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Authors: Jr., Abraham Rodriguez
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eyes.
âthatâs not how you kissed me the first time, he said.
âI was drunk the first time, she said.
he laughed. she pulled his hands off. bloodstains on her blouse. everywhere he touched her. he touched her face.
she ran. it was a long blurry hallway. water splashed in through cracks in the walls. she went up some stairs and pushed against a metal door. when it finally gave, water burst in. the streets were full of water. it was the great new york flood of 2001. the water was up to her waist and rising, brown brackish. people everywhere running, screaming. cars floated free and crashed into storefronts. dead bodies floated up in bubbles from subway entrances.
it was new york but it wasnât. it was park place, it was dupont circle. there was boston first federal savings bank on the corner. there was a T-train stop. people struggled to pack into its trolley depth even though it was already inundated. she fought her way through the water against the rising current. couldnât tell new york, d.c., or boston. couldnât tell uptown or downtown. she wanted uptown. manhattan was sinking. whenever she had been in that part of town and lost her bearings, she would check the horizon to orient herself against the world trade towers. she looked for them now, should have been visible. but they were nowhere in sight. a dented skyline. sideways swimming. looking for street signs. the buildings were not saying. she was swimming but not getting far. clear of buildings, she could make out the vast sweep of the atlantic ocean. just past the sinking skyline was europe. the eiffel tower, visible beyond the curvy waves. she was kicking through the cushiony warm wet, but the water was gelatin thick. she was sinking, a dark scramble into murk. she was fighting her way out of the dream. the airless dark pocket between waking and not waking.
âwhere did you find her? a voice asked.
âthe feeling is that your life is like slides, the woman in the chair next to hers said in a manâs voice. someone slips in a new one while you pass out. you wake up someplace else.
âsheâs a dancer, someone said.
âsheâs a model, someone said.
âsheâs an actress, someone was doing her hair. she was at saritaâs, the beauty parlor, with the cotton-haired puerto rican woman who was a santera and gifted with insights. the place was packed. women in chairs everywhere talking spanish while blow dryers blew and spanish music spanished. sarita, snipping at her wet curls, paused as if receiving a message.
âyouâre going to take a long trip, she said.
after she told him everything, david drove her down 149th street. she could hardly take in all the frenetic traffic heading in all directions, so she took snaps. subway noise rising up through subway gratings. stores obscured by boxes of sneakers racks of t-shirts and stressed jeans. music pumping from electronic stores. cheap flashy strobes. fat black speakers sitting by the entrances wearing thick chains like bad niggas.
he stopped in front of a bank, his face grim with purpose. she almost wanted him not to do it, to not include her. if she didnât know then, she couldnât say, no matter what manner of drug alan gave her. once she knew, she would have to make a choice.
hesitation.
âmaybe if your brother puts the money back, she said, they wonât have a reason to bother him.
âyes they will, he said.
she knew it was stupid when she said it, but she had to say something.
âif he goes to the feds, they wonât touch him.
she knew he didnât believe her, and she didnât believe it either.
âitâs too late, he said.
in the bank, thick cushiony carpet. a smell of sterile and cheap colognes clashing. he took her down some stairs, right up to the lady behind the bars in the cage.
âmy name is david romero, he lied. planted his key on the slick marble counter. I have a safe-deposit box here and
âthatâs not how you kissed me the first time, he said.
âI was drunk the first time, she said.
he laughed. she pulled his hands off. bloodstains on her blouse. everywhere he touched her. he touched her face.
she ran. it was a long blurry hallway. water splashed in through cracks in the walls. she went up some stairs and pushed against a metal door. when it finally gave, water burst in. the streets were full of water. it was the great new york flood of 2001. the water was up to her waist and rising, brown brackish. people everywhere running, screaming. cars floated free and crashed into storefronts. dead bodies floated up in bubbles from subway entrances.
it was new york but it wasnât. it was park place, it was dupont circle. there was boston first federal savings bank on the corner. there was a T-train stop. people struggled to pack into its trolley depth even though it was already inundated. she fought her way through the water against the rising current. couldnât tell new york, d.c., or boston. couldnât tell uptown or downtown. she wanted uptown. manhattan was sinking. whenever she had been in that part of town and lost her bearings, she would check the horizon to orient herself against the world trade towers. she looked for them now, should have been visible. but they were nowhere in sight. a dented skyline. sideways swimming. looking for street signs. the buildings were not saying. she was swimming but not getting far. clear of buildings, she could make out the vast sweep of the atlantic ocean. just past the sinking skyline was europe. the eiffel tower, visible beyond the curvy waves. she was kicking through the cushiony warm wet, but the water was gelatin thick. she was sinking, a dark scramble into murk. she was fighting her way out of the dream. the airless dark pocket between waking and not waking.
âwhere did you find her? a voice asked.
âthe feeling is that your life is like slides, the woman in the chair next to hers said in a manâs voice. someone slips in a new one while you pass out. you wake up someplace else.
âsheâs a dancer, someone said.
âsheâs a model, someone said.
âsheâs an actress, someone was doing her hair. she was at saritaâs, the beauty parlor, with the cotton-haired puerto rican woman who was a santera and gifted with insights. the place was packed. women in chairs everywhere talking spanish while blow dryers blew and spanish music spanished. sarita, snipping at her wet curls, paused as if receiving a message.
âyouâre going to take a long trip, she said.
after she told him everything, david drove her down 149th street. she could hardly take in all the frenetic traffic heading in all directions, so she took snaps. subway noise rising up through subway gratings. stores obscured by boxes of sneakers racks of t-shirts and stressed jeans. music pumping from electronic stores. cheap flashy strobes. fat black speakers sitting by the entrances wearing thick chains like bad niggas.
he stopped in front of a bank, his face grim with purpose. she almost wanted him not to do it, to not include her. if she didnât know then, she couldnât say, no matter what manner of drug alan gave her. once she knew, she would have to make a choice.
hesitation.
âmaybe if your brother puts the money back, she said, they wonât have a reason to bother him.
âyes they will, he said.
she knew it was stupid when she said it, but she had to say something.
âif he goes to the feds, they wonât touch him.
she knew he didnât believe her, and she didnât believe it either.
âitâs too late, he said.
in the bank, thick cushiony carpet. a smell of sterile and cheap colognes clashing. he took her down some stairs, right up to the lady behind the bars in the cage.
âmy name is david romero, he lied. planted his key on the slick marble counter. I have a safe-deposit box here and
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