THE THINKER [Short Story by 200motels] Part 2

[Scenario: New York, 1986. Jacky O'Shea has just learned that one of his friends from the gym, Bogdan, is working for his uncle, minding a building full of vacant, rent controlled apartments]

An eighteen year-old black kid sat next to me on the park bench, alternatively taking swigs from a pint bottle of wine in a paper bag and lacing his skates, while philosophizing to nobody in particular, “A lot of people think we racing ‘cause we skate so fast, but we not racing. We just skating fast. Not like some mothers who shoot around banging into people, knocking them over. I don’t do that shit. But I’m ready for it if it happens.”

The sun shined brilliantly on the roller skating area in Central Park adjacent to Sheep’s Meadow. Crowds of people milled around the edge of the large tarmac oval bordered by Sycamore trees, enjoying the brightly-attired skaters who reveled at the sensation of gliding along on eight wheels. Suggestive disco and meringue rythems exploded from the giant boom box speakers set up at one end of the oval and the skaters weaved, danced, raced, gyrated, pirouetted in the air and bounded gymnastically in flying leaps. A muscular black guy danced a licentious lambada with a blond wearing purple lycra aerobic tights and cropped top as they rolled along. A lithe young woman sailed gracefully as a flamingo, one leg in the air behind her. Some, wearing Walkmans, practiced skating backwards, created fancy footwork, choreographed new dance routines. Hard-faced Latins sporting jailhouse tattoos on their arms hawked beer and marijuana without receiving so much as an admonishing glance from the cops who occasionally cruised by in slow-moving patrol cars.

I was oblivious to all these goings on, however. I had grabbed my skates and run off to the park not so much to enjoy the beautiful fall day as to get the hell out of that filthy, flea-bitten apartment. Geez, what a mess!
/> I had just about gotten the roaches under control using a combination of Combat, Raid and hideous white roach powder. Now, to my utter stupefaction, I was finding mouse droppings all over the kitchen counter and in the food shelves. They were even gnawing through the food packaging to get at it’s contents.

Aw, the apartment was just revolting in every respect! The diesel fumes from the trucks passing on nearby Second Avenue seeped into the apartment through cracks in the warped window frames, leaving a fine, greasy soot on all the surfaces. The linoleum floor in the kitchen area was faded with age and curled up at the edges, exposing solid concrete underneath. The refrigerator was stuck on “Freeze”, instantly turning into a chunk of rock-hard ice anything that was deposited. It had been so long since its last defrosting that the ice around the freezer section had grown to 3-4 inches thick and if not chipped away periodically, would actually force the refrigerator door open, melt, and re-freeze, creating the worst god-awful mess imaginable. The last straw was when I went to cut myself a slice of layer cake, and when I opened the box I found a swarm of fleas flying around inside.

Yuggh! For this I was paying $500 a month. I fumed. In Queens I could have had a beautiful apartment, a real bachelor pad like Hugh Hefner, for $500 a month.

But that would have been admitting defeat, that I was not good enough to live in Manhattan, that I didn’t have what it took! As though, like Roberto Duran, I had thrown up my hands and shouted “¡No más!” This is why I was so interested in Bogdan. Who cared if he had AIDS or not? He was working as a super in a rent controlled apartment building on E. 88th Street, a nice one. He had already told me there were empty apartments in the building. Maybe this goofy guy could help me find an apartment I could afford.

I got up off the bench and skated over to the pay phone. Looking through my wallet I found a folded slip of paper with Bogdan’s telephone number, which I dialed. I thought, “Oh, please God, let him be home.” That was the state of mind I was in that day.

After an interminable number of rings the handset was picked up, dropped, picked up again, and slammed down onto the receiver.

I unleashed a current of expletives, fished another quarter out of my jeans and dialed again. After about ten more rings, he answered:

“Who the freaking hell is this?!!!”

“Bogdan, don’t hang up! It’s Jacky. From the gym!”

“What time is it?”

“I dunno…It’s about four o’clock.”

“In the morning?!!”

“No, man! It’s four o’clock in the afternoon!”

“Oh, shit!” I heard a bunch of banging, rustling noises. He dropped the receiver again and picked it up. “I gotta get up and take out the garbage! What day is this? Call me later!”

BOGDAN, DON’T HANG UP! I GOT THIS GIRL WHO WANTS TO MEET YOU!”

Suddenly he seemed incredibly lucid. “Yeah? Is she nice?”

“Yeah, nice. She’s a blonde, and she’s real horny. I just left her. She’s real hot, man. She was telling me how she loves to fuck, and how she loves big dicks!”

“Hey, far-out, man. Why don’t you bring her over now?”

“Now?!” Geez, what an asshole. “Lissen, Bogdan, I got a better idea. We’ll all meet at Molly McGuire’s Pub and I’ll introduce you to her. Howzat?”

“Far-out, man!”

“Awright, lissen, I gotta get back to her. I’ll call you as soon as I get it set up. Lissen, Bogdan…”

“What?”

“If I get you laid, you think you could talk to your uncle about renting me one of the empty apartments in your building that you told me about, just until he sells the building?”

“Hey, no problem! What’s her name.”

“Whose name?”

“The girl?!”

“Inch.”

“Inch? That’s her name?”

“Yeah, Inch.”

“That’s a cool name for a girl.”

I slammed down the phone and skated away.

Now the trick was to get Inch interested. Bogdan wasn’t her type at all---Inch only liked guys who had money. She was tall (hence her nickname), blonde, and not too graceful. Her body, which has been spectacular as a teenager, was lately showing signs of compromising with the law of gravity. She had a warm, sentimental nature but was an uncouth, sloppy drunk. By the time you got her drunk enough to do it with you, you didn’t want her anymore. It was conceivable that she might be attracted to Bogdan, though she would have to be pretty heavily anesthetized first. Bogdan could be considered decent-looking enough, I suppose, in an atavistic kind of way.

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Posted on 3/3/2006 ( Permanent Link )
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