131 Different Things Read online

  As if on cue, Francis, my aforementioned best friend and that night’s swing-shift bartender, walked in with Virgil, the night-shift bartender who was also my friend, and who I had referred to as my “token black friend” until he slammed me against a wall and explained how entirely offensive he found that.

  Virgil shook my hand; he’d refused to give me complicated handshakes since our altercation. He went to the back room to hide his skateboard and change his shirt. Francis kissed the girls for too long on the cheek and grinned at me, arms outstretched. He didn’t care if I hugged him. It was just a greeting.

  “Francis. Hello. Do you want to work your swing shift?”

  “Sam. I do not.”

  “Good. What are you drinking?”

  “Nothing for now. I need to talk to these fine bitches. Ladies? My office?”

  The girls slid off their stools and followed Francis outside to smoke. I saw them through the window both offer Francis cigarettes. He took both, tucking one behind his ear and lighting the other from Sanita’s lit one. When he leaned in, Sarita leaned in too even though she didn’t need to.

  Some frat boys at the west side of the bar were calling out for Irish Car Bombs. I made the drinks and charged an extra dollar for the effort and another for the corniness.

  Outside, Francis was making jokes and the ladies were laughing. Sanita smacked Francis so his winter cap fell preciously in his eyes. Sarita fixed it, kissing him on the cheek.

  When they came back in, Francis still had lipstick on his face until he noticed Drunk Fireman giving him a hard look, and he scrubbed it off fast.

  There was a lull in the orders. Virgil, though he wasn’t due to work for two hours, started cleaning glasses and setting them to dry in front of the top-shelf liquor. I took the opportunity to show off the book. I opened to a page in the middle, with a black-and-white photo of Virgil in his glory, shirtless and in full flight over a passed-out oogle.

  “Well, damn. There I am! Nice! I like the way you caught sleeping beauty. Took me three tries to get the landing right. Those train punks are real sound sleepers.”

  Francis, who’d gotten my excited call when the book arrived at my door, made exaggerated motions of needing a drink. I knew he was proud of me getting something published, but as I hadn’t gotten paid, it still sort of figured into his image of me as the world’s dope for the kicking.

  I dropped the book behind the register and gave Francis a Guinness and a shot of Jameson. He put a twenty on the bar and I ignored it. It was the same twenty that had passed from bartender to bartender since times immemorial. The joke I’d heard since I was old enough to change a keg was that there was one solitary twenty-dollar bill in New York City, shared amongst all bar staff. Nobody rang it in and it went from tip jar to tip jar, never to find rest till Bartender Jesus returned.

  Sanita and Sarita went to the bathroom together, Pym’s Cup being one of those bars where that was absolutely required for ladies. Someone had to watch the door at all times.

  Francis did his shot. He took off his hat and set it by his beer. He looked like a River Phoenix who’d lived, but not necessarily well. He was still devastatingly handsome. His hair did things I could never get pomade to approximate. At thirty-three, wear was setting in. Men, in general, get more handsome with age, but there’s a certain kind of elfishness that hints at serious future disappointment with every crow’s foot around the eyes. Women still forgave Francis anything and everything, so it was possible that my having known him in his aesthetic purity put me in the minority of seeing lines of doom come off him. I still liked looking at him, though. He tapped his shot glass and I refilled it. We had a moment.

  “Sam. I apparently have to talk to you about Vicki.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s back in town.”

  “Okay.” I started to sweat again.

  “That’s not all.”

  “O-KAY.”

  “Vicki is, from what the fat furies—no disrespect—are telling me, drinking again. Admittedly, the ladies are only occasionally dependable sources. But I choose to believe them.”

  I heard the sound of angels, though it may have been the Cocteau Twins, coming from the jukebox. I turned it up.

  Francis looked concerned. “See, that face you’re making concerns me. The fact that you just turned up this awful music concerns me. I told Sanita and Sarita that I didn’t want to tell you and they insisted. They love drama. They love it. Are you going enable them, Sam?”

  I heard choral hymns and the lights above me flickered. I spit up into the trash can next to me. I poured myself my first shot of the night. Jameson. Just a single. I had to keep my wits about me.

