Read Online Have a NYC 3 by Peter Carlaftes - Free Book Online

Then my mind wandered farther afield.
    I found myself hoping, perversely, the guy was truly critically ill. I yearned for him to keep burning up with fever; maybe even get worse, until he absolutely had to get to the hospital immediately. I preferred to see this unfortunate stranger in desperate straits rather than face the possibility that he was a fraud.
    â€œIt’s okay, Mitchell. You’ll get better. Things’ll get better. Maybe you’ll be the one doing me the favor next time.”
    On the other hand, perhaps what he really needed were his shoes to walk home to the Bronx. I imagined he came downtown to cop and was given an ultimatum. First he had to buy those selfsame shoes back from the dude above me on the fourth floor, the dealer who kicked his sorry butt downstairs with brutal threats: “I’m keeping your shoes right here till you get that bread, motherfucker.”
    In my mind’s beta reel, I heard poor Mitchell being shoved up against the wall. “I don’t care if you go door (SLAP) by (SLAP) door (SLAP) to every apartment in this fucking (SLAP) build (SLAP) ing (SLAP) . I don’t care if you rob the corner (SLAP) deli (SLAP) or pick (SLAP) pocket (SLAP) some yuppie (SLAP) cocksucker (SLAP) going to a club on the Bowery (SLAP) . Get me my money any way you can, faggot (SLAP) , and do it quick (SLAP) —or else.”
    What kind of a scene did my mind need to write for him that would elicit my belief in him? And would it still be possible for me to emerge from this scene as an exemplary sister of human kindness? As “she who took the stranger into her home, despite his being a carrier of the dreaded plague . . . and possibly a weapon?”
    Would I be cast as “The She,” a beautiful, beneficent angel who gave him water, money and succor; who held him gingerly to her shoulder as he wept . . .
    â€œI mean after all, Mitchell, who do we human beings have if we don’t have each other?”
    In order for this poor unfortunate man to be worthy of my selfless words of compassion, it seemed I had to condemn him to a dreadful disease or stultifying addiction—and force him to get bitch-slapped. It didn’t matter to me, as I long as I came out smelling like a keeper of the roses rather than the archangel of condemnation.
    I grew disgusted with myself. Obviously the guy was suffering, but that didn’t necessarily make me a better person because I was reluctantly being nice to him. . . . Honestly. . . . I used to believe that caring for one’s fellow human being was not foolhardy, that a communitarian impulse could be trusted without cynical afterthought or the need for recognition. Then why, in the pit of my stomach, was there still a cauldron of cold rage and fear—fear that I’d been taken for a naïve creampuff?
    â€œThank you, thank you so much. I’ll never forget you.”
    Oh, so what if I was being deceived! Should that henceforth impede my natural impulse to be kind and open? Would it ultimately reduce my intelligence if I was, indeed, a bit of a giving fool?
    â€œReally, it’s cool. Just get better real soon.”
    â€œI will, I promise you, I will.”
    â€œGood,” I said it and I meant it. . I blinked back tears and opened the door.
    â€œJust . . . ” he said, turning toward me before he departed. “Can you do me one last favor?”
    Okay, I thought. Here we go. Is he going to pull a gun on me? Call up to his junkie buddies on the fourth floor to come on down and rip off my threadbare apartment? Is this the part where he turns into an alien?
    â€œWha’ . . . ” I stammered, confused by my feverish ruminations. I gulped for air. “What?”
    â€œCan I come back and see you when I’m better?” Mitchell asked sweetly.
    In that moment, I was convinced that it really didn’t matter whether Mitchell was a person living with AIDS or some poor bastard strung out on bad