of trauma–induced injuries, violence by man against man, there was so much violence in South Side, so many beatings, rapes, robberies, murders.
The killing of another is an unforgivable sin, unforgivable, one ought to pay for it for the rest of his life, but how many really pay? Sometimes they get away with it, sometimes others pay for their sins, innocent ones; a taken life demands another, and fate, some higher force, or maybe just the way the world works makes sure this happens, sooner or later, one way or another, but where does this cycle end?
It never does, hardly a day passed without the morning newspapers reporting some heinous crime, a body discovered laying somewhere, sometimes just parts of it, that was the morning routine for many of those who followed the news from South Side: reading about the murder on the front page, studying the amateur bikini contestant on page five, and checking the horoscope on the back page. The cops found another leg in a dumpster by the train station, only the head and left hand still missing; this girl's got huge love handles, someone should have warned her against posing full frontal with hips like hers; today you should avoid conflicts with your boss because he's having a bad day. Perhaps the boss is pissed off because the bikini girl on page five is his daughter, the horoscope didn't say why; or perhaps his daughter went missing around the time they started to discover the body parts. Surely that girl whose body they're trying to put back together has a father, and maybe that father is someone's boss. How does he go to work every morning, what does he still hope for?
He has to, otherwise he'll go crazy, perhaps he'll kill somebody, or himself. A life taken demands another one – sometimes that of an innocent.
# # #
The patient showed up around six. He was wearing his construction overalls and seemed older than the first time he came in, a tall, sturdy man, but long past his prime. His face was unshaved, with grey, thick hair spiking out of his sun–baked, wrinkled skin. He was breathing with a noticeable rumble, mouth smelling like onion and cheap cigarettes. Ten more years and he'll be on his way out, Mike said to himself.
The man's head was bowed down and he didn't know what to do with the hat in his hands. He grimaced with pain as he tried to reach with his hands onto his upper back and unbutton his overalls.
His joints ought to be almost worn out by now, bone rubbing against bone, Mike thought. Well, we're not here to make you new, old man, just to slow down the inevitable; we'll only delay it a bit, it's too late for you, your body is fucked up already, those disks in your spine are going to press harder and harder on the nerves, your hands will start hurting and maybe going a bit numb here and there as the nerves get pinched. I see your joints have already started to swell, they sure hurt, prepare for the back to hurt even more in a little bit. Your lungs will start letting you down at about the same time, you'll climb up the stairs to your apartment and pause every few steps for a bout of cough; but who the fuck made you start smoking at fifteen? Perhaps your liver will start giving you trouble too; you don't smell like booze but I bet you down a few glasses in the evening when you get home. Who can blame you – your wife must look like an old hag already, she's got her own problems and surely pounds your brains with them every other night, perhaps you also pound her face every now and then, when you have too much to drink and she too much to say. But be that your sin, I'm here to try and treat your body not save your soul. Everyone must live and die with his sins, I have my own and will pay for it for the rest of my life, and in fact that's why I'm here tonight, treating you, to make another small payment against the debt that I owe.
# # #
The procedure went smoothly. Mike wasn't in a mood to talk and kept thinking of human misery and the taste of Maria's lips. His patients were the heralds of death but Maria was life, the opposite of everything that unsettled him. Her kiss was the fountain of bliss and he was going to drink so much from that fountain. Maria will never get old, she's so beautiful and pure, untouched by the evils of the world …
"So what do you think, Mikey? Let's see what Mikey has to say about this whole thing!"
It takes Mike a second to recognize Johnny's voice and realize the question was directed at him. He blinks slowly and takes a long moment to survey the surroundings.
His friends around the table are watching him with wide grins, getting ready for a good laugh, all red–faced except for Nick, who could drink enormous amounts of booze and still look like he's sober, though right now he's just as wasted as the others. They're all waiting for him to throw the punch line, and he has no idea what they've been talking about.
"Umm, I approve."
They all burst into laughter.
"See, even Mike approves," Johnny says. "Alright Mikey, it's settled then, you'll be our getaway driver."
"Umm, getaway from where?"
"What the fuck have you been doing for the last hour," Johnny asks him curiously.
"He's been thinking of his boss' daughter," Paul says.
"Nah, she's old news," Johnny comments.
"Old or new, that's who he's been thinking about," Paul insists.
