Read Online The Wanderers by Richard Price - Free Book Online

Nine-thirty. Saturday morning sunlight splashed onto the bright red-and-white oilcloth leaving a swath of brightness across Emilio's chin, neck, and seminaked chest. Joey brought in a cup of coffee for himself and sat down in his underwear at the far end of the table. Emilio glanced briefly at his son and returned his gaze to the street and the el tracks, which were eye level with the window. Joey sipped his coffee and watched his father. He was dying for a cigarette but afraid to ask for one.
    "Jo-wee! Jo-wee!"
    "Fi' minutes!" He dashed into his bedroom, crammed his equipment into a duffel bag, and slipped on a sleeveless sweatshirt and black dungarees. Yanking the bag over his shoulder he tramped into the dinette and gulped down the rest of his coffee standing up. "Twelve-thirty at French Charlie's," he said to his father. Emilio didn't turn around. Joey stood there for a few seconds staring at his father's back, then left the house.
    Emilio watched his son emerge from the building. Buddy, Eugene, the Tassos, and Richie waited for him on the bench, duffel bags strewn at their feet. Eugene threw the football at Joey, who one-handed it and flipped it behind his back. A perfect spiral. Emilio felt a strange rage building up inside him, a restless blackness at watching the six boys. He lit another cigarette and turned off the radio. He felt a little better when they tramped up the hill toward Bronx Park. His anger turned to a mazelike boredom. Hearing bis wife in the bathroom, he slipped into the bedroom, dressed quickly, and left the house.
    It was a beautiful day, and he decided to take a walk toward Allerton Avenue. The el train roared overhead but he'd stopped hearing it years ago, after he'd moved into the projects. Sometimes his whole life seemed to be made up of loud noises—el trains, sirens, alarms, screams from burning windows, but he didn't mind noise that much, at least he preferred it to the silences in his life. He bought a
Daily News
on the corner of White Plains Road and Allerton Avenue under the el station stairs and walked down Allerton toward the park. A block from the entrance he stopped. He didn't mean to go to the park to see the game He was going to read the goddamn paper and have a smoke' He felt as if he had to convince an invisible audience in his head of this fact. The game had slipped his mind and he was just going for a goddamn walk. He became angry again He cursed Joey Little bastard Can't even go into the park for a little relaxation on a Saturday morning Emilio folded the paper jammedit under his arm and wheeled back toward White Plains Road He went home, made it to the elevator, turned around, stormed out to the street again, his face as red as a blood boil, and walked back to the park. He sat on a bench for ten minutes staring at the sports page without one score or photo registering in his enraged head. He flung the paper onto the narrow asphalt bicycle path, scattering it like tumbleweed. He kicked furiously at a pirouetting page that the wind blew across his legs. He marched back to the newspaper stand. He had nowhere to go. The anger drained away, substituted again by the baffling boredom. He didn't want to go home, but there was nothing to do. He thought of going down to the fire station. He thought of taking a nice ride through Westchester. He thought of going out to Brooklyn to visit his parents. Everything seemed incredibly boring and meaningless and stupid and fuck Joey anyway, the little bony rat, rat shit.
    Ten-thirty! Emilio stood at the bar beside Lenny Arkadian in Manny's. Lenny and John the bartender disliked Emilio.
He made them nervous the way most bullies make people nervous. They didn't like him, but they made sure they were nice to him.
    "How's your kid?" Lenny twirled the ice in his drink.
    Emilio looked away, annoyed. Lenny shrugged. John absently wiped the counter in the subdued almost brown light of bis bar. "What time's the game, Lenny?"
    "One o'clock,