outwit his bulbous nose and pitted skin with lotions and overscrubbing, not yet having settled into the comfort of his ugliness. His hair was long and nappy like a partially unraveled sweater. I recognized the overall frame of the body and the effeminate gestures of the hands,but the face seemed different. What had the face of the boy in the park looked like?
“I did meet you before in the park, right?” I asked.
“No doubt that is true, but right now let me put it to you this way: if you want to see Joe and Ruella, who is the person who needs to have been met, you or me, chicky?”
“Do you think I’m a boy or a girl?”
“Oh, I can’t say that I honestly care, but I might get somebody to throw your butt out of here if you don’t stop staring at me with those creepy little eyes.”
“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re the guy I sort of—you know, the guy who was going to sell me some pot in the park a few months ago.”
“Oh, I’m the guy.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry, and I’ll give you the money.”
“Like I said, up your butt with a broom handle.”
“Listen, jerk, who the hell are you anyway? Joe and Ruella told me to come here and say hi to them; so I want to see them now.”
“Yes, well, that’s refreshingly spirited and insouciant and naïve to be sure. Have a seat right over there, child.”
“Over where?”
“There.”
“There’s no place to sit down anywhere around here.”
“How observant. If you walk back through the front door and sit on the curb, someone will fetch you when the special moment arrives for you to say ‘Hi’ to Joe and Ruella.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I sat on the curb in the long, shabby black business coatwhich the boy behind the counter had looked askance at, and which I had insisted on buying in a thrift shop despite Skip’s urgings. The sun was bright and the air was frosty. I looked at the seagulls hovering above the river and uttering their cold-weather survivalist cry on this Monday morning. I wondered if many children my age spent as much time as I did trying to imagine what they were supposed to be doing, how they were supposed to behave from one moment to the next in order to make themselves feel real.
A taxicab pulled up and several tall blond women got out and went into the building. Another cab pulled up and several short, dark, voluptuous Mediterranean women got out and went into the building. Another cab pulled up and two ugly Eastern European men in messy clothes who looked as if they had just crawled out of a Dumpster got out and went into the building with camera equipment. I stood up and vomited and went into the building.
The boy who may have been the boy in the park with the pot reclined at his station reading
The Village Voice
. This time he looked to me like Joseph Samuels, so basically I had no idea what the hell was going on.
“I’m back,” I said.
“Yes.”
“No one came to get me.”
“Yes.”
“You told me to wait outside and someone would come get me. That was forty minutes ago.”
“I’m having a vague recollection that leaves me indifferent.”
“I’m here to see—”
“I know.”
“Are you related to Joe Samuels?”
“What can I do to persuade you to go away?”
“I’m related to Skip Hartman. Do you know who she is? Joe and Ruella came to our house for dinner.”
“Oh, so you are September Hartman’s little—yes, well, that’s a whore of a different color. Oh, did I say
whore
? I meant horse.”
“You’re as funny as breast cancer.”
Something like glee entered the rough field of the face of this boy or man who resembled Joe Samuels, except inasmuch as he was black where Joe was white, and who resembled the boy in the park, except inasmuch as he had a rough, wide face where the boy in the park had had just a face, as far as I could remember.
He put on an ear-and-mouthpiece headset and appeared to be pressing numbers on a console. “Joey,” he said into the mouthpiece,
“I did meet you before in the park, right?” I asked.
“No doubt that is true, but right now let me put it to you this way: if you want to see Joe and Ruella, who is the person who needs to have been met, you or me, chicky?”
“Do you think I’m a boy or a girl?”
“Oh, I can’t say that I honestly care, but I might get somebody to throw your butt out of here if you don’t stop staring at me with those creepy little eyes.”
“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re the guy I sort of—you know, the guy who was going to sell me some pot in the park a few months ago.”
“Oh, I’m the guy.”
“Like I said, I’m sorry, and I’ll give you the money.”
“Like I said, up your butt with a broom handle.”
“Listen, jerk, who the hell are you anyway? Joe and Ruella told me to come here and say hi to them; so I want to see them now.”
“Yes, well, that’s refreshingly spirited and insouciant and naïve to be sure. Have a seat right over there, child.”
“Over where?”
“There.”
“There’s no place to sit down anywhere around here.”
“How observant. If you walk back through the front door and sit on the curb, someone will fetch you when the special moment arrives for you to say ‘Hi’ to Joe and Ruella.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I sat on the curb in the long, shabby black business coatwhich the boy behind the counter had looked askance at, and which I had insisted on buying in a thrift shop despite Skip’s urgings. The sun was bright and the air was frosty. I looked at the seagulls hovering above the river and uttering their cold-weather survivalist cry on this Monday morning. I wondered if many children my age spent as much time as I did trying to imagine what they were supposed to be doing, how they were supposed to behave from one moment to the next in order to make themselves feel real.
A taxicab pulled up and several tall blond women got out and went into the building. Another cab pulled up and several short, dark, voluptuous Mediterranean women got out and went into the building. Another cab pulled up and two ugly Eastern European men in messy clothes who looked as if they had just crawled out of a Dumpster got out and went into the building with camera equipment. I stood up and vomited and went into the building.
The boy who may have been the boy in the park with the pot reclined at his station reading
The Village Voice
. This time he looked to me like Joseph Samuels, so basically I had no idea what the hell was going on.
“I’m back,” I said.
“Yes.”
“No one came to get me.”
“Yes.”
“You told me to wait outside and someone would come get me. That was forty minutes ago.”
“I’m having a vague recollection that leaves me indifferent.”
“I’m here to see—”
“I know.”
“Are you related to Joe Samuels?”
“What can I do to persuade you to go away?”
“I’m related to Skip Hartman. Do you know who she is? Joe and Ruella came to our house for dinner.”
“Oh, so you are September Hartman’s little—yes, well, that’s a whore of a different color. Oh, did I say
whore
? I meant horse.”
“You’re as funny as breast cancer.”
Something like glee entered the rough field of the face of this boy or man who resembled Joe Samuels, except inasmuch as he was black where Joe was white, and who resembled the boy in the park, except inasmuch as he had a rough, wide face where the boy in the park had had just a face, as far as I could remember.
He put on an ear-and-mouthpiece headset and appeared to be pressing numbers on a console. “Joey,” he said into the mouthpiece,
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