"Dude, with these broads who drag it on forever and play tough to get, you got two options," Johnny gets started.
"Don't call her broad," Mike says curtly.
Undaunted, Johnny keeps lecturing with a stammering voice, his right index finger up –
"Option number one, you invite her to your place and give her a good fuck. Get her drunk, do whatever you have to do, but once she walks in, she does not leave your place unfucked. Option number two, you jerk her off and away. That's how you get over her. Fucked, checkmark, next one."
Mike stares down into his beer mug, shaking his head, his nostrils dilating with each deep breath. Johnny is looking around for approval, his index finger still pointing up.
"I'll drink to option number two," Paul jumps in, sensing the gathering storm and quickly trying to change the topic. "Tonight when I get to my computer I'm gonna fuck the whole Texas Rangers cheerleader team, I've always wanted to have an orgy with them, but they never returned my calls!"
"… and by tomorrow morning, your palms are going to be full of blisters," Johnny starts laughing, his attention successfully deflected.
"Maybe I'll call you to give me a hand – your right one," Paul replies.
"My distinguished friend, I quit on this leisurely pursuit a long time ago," Johnny boasts.
"Talking about strippers, are we going to a club tonight?" Pete's question comes out of nowhere, his voice faltering.
"Look who's up! Morning, handsome!"
Pete is having trouble focusing his gaze and takes a few moments to pinpoint Johnny as the source of the greeting.
"I've been up the whole time," he protests with a burbling voice.
"Well, we were talking about cheerleaders, not strippers, but I like how you think," Johnny says.
"Pete's right, let's go to a strip club," Nick jumps in. "I'll buy the first round."
"Here's to you, Nick," Johnny seizes the opportunity. "Everyone's in?"
Everyone nods.
"Let's finish this round and off we go," Johnny says.
# # #
It's been three more rounds and they're still in the pub, rambling on. Mike has found himself stuck on that "broad" comment; he struggled to get over it but the images kept popping into his head and he couldn't make them go away. There was Maria, dressed as a stripper, slowly taking her clothes off with lascivious moves until just a tiny thong was left on her, exposing her breasts, holding them in her hands and rubbing them around the pole bar, laying on her back, spreading her legs wide open and exposing her twat to the men in the club; there was him, getting angrier and angrier as the others shouted rowdy comments and encouraged Maria to get rid of her last piece of clothing; there was Johnny, jumping on the scene to stuff a couple of bills in her panties; and as the men shouted and Maria continued to dance, he saw himself pulling out a gun in a bout of rage and taking down Johnny, the club's bouncers, the patrons, shooting everyone, one, two, three, he keeps counting as dark holes, looking like oversize moles, pop up on his victims' faces where the bullets entered their cheeks and, as the slaughter went on, he realized the rounds in the magazine must have long finished, but he could still shoot the gun somehow and went on aiming and pulling the trigger.
The pain from his fingernails piercing into the flesh of his palms helps him take charge of his thoughts. As he unclenches his fists, he shakes his head, looks around and blinks repeatedly to make the images go away.
He replays in his mind the conversation he had with Johnny a few months back: his friend had stopped by the clinic to take him out to lunch, they ran into Maria as they were leaving, he introduced Johnny to her and Johnny was polite and courteous, asked about her job, listened carefully to her explanations, and after they walked out he commented: this broad is wife material.
Back then he didn't get pissed off at Johnny's comment, Mike reminds himself, quite the opposite: he felt proud. Johnny had been the first of his friends to meet Maria, although all of them knew of her, and he was sure that as soon as they parted ways after lunch Johnny picked up the phone to call the others and tell them Maria was a great girl, although his foul–mouthed friend surely said broad, not girl.
Maria will be his girl, he tells himself again, they're gonna be together, they'll grow old together. He imagines himself and Maria a few years from now, walking together in a park with their kids, holding hands, the kids are a bit blurry in his daydream but Maria is so beautiful, tall and slender, a bit more mature but even more attractive. They're all happy in his dream. Her warmth feels so peaceful.
He breathes deep and relaxes. He's not upset at Johnny anymore, yet still senses the anger seething inside his chest, aimless but lurking for a target. He resolves yet again to hold it in there, if he can't rid himself of it for good.