  “We have to find her.”

  “Oh, Sam. Please no. I just want to get drunk. I just want to get drunk with my friend and I want to get some pussy and I want to ditch my friend for said pussy.”

  “We have to find her.”

  “Sam. I’m begging you. So she’s drinking. So what? That means nothing. I want to have a fun Saturday. No missions. No romance. No Vicki.”

  But if Vicki was drinking again, then Vicki could love me again.

  I really missed Vicki and I hadn’t cum in a really good way for as long as I could remember. I was tired of being drunk all the time, staring at chests on the subway, getting home to my one-bedroom with a closet I was forced to rent out, locking my door, masturbating to a combination of free Internet porn, my memories of people who’d allowed me to cum on their faces, and whatever chestal imagery I’d managed to collect, waking at noon to make a cheese sandwich, reading Vicki’s old blog entries for hours, and trying to sleep and not do laundry, until I had to work again.

  I’d been making drinks during this rumination and I had to dump an entire shaker of Redheaded Sluts because they tasted like candied wallpaper. I mean, more than they should have.

  Francis said, “Sam. I can’t stand it when you’re in pain.”

  “We’re going to find her. Tonight. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Outside of my just-stated needs, nothing is worth my while, Sam. Certainly not Vicki.”

  I said, “I’m not talking about Vicki. I’m talking about me and Vicki. That’s a different moral imperative, one that involves loyalty and self-sacrifice.”

  “On my part.”

  “Yes. That’s the pitch. You can erase years of emotional debt in one night. I will also buy. Not to mention that anyplace Vicki will be, there’s sure to be attractive girls.”

  Francis considered this. He ran his hand through his hair, again, think My Own Private Idaho, and then did it again in case any girls at the bar missed it the first time. “You make good points. I would argue, though, that this will put me one ahead. You will owe me. I will be able to do something unspeakable in the near future and you will have to back me up.”

  “I always have.”

  “Reasonable people can disagree, but okay. I’m your wingman for getting back the girl who, with three short months of sucking your terrible dick more than a year ago, caused a lifetime of pain.”

  “Francis . . .”

  “Okay. Sorry. I’m in. How do we find her?”

  “I don’t know. Let me think. No, that’s a bad idea. You figure it out while I work.”

  Francis would think of something. It would be something that would satisfy his needs first, but, eventually, I’d get what I wanted. I had always trusted him to get me into and out of whatever trouble was needed—ever since the first time when we were kids running from the cops, the 40s of Ballantine in our backpacks shattering or tossed aside, all but the two Francis kept his fists on, over fences and suburban New Jersey hedgerow. A tornado or hurricane or wrath of a prohibitionist god could hit and I’d lose all my bottles in fright and clumsiness but Francis would arise unscathed, with enough beer for us to stay drunk for an afternoon at least.

  Virgil dipped out to get a slice before I left for the night. I served customers, cleaned glasses, and restocked beer, all while thin
king of Vicki, the way she used to drink. The way she’d wear thrift-shop flannel in the summer over expensive shorts, with her skin playing peekaboo from all directions. How she’d never bother to push her hair back when she tilted back a bottle of Jim Beam she’d stolen from another bar and brought to whatever club she’d gotten us invited to. She’d lean back with the bottle and no one would stop her. Security guards would laugh; she was so tiny and the bottle would look so big up against her mouth.

  Down the bar, Sarita was allowing herself to be pulled close to Drunk Fireman and then abruptly pulling away. Drunk Fireman looked like he was going to burst.

  Francis told Sanita, “Sam and I are going to find Vicki. He’s going to woo her.”

  “Oh good. I was hoping this year would bring more Vicki into our lives,” Sanita said. “JK, Sam. You know I love that girl.”

  The skinheads were getting rowdy. They had pretty much taken over the corner by the Addams Family pinball. That didn’t bode too well for the cracked glass or for Virgil’s tips. Half a dozen thugs in flag-covered bomber jackets camped by the entrance of the bar wasn’t exactly an invitation to the college ladies and yuppie men who rent-paying bartenders needed on a Saturday night.

