I was and not who he thought I was.
That spring I’d come by the house after practice sometime and he’d be watching TV with little Gene and we’d sit on the floor with our backs against the couch talking and looking through the stacks of dirty magazines his dad kept in the utility room. He’d bring in an armful and dump them on the carpet between us . One had a story called “Cleopatra and the Snake” with pictures of some woman dressed up in an Egyptian headdress squeezing her breasts together over a boa constrictor.
I liked being there, liked sprawling on that dirty carpet with the cigarette butts and the paper bags and the still-wet towels. Half-empty but cluttered, it felt like a house in the middle of moving out, when the couch is still there so you have a place to sit but the shelves are gone and the pictures are gone and the place where the loveseat used to be is just a shadow on the wall. It’s hard to explain. There was something free about the pile of dust and butts that somebody had swept into a corner. The coffee table was covered with bottle rings like the Olympics gone crazy. A broken table lamp lay on its side by the wall, the wire torn from the rim of the shade.
Early on I’d keep thinking about Ray’s dad coming home from his shift at Sing Sing and finding us there. We’d be sprawled out on the floor against the couch, leafing through Playboy and Swank and I’d swear I heard his car in the driveway.
“Don’t worry about my old man,” he’d say—“he wouldn’t give a shit anyway.”
“Sounds pretty cool.”
“Think so?” He handed me a magazine. “Check this one out.” He went into the kitchen. “You want a beer?”
Behind me I could hear little Gene breathing. He sounded plugged up, his face stuck in the crease of the couch. A can cracked and hissed in the kitchen, then another. I reached behind me and rolled Gene over and wiped his nose with my fingers.
“So what’s it like being smart?” Ray said from the kitchen.
“C’mon,” I said.
“C’mon, what?—All that readin’ you do, you’re probably goin’ to college.” He came back in, handed me a beer. “Fuck, I’d go. Anything’s better than this shit.”
“You could go.”
He laughed. “Get me out of the draft, right?” He took a drink, swallowed a belch: “Only way I’d get into fuckin’ college is if I broke in through a window.” He started talking along with the TV in a fake baritone: “Like sands through the hourglass … so are the Days of Our Lives. I can’t stand this shit.” He crawled over on his knees, switched the channel.
“My mom watches that crap,” I said.
“Yeah?” Little Gene stirred, started to cry, then fell back asleep. “Almost time for him to eat. Ours took off.”
“She just left?”
“Funny how that happens around here.”
“Where to?”
“Who the fuck knows? Not my mom anyway—his.” He was looking at the TV. “You ever think about takin’ off?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, seriously, one day just like walkin’ the fuck out. Not like, you know, Philly or somethin’, but different, like some place they talk a different language an’ everything.”
“Sure.”
“I think about it all the time.”
“You should go,” I said. “I mean, you know, when you’re ready.”
“Maybe I will.”
He stood up. “I gotta get his bottle.”
He grabbed the empties and walked into the kitchen. “Have to take my little guy along—can’t go anywhere without him. Who knows—maybe we could go out west, live off the land and shit.” I heard the refrigerator open. “Fuck, we’re outta milk.”
He came into the doorway. “Listen, you think your folks would have some milk?”
I WAS NERVOUS when I called—I’m not sure why, exactly. We’d had a few beers, but it wasn’t that. It was Ray, mostly: the coat, the walk, the broken tooth. I could see us showing up at the door, him carrying the baby. And what would he make of my parents, our house—the books, the
That spring I’d come by the house after practice sometime and he’d be watching TV with little Gene and we’d sit on the floor with our backs against the couch talking and looking through the stacks of dirty magazines his dad kept in the utility room. He’d bring in an armful and dump them on the carpet between us . One had a story called “Cleopatra and the Snake” with pictures of some woman dressed up in an Egyptian headdress squeezing her breasts together over a boa constrictor.
I liked being there, liked sprawling on that dirty carpet with the cigarette butts and the paper bags and the still-wet towels. Half-empty but cluttered, it felt like a house in the middle of moving out, when the couch is still there so you have a place to sit but the shelves are gone and the pictures are gone and the place where the loveseat used to be is just a shadow on the wall. It’s hard to explain. There was something free about the pile of dust and butts that somebody had swept into a corner. The coffee table was covered with bottle rings like the Olympics gone crazy. A broken table lamp lay on its side by the wall, the wire torn from the rim of the shade.
Early on I’d keep thinking about Ray’s dad coming home from his shift at Sing Sing and finding us there. We’d be sprawled out on the floor against the couch, leafing through Playboy and Swank and I’d swear I heard his car in the driveway.
“Don’t worry about my old man,” he’d say—“he wouldn’t give a shit anyway.”
“Sounds pretty cool.”
“Think so?” He handed me a magazine. “Check this one out.” He went into the kitchen. “You want a beer?”
Behind me I could hear little Gene breathing. He sounded plugged up, his face stuck in the crease of the couch. A can cracked and hissed in the kitchen, then another. I reached behind me and rolled Gene over and wiped his nose with my fingers.
“So what’s it like being smart?” Ray said from the kitchen.
“C’mon,” I said.
“C’mon, what?—All that readin’ you do, you’re probably goin’ to college.” He came back in, handed me a beer. “Fuck, I’d go. Anything’s better than this shit.”
“You could go.”
He laughed. “Get me out of the draft, right?” He took a drink, swallowed a belch: “Only way I’d get into fuckin’ college is if I broke in through a window.” He started talking along with the TV in a fake baritone: “Like sands through the hourglass … so are the Days of Our Lives. I can’t stand this shit.” He crawled over on his knees, switched the channel.
“My mom watches that crap,” I said.
“Yeah?” Little Gene stirred, started to cry, then fell back asleep. “Almost time for him to eat. Ours took off.”
“She just left?”
“Funny how that happens around here.”
“Where to?”
“Who the fuck knows? Not my mom anyway—his.” He was looking at the TV. “You ever think about takin’ off?”
“Sure.”
“I mean, seriously, one day just like walkin’ the fuck out. Not like, you know, Philly or somethin’, but different, like some place they talk a different language an’ everything.”
“Sure.”
“I think about it all the time.”
“You should go,” I said. “I mean, you know, when you’re ready.”
“Maybe I will.”
He stood up. “I gotta get his bottle.”
He grabbed the empties and walked into the kitchen. “Have to take my little guy along—can’t go anywhere without him. Who knows—maybe we could go out west, live off the land and shit.” I heard the refrigerator open. “Fuck, we’re outta milk.”
He came into the doorway. “Listen, you think your folks would have some milk?”
I WAS NERVOUS when I called—I’m not sure why, exactly. We’d had a few beers, but it wasn’t that. It was Ray, mostly: the coat, the walk, the broken tooth. I could see us showing up at the door, him carrying the baby. And what would he make of my parents, our house—the books, the
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