He orders one more beer and tries to join his friends' conversation, but has lost the trail again and can't remember what they were talking about. They're having yet another debate; Paul is trying to cut Johnny off, but Johnny is unstoppable, his index finger waving through the air like the stick of a mad orchestra conductor. Paul raises his voice until he's almost shouting, and finally manages to stop Johnny –
"No, no … no, man, this has nothing to do with fate, society, family, that's all bullshit. The problem's with us. We wanted to get away from our neighborhood, but didn't plan what to do once we were out. Look around at everyone who's successful: they had a plan in their mind, wanted to build somethin'. We have no idea what the fuck we want from life."
"What Paul's sayin', though I don't agree with him, is we've got no vision," Nick says.
"Well, Nick, maybe you're the exception among us," Paul replies, "you went in business early and you're doing your thing, but that's precisely my point, we got no vision, and not only that, we got no beliefs, no nothin'. We just wanna ... you know, we're sayin' we wanna do somethin' with our lives, but we don't know what the fuck we want."
"Bullshit! I'll tell you what you want: you want a fleet of expensive cars," – Johnny started to count the wishes on his fingers, leaning towards Paul and sticking his hands in his friend's face – "a kick–ass penthouse with a great view, a couple of supermodel broads, and respect. That's what you want: cash and respect. And you wanna be successful."
"Cash and respect," Paul mocks his friend, "whatta fuck of a vision is that? What do you want to be? What do believe in? Who the fuck are you?"
Now it's Johnny's turn to shout –
"Who the fuck am I? I'll tell you who the fuck I am: I am the bastard who grew up in the slum, got out of it through his own efforts, is already a successful investment banker, and will be a millionaire long before he's thirty. I'm the slum dog who's gonna make it to the cover of Fortune magazine and will have his own fuckin' private yacht! How does this sound for a vision? Sports cars, a kick–ass house, and hot broads. And a private yacht."
Johnny's leaning back on his chair, hands joined behind his head, nodding at his own remarks and surveying the table. Pete is giving him the thumbs up in approval. Paul's shaking his head. Nick is studying them with an amused smile. Nobody seems to notice Mike anymore, and Johnny continues –
"As to this whole bullshit about beliefs, I believe in myself and that's all I need. Let's be clear about this: I am where I am because of myself. I don't owe nothin' to nobody. We've talked about this before: if by beliefs you mean doing stuff for some greater good, no thanks. There ain't such thing, and if there was I couldn't care less about it."
"You're so wrong," Paul replies, "of all people, we should care most about making the world better. You and I know first–hand how bad this place can be, and all of us are gonna be in a position to change things."
Johnny is looking at Paul with a perplexed face, hands up in the air. He's relaxed now, confident he's won the debate.
"What the fuck have you been smoking?" he exclaims triumphantly. "Dude, you're a lawyer, you've got the opportunity to make it up for all the shit you've been through, enjoy life, buy all kinds of expensive stuff, get even with all those rich kids who grew up with everything you've been missing, whatever, but instead you're giving me all this crap about fixing the world's problems? You know, I just don't care about it. I don't want to care. Nobody cared about me, why should I care about others? I don't remember anyone calling to see how we're doin', or sendin' some money our way when I was little. Hell, the only strangers who were knockin' on our door were the collection guys from the rent–to–own store."
"Oh, no, those fuckers weren't knockin' on the door, they were knockin' the door down!"
Nick grins widely at his own comments.
"Precisely!" Johnny extends his right hand to Paul, as if offering a truce, and continues –
"Look, I agree there's a problem. I agree it needs to be fixed. But I didn't create this problem, and neither did you. Let those who did spend their own dough to fix it."
"And how much longer is this going to last, this misery, this enormous waste of thousands upon thousands of lives? How long will this wretched place continue to exist? Where does this all end?"
They look at Mike with surprise, and he can't tell if it's because of what he just said or because they just realized he was still there. He watches Johnny blinking slowly while turning his head towards him and pinning him with his stare, and in the dim light he realizes his friend's dilated, black pupils look like a wolf's: soulless, beyond any sense of cruelty or mercy, simply looking for prey.
"It doesn't," Johnny says. "The slum may move elsewhere, but will never cease to exist."
# # #
"Your friend has very pretty eyes," says the stripper, bouncing up and down on Johnny's lap and pointing at Mike with her head. "Pretty but sad. What's wrong with him?"