  Francis muttered, “The crew is getting cute. That’ll end well for nobody.”

  The skins were demanding their pints faster and in a more singsong fashion. That was okay. It was when they got quiet and thin-eyed that I got nervous. Well, terrified. I also worried when they were quiet that some customer might mistake them for harmless or, worse, gay. We’d had to drag norms out and call them an ambulance from across the street more than once for them mistaking the pack of psychopaths for fashionable lads who might want to talk footie.

  The other problem was that I’d have to pass them to leave. And by that point their number one, Flannery, might be here. Flannery did not like me.

  Under the watchful gaze of Murray and Drunk Fireman, I brought the skinheads their pints and waited just long enough for it to be emasculating to get paid. It might actually be a little easier for Virgil. They were so prickly about the “racist skinhead” tag that they sometimes gave him more room to breathe. If they decided to stay, and didn’t throw a boot party outside the bar, some poor schmuck was going to get a bottle to the face on the N line back to Astoria.

  I sidled over to Murray. “You hanging out tonight?”

  Murray nodded. That didn’t necessarily mean much. Murray wasn’t the bouncer and if a better offer, drugs or female, came around, he’d be gone. Or if he just got drunk and forgot. But it was something.

  Virgil reappeared and began taking orders. I counted the money and told him that the soda gun was wonky and that some girl was going to come in for her phone she’d forgotten on Friday and to give Murray and Drunk Fireman some free drinks to keep his ass from being beaten if the skins got frisky.

  “Not concerned, my friend, about those confused motherfuckers. All that skinhead stress is from you and yours holding onto the past. They’re just jocks to me. I don’t see them in my head before I get here and I don’t see them in my dreams when I leave. Anyway, only the Puerto Rican ones will take a swing at me. The others want me to like ’em. Not going to happen but why advertise? In the big picture, these dudes don’t exist. Anachronisms with no place to call their home. Fuck them all day long.”

  He poured us each a double Jameson. I found his zen calming. Virgil had been sliced with a box cutter by punks a few years back so his fatalism was subculture neutral.

  Virgil raised his glass. “To ass. Good luck on your mission. Always liked that girl.”

  I clinked and drank. “She’ll be mine by dawn. Noon tomorrow at latest.”

  Francis already had his coat on. I stuffed my tips in my front jeans pocket. Sanita and Sarita took cigarettes out of the chest pocket of my thin winter coat as I put on my layers. White thermal over band T-shirt. No scarf. My mom would be seriously bummed. Francis was dressed the same, like an idiot, but he had a hat and maybe the patches on his jacket provided some warmth. Thanks, Amebix. Thanks, Tragedy. Thanks, Motörhead.

  Francis rolled his eyes, “Aaaaand . . . Flannery is here. Sam, you go first.”

  Flannery Bianchi—de facto leader of BQE Boot Brothers, one of the last real skinhead crews in NYC, interracially nationalist, broadly hateful, and specifically feral, and the only crew that was still more concerned with pummeling strangers than dealing drugs or forming bands—had hands that were a wonder. Larger than his wiry arms would imply. They were hard origami, almost Cubist in the irregularities of the flesh. A lifetime of construction, combined with a lifetime of connecting with flesh, plaster, bone, glass, gave his hands detailed scarring that went past the wrists. Past that, everything was obscured by truly terrible tattoo work that crept up to his neck where a cursive Only God Can Judge framed a face that was almost pretty, in a vague fuzzy way, like a stage idol viewed from the cheap seats. His gray eyes were looking at me, but I was staring at his outstretched hand.

  “Sam. Hey. You don’t shake?” Flannery’s head was cocked like he found me a bit perplexing; like a hawk finds a mole.

  I repeated the mantra in my head that I always did when getting vibed by Flannery. I had stolen his girlfriend. Do. Not. Flinch.

  I took his hand but the instant the pressure grew I pulled away. Too fast. Damn. I had already lost face. Behind me, Francis was making a show of talking to a girl in a High on Fire hoodie, pretending he didn’t see what was going on.

