foam.
“There’s egg in these,” he said, sliding one to Kaz. “They make some crazy shit.”
“There alcohol in it?” Kaz said.
“You need to chill.”
“I have to play tomorrow.”
Manny lifted his glass. Kaz tentatively sipped at the foam. I followed his lead. Within minutes, our collective mood began to change. Manny told the story of his threesome. Kaz leaned in, listening intently.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Ask her yourself,” Manny said. “She’s coming tomorrow.”
I had not felt so relaxed in months. I gave Combover’s Visa to Manny, and he went to the bar for more.
Kaz and I watched the woman in red. The Spanish was now beyond my grasp. The music was ethereal and hard to follow. Circular melodies rose above wavering notes from the vibraphone. I felt like I had entered a spell.
“Manny’s a nut job,” Kaz said.
“This afternoon he showed me a sex tape.”
“He showed me one, too,” Kaz said.
We let that sit.
“How are you?” Kaz said.
“Good.”
“Pictures?”
“Every day.”
“They say . . . ?”
I shook my head. “It’s just waiting.”
“Zip it zip it zip it,” Manny said, returning from the bar. “Let’s see if those girls will dance.”
He pushed more frothy glasses into our hands and pointed to the bar. Two Indian women sat on the tall stools, both wearing long orange dresses that glimmered metallically in the soft light. They smoked cigarettes and scowled at each other, shaking their heads. They were older than us and seemed intent on a calm evening of disgust at whatever it was they were discussing. But Manny was not deterred. He spread his huge lips into that grin and held his arms open wide. He said, “Ladies!” then he put an arm on the back of each and leaned in. I don’t know what he said next, but it worked. The women stood, looking at each other in mild surprise, as if they had both been lifted into the air by some unseen force. Manny started to dance, and then we all were—Kaz with one of the women in his arms, Manny with the other, and I by myself. I hated dancing, but I had never wanted to dance so much in my life. I invented a dance. It was called the groundstroke. I hit a forehand winner, then a backhand winner. Forehand winner, slice. Forehand winner, backhand winner. Forehand winner, slice. I tossed an invisible ball and served it directly to Kaz, who returned it across the bar. Manny was licking the face of his partner. I started to feel like I might fall. I held myself against the bar and laughed, pointing at Manny licking the Indian woman.
“Do that!” I yelled. “Do that!”
I sat on the damp floor. Manny ran towards me. I closed my eyes and laughed. I threw an invisible beanbag through the air and yelled, “Cornhole!” but the sound didn’t come out. I was amazed at the silence.
“Cornhole! Cornhole! Cornhole!”
7
AFTER THE ACCIDENT, friends did not fly in for support. The ones that were already in town stayed away. People would drop off food, silently leaving it on my doorstep even when I was home, sitting ten feet away on the couch.
Kaz, though. The day after the accident, he moved into my guest room.
That night he took me to Sue-nami. In the entryway hung photos of the two of us at Wimbledon, the French Open, at Forest Hills. Playing at Ephesus Park at age nine. One of Kaz’s old racquets hung behind the register, a wooden Wilson with its press clamped on. The wallpaper of trees had faded to a dull yellow, the vast forest finally now in autumn. His mother hugged me and led us to a table built around a huge central range. I could tell she was nervous, unsure of what to say. A miniature fishing boat filled with sushi arrived, rolls I would never be able to identify. By myself, I was helpless in a sushi restaurant. I had been too spoiled for years, riches of raw fish delivered to me by women who smiled and nodded enthusiastically. We ate it all and more. We drank massive amounts of sake and laughed at a
“There’s egg in these,” he said, sliding one to Kaz. “They make some crazy shit.”
“There alcohol in it?” Kaz said.
“You need to chill.”
“I have to play tomorrow.”
Manny lifted his glass. Kaz tentatively sipped at the foam. I followed his lead. Within minutes, our collective mood began to change. Manny told the story of his threesome. Kaz leaned in, listening intently.
“I don’t believe it,” he said.
“Ask her yourself,” Manny said. “She’s coming tomorrow.”
I had not felt so relaxed in months. I gave Combover’s Visa to Manny, and he went to the bar for more.
Kaz and I watched the woman in red. The Spanish was now beyond my grasp. The music was ethereal and hard to follow. Circular melodies rose above wavering notes from the vibraphone. I felt like I had entered a spell.
“Manny’s a nut job,” Kaz said.
“This afternoon he showed me a sex tape.”
“He showed me one, too,” Kaz said.
We let that sit.
“How are you?” Kaz said.
“Good.”
“Pictures?”
“Every day.”
“They say . . . ?”
I shook my head. “It’s just waiting.”
“Zip it zip it zip it,” Manny said, returning from the bar. “Let’s see if those girls will dance.”
He pushed more frothy glasses into our hands and pointed to the bar. Two Indian women sat on the tall stools, both wearing long orange dresses that glimmered metallically in the soft light. They smoked cigarettes and scowled at each other, shaking their heads. They were older than us and seemed intent on a calm evening of disgust at whatever it was they were discussing. But Manny was not deterred. He spread his huge lips into that grin and held his arms open wide. He said, “Ladies!” then he put an arm on the back of each and leaned in. I don’t know what he said next, but it worked. The women stood, looking at each other in mild surprise, as if they had both been lifted into the air by some unseen force. Manny started to dance, and then we all were—Kaz with one of the women in his arms, Manny with the other, and I by myself. I hated dancing, but I had never wanted to dance so much in my life. I invented a dance. It was called the groundstroke. I hit a forehand winner, then a backhand winner. Forehand winner, slice. Forehand winner, backhand winner. Forehand winner, slice. I tossed an invisible ball and served it directly to Kaz, who returned it across the bar. Manny was licking the face of his partner. I started to feel like I might fall. I held myself against the bar and laughed, pointing at Manny licking the Indian woman.
“Do that!” I yelled. “Do that!”
I sat on the damp floor. Manny ran towards me. I closed my eyes and laughed. I threw an invisible beanbag through the air and yelled, “Cornhole!” but the sound didn’t come out. I was amazed at the silence.
“Cornhole! Cornhole! Cornhole!”
7
AFTER THE ACCIDENT, friends did not fly in for support. The ones that were already in town stayed away. People would drop off food, silently leaving it on my doorstep even when I was home, sitting ten feet away on the couch.
Kaz, though. The day after the accident, he moved into my guest room.
That night he took me to Sue-nami. In the entryway hung photos of the two of us at Wimbledon, the French Open, at Forest Hills. Playing at Ephesus Park at age nine. One of Kaz’s old racquets hung behind the register, a wooden Wilson with its press clamped on. The wallpaper of trees had faded to a dull yellow, the vast forest finally now in autumn. His mother hugged me and led us to a table built around a huge central range. I could tell she was nervous, unsure of what to say. A miniature fishing boat filled with sushi arrived, rolls I would never be able to identify. By myself, I was helpless in a sushi restaurant. I had been too spoiled for years, riches of raw fish delivered to me by women who smiled and nodded enthusiastically. We ate it all and more. We drank massive amounts of sake and laughed at a
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