They left the bar a couple of hours ago – or maybe longer, Mike has lost track of time; could be the fault of the booze, or maybe the dizzying effect of this small, private room, covered floor to ceiling in dark–red velvet, lit by a couple of stand–up lamps, and furnished only with two worn–out, dark–red couches on the opposite walls and a pole bar in the center. Johnny, Nick, and Paul decided to get laid tonight. Pete, the one who's been pushing this strip club idea in the first place, passed out drunk shortly after they got here. Nick and Paul are on the opposite couch, getting blow jobs from two other strippers.
Mike's sandwiched on the other couch between Pete and Johnny, who decided to get the whole deal. He studies the stripper's breasts as she's riding Johnny, gliding on his cock with equal, orderly moves, up and down, up and down, methodical like a Swiss watch. Her boobs are firm, she's still young, can't be more than nineteen, but gave birth already, less than a year ago, the C–section scar on her belly looks fresh.
"He's upset he can't cure the world's ills," says Johnny.
The woman's left knee is stroking Mike's leg every time her body slams against Johnny's. He doesn't mind it; it keeps him awake.
"Oh, we have a dreamer here," the young woman says. "Not good."
"On the contrary, dear, he's better than you and I will ever be," Johnny responds.
"What your friend needs is a good fuck," she concludes, carefully studying Mike's face. "I can give you a good fuck, baby, what do you say? Here, wanna touch my breasts?"
"Hey, are you here to fuck me or converse with my friend?" Johnny protests.
"I'm fuckin' you, alright, and givin' you top service. Are you not satisfied? Here, how's this?"
She's arching her back and flexing her hips back and forth and sideways, like a feline, faster and faster, breaking the earlier, regular pace with explosive bursts, rubbing her crotch hard against Johnny's.
"Here baby, are you not satisfied?"
Johnny's head tilts back, eyes shut and mouth open. Guttural moans start coming out of his throat. She mimics them as she pushes harder and harder against him.
"Oh, yeah, baby, there it is, there it is! I'm comin', baby, oh yeah!"
Her strident enthusiasm sounds straight out of a four a.m. commercial for fake jewelry on the home shopping channel, Mike thinks.
Johnny tilts his head towards Mike and winks quickly, sketching a smile with the corner of his eye.
"I guess we're gonna have to cast you in a silent porn, baby," he tells the woman.
"I don't do porn," she retorts proudly, reverting to the earlier, mechanical pace.
"That's alright baby, just keep doin' me and we'll both be fine."
"Do you work in the industry, though?"
"Well, I work in an industry where folks get fucked all the time, if that's what you're askin'," Johnny responds.
"They don't really fuck when they do porn, they mostly fake it," she says, absently moving up and down. "I've thought about it, I've got a few offers, you know, but I have a baby and I don't want him to come across my pictures when he grows up."
"That's very thoughtful of you," Johnny observes, fondling her buttocks with his hands.
"Are you gonna come any time soon? I'm startin' to get tired."
"Almost there, baby, just keep doin' your thing, I'll make it worthwhile."
"You better! You gotta give me another hundred for this, I could've done two guys in the time I've spent with you."
"Another hundred? Now you're pushin' it."
"How much more you gonna give me? And are you gonna come today, or what?"
"Listen bitch, I'm not here to get my brains fucked. Do your thing well and you'll get an extra fifty, piss me off and you get nothin'."
"Bitch, huh? And I thought you're a gentleman, with money and style and all that."
"I got money, alright, but I'm no gentleman, they don't make gentlemen where I come from."
"Oh really? And where is that?"
Johnny lets go her buttocks, puts his left hand around Mike's neck and pulls his head towards the young woman's breasts while pushing her closer to him with his other hand. She grabs Mike's head and sticks it between her breasts, laughing, as Johnny starts singing, with a broken voice, the old hip–hop lyrics,
I come from the back streets,
She recognizes the song, grins, and sings along,
I come from the hood,
"Yeah, baby, you got it!" Johnny says.
The sweat on the girl's breasts smells like musk, Mike thinks. Her skin is sweaty and soft. He feels her warmth and odor kindling his senses and starting to awaken his body. Maybe he'll give it to her after all.
From across the room, Paul joins in, humming the words he doesn't know and trying to sing along.
Or maybe not; he's not really in the mood for it, and then there's Maria; but he's got time to make up his mind, Mike decides, the dawn is still away.
45