  “We were on our way out, Flannery. Good to see you,” I said.

  “Cut the shit, Sam. Vicki’s back. I know what you know. I. KNOW. What you fucking know. Fuck you thinking? Not for nothing, Sam. Not going to happen.” He punctuated the I know with a two jabs to my chest with his index finger.

  The skins behind him gripped their pint glasses. Drunk Fireman stood up. Murray felt around under the bar for his cane. Francis stopped talking.

  My fist clenched and unclenched involuntarily.

  Flannery looked at my fist and then back in the general direction of my face, and laughed. “Sam. Real talk. Do not PRESUME to be a man. You know?” He patted my face and I let him.

  I pushed around him and Francis followed. The hoots of Flannery’s crew followed us out. I had sucked my first cigarette of the day halfway down before I started to breath again.

  eight

  skinheads

  1–8 amsterdam 2000

  seven bars

  one nightclub

  one loft

  & a diner

  2

  “Where we going, Francis?”

  We were walking fast down Second Avenue, both eager to pretend none of that had happened.

  “I sent a few texts. I, for one, am definitely getting laid tonight. Girls love this romantic shit. You’re juicing up the entire city for me.”

  “That’s fine. I just want to find Vicki . . . before anyone else does.”

  I didn’t doubt that Vicki could and would love me again, but what if a distraction got there first when she was in a blackout?

  “Oh man. Old times. Flannery pissed off and us trying to find Vicki at a bar. I feel years younger!”

  “You look it.” Actually, he looked cold. We were both shivering.

  Francis said, “Okay. First stop. Normally we’d check Pym’s first, because if Vicki wanted to see you, that’s where she’d go.”

  Francis saw my face.

  “Sorry. Vicki DOES want to see you, but she doesn’t know it yet. Where would she go whenever she got bored during your shifts . . . ?”

  “Down the Street.”

  “And here we are. Pill better not charge us. I need money for drugs later.”

  We pushed hard on the door next to the unmarked black window that was down the street from Pym’s but was also actually called “Down the Street.” Or “DTS.” Or, to its regulars, “The DTs.” As habitual bar crawlers and tenders knew, it was easier sometimes to just refer to wherever one was going to as “the bar.” “You going t
o the bar?” “Yeah.” “Maybe see you later.” And we always somehow knew what the other person was talking about. Maybe by the direction their nose twitched.

  Some band that sounded like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs but wasn’t was playing. Pill threw a rag over his left shoulder and bear-hugged us over the bar.

  “My boys! I never see you!” Pill smiled at us like we were pie.

  “Hey, Pill,” I said.

  “Hey, Pill,” Francis said. “Just beer, please. Sam’s got a thing.”

  “I heard Vicki is drinking again. That the thing? Or is it an Aviva thing? So many things, Sam. You heartbreaker.”

  “Funny, feels different than that. The former.”

  Pill had to put his hands in front of his face to figure the latter/former deal. “Vicki! To dream the impossible dream. You know, we still have some of her photos in the back? Bet they’re worth something now that she’s big-time. So talented that one.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “I sure have! Last night, in fact. Here you go, boys.”

  Pill put a couple Brooklyn Lagers in front of Francis and myself. He pulled his round glasses off his perfect sphere of a head and wiped them and then his white forehead. His body was round too.

  I put a twenty on the bar. Pill didn’t touch it.

  “You know, Sam, I always felt bad about what happened with you and Vicki. She is such a sweetheart.”

  Francis coughed.

  “Oh, Francis. She is. Remember when she didn’t have money for a cab and she got those sanitation workers to drop her off in their truck? God, when they started honking and we all ran outside and there she was, hanging outside the passenger window of that . . . that TANK. I just about died.”

  I remembered. We had fought in the bathroom for twenty minutes over the garbage guy giving her his number and it “only being polite” to take it, and then we’d fucked on the sink and then Pill bought us drinks all night long.

  “I don’t remember that,” Francis said.

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  Francis was reaching over the bar. “Pill, can I rub your belly? For luck? We have a treacherous night ahead of us. Need that Buddha luck.”