married somebody else he’d never know if the girl just wanted to be with him for his wallet and his image - because he was Jake Thomas. But Christina had known him before he was Jake Thomas, or at least before the name Jake Thomas meant anything. Of course, he’d make her sign a prenup in case the marriage fell apart, but it was still good to know that their love was real.
‘I missed you so much, baby,’ Jake said.
He kissed her again. She must’ve started smoking cigarettes, because he felt like he was sucking face with an ashtray, but for the first time all day, he was glad he came home to Brooklyn.
Five
On East Ninety-fifth Street, Ryan pulled into a spot and put the car in park, bopping his head to the beat of ‘Candy Shop,’ one of his favorite 50 Cent joints. He listened to the whole song; then, timing it exactly with the last lyric, he shut off the CD player.
As he walked up the sidewalk, a kid, maybe ten years old, pulled up next to him on a dirt bike and mumbled something Ryan couldn’t make out, but he knew it was an offer to buy drugs. Ryan shook his head, and the kid said, ‘Fuck you then,’ and rode away.
Christina and her father lived in a small two-story, two-bedroom house. It could have been much nicer than where Ryan lived - there was a front yard, it was on its own lot, and there were a lot of trees on the block - but the place wasn’t kept up. It needed a paint job desperately, gutters were hanging down off the roof, siding was missing, and the lawn was mostly weeds.
Ryan rang the doorbell, then heard slow, creaking footsteps. Seconds later, Al Mercado opened the door, smiling, but when he saw it was Ryan, his usual bitter expression returned.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I thought it was gonna be Jake.’
Ryan entered the house, breathing in the odor of must and mildew, which probably came from the old carpeting. As always, the house was dark and the shades were drawn.
‘Christina’s upstairs getting dressed,’ Al said, and then he settled back onto the couch and stared at the horse race on TV.
Ryan was about to say something when Al raised one hand, making the
stop
sign, and continued to stare intensely at the screen.
Ryan couldn’t believe that one of Al’s sperm had helped to create Christina. If Ryan didn’t know Al, if he just passed him on the street, he would’ve figured he was some sick, homeless nutcase. Al was bald except for some gray hairs he combed from the back of his head over the top. He had a scraggly gray beard, wore old, dirty clothes, and he usually looked filthy, like he didn’t bathe. The funny thing was, Al was a bright guy. For years he taught social studies at Hudde Junior High. Christina claimed her father was different back then - he took care of himself and dressed better; you could actually sit down and have a conversation with him. Then Christina’s mother died when Christina was nine, and Al had a breakdown. It got so bad he had to take a leave of absence from work, and Christina’s aunt Mary had to come live with them for a while because Al was so depressed. Al went back to teaching the next year, but he still hadn’t recovered. Then, as he was leaving school one day, crossing Nostrand Avenue, he stepped into a pothole, fell, and broke his hip. Even though he made a full recovery, he got one of those crook lawyers to claim that he was experiencing pain and emotional distress and worked out a hundred-thousand-dollar settlement from the city. Then he got a doctor to say that teaching was impossible in his condition, and he went on disability. Instead of putting away money for the future, he pissed it away on poker, horses, and weekend junkets to Atlantic City. Within a couple of years all of the money from the settlement was gone, and now he was living on his monthly checks and the money Christina brought in. Meanwhile he spent just about every day parked on the living room couch, watching the racing channel and gambling on his OTB phone account.
‘I missed you so much, baby,’ Jake said.
He kissed her again. She must’ve started smoking cigarettes, because he felt like he was sucking face with an ashtray, but for the first time all day, he was glad he came home to Brooklyn.
Five
On East Ninety-fifth Street, Ryan pulled into a spot and put the car in park, bopping his head to the beat of ‘Candy Shop,’ one of his favorite 50 Cent joints. He listened to the whole song; then, timing it exactly with the last lyric, he shut off the CD player.
As he walked up the sidewalk, a kid, maybe ten years old, pulled up next to him on a dirt bike and mumbled something Ryan couldn’t make out, but he knew it was an offer to buy drugs. Ryan shook his head, and the kid said, ‘Fuck you then,’ and rode away.
Christina and her father lived in a small two-story, two-bedroom house. It could have been much nicer than where Ryan lived - there was a front yard, it was on its own lot, and there were a lot of trees on the block - but the place wasn’t kept up. It needed a paint job desperately, gutters were hanging down off the roof, siding was missing, and the lawn was mostly weeds.
Ryan rang the doorbell, then heard slow, creaking footsteps. Seconds later, Al Mercado opened the door, smiling, but when he saw it was Ryan, his usual bitter expression returned.
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I thought it was gonna be Jake.’
Ryan entered the house, breathing in the odor of must and mildew, which probably came from the old carpeting. As always, the house was dark and the shades were drawn.
‘Christina’s upstairs getting dressed,’ Al said, and then he settled back onto the couch and stared at the horse race on TV.
Ryan was about to say something when Al raised one hand, making the
stop
sign, and continued to stare intensely at the screen.
Ryan couldn’t believe that one of Al’s sperm had helped to create Christina. If Ryan didn’t know Al, if he just passed him on the street, he would’ve figured he was some sick, homeless nutcase. Al was bald except for some gray hairs he combed from the back of his head over the top. He had a scraggly gray beard, wore old, dirty clothes, and he usually looked filthy, like he didn’t bathe. The funny thing was, Al was a bright guy. For years he taught social studies at Hudde Junior High. Christina claimed her father was different back then - he took care of himself and dressed better; you could actually sit down and have a conversation with him. Then Christina’s mother died when Christina was nine, and Al had a breakdown. It got so bad he had to take a leave of absence from work, and Christina’s aunt Mary had to come live with them for a while because Al was so depressed. Al went back to teaching the next year, but he still hadn’t recovered. Then, as he was leaving school one day, crossing Nostrand Avenue, he stepped into a pothole, fell, and broke his hip. Even though he made a full recovery, he got one of those crook lawyers to claim that he was experiencing pain and emotional distress and worked out a hundred-thousand-dollar settlement from the city. Then he got a doctor to say that teaching was impossible in his condition, and he went on disability. Instead of putting away money for the future, he pissed it away on poker, horses, and weekend junkets to Atlantic City. Within a couple of years all of the money from the settlement was gone, and now he was living on his monthly checks and the money Christina brought in. Meanwhile he spent just about every day parked on the living room couch, watching the racing channel and gambling on his OTB phone account.
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