Joey is still distraught about the Esperanza situation and is confused about what to do next, so he decides to head up to Three Guys -the place where he bought his first cool clothes and consult The Professor.
So that Thursday, I decide to hop the #59 bus to Elizabeth, making sure I steer clear of Tijeras de Oro, and Esperanza. I walk sullenly into the store, worrying that they might not even remember me. Immediate relief follows, although I’m not sure exactly why. All I do know is that my internal mayhem melts away. Into the aroma of the bitter orange-myrrh incense floating through me. And the soothing sounds of the mellow jazz, playing in the background. I breathe deeply, allowing it to soak into my pores, and enjoy gazing at the old posters. And photos of the great Jazz and African musicians on the walls...it reminds me of those moments of ecstasy I felt listening to Etta James, while I painted the mural. I recognize Bakir (the younger of the two), rapping with a couple of customers in the back, as he displays some “rags” for them. I’m in no hurry, I just stand around, digging the ambience. After a while the customers duck into the fitting rooms with the clothes, and Bakir approaches me.
“Remember me?”
I smile hopefully, and his face lights up, as he shakes my hand vigorously.
“My man! The artist, right? What’s happenin’, baby?”
We start conversing, and I let loose about all the shit I’ve been up to since my last visit. Na-Na, the break-in we pulled at the school. The resulting mural, our trip to The Savoy Lounge…
“Say what? The Savoy? No you ditn’t! No you ditn’t. You telling me - you was actually over at The Savoy?”
“Yeah, I swear to-”
“Daaamn, brother! Ain’t nobody ‘round this way be goin’ over to The Savoy Lounge! Not even them hard-headed cats…you got to be buggin’!”
His voice (pitch) gets higher with each sentence, and we both start breaking up.
“Yeah, man, and there was this cat over there got stabbed in the neck with a pencil, and Na-Na painted it and…”
“Maaan! You trippin!”
The customers reappear from the fitting rooms.
“Hold up, man,” he says to me as he heads over to them, Professor should be back here in a minute.”
A minute later (as promised), the Professor emerges from outside. He’s shaking off the cold, and carrying a take-out container of steaming hot soup. He halts in mid-stride, quizzically scanning my face for a second, then breaks into a huge grin.
“Professor!” I beam, extending my hand.
“Hey, what’s up youngblood?” We slap palms.
“How’s them females been treating you?”
I hesitate for a few seconds, embarrassed.
“Well…that’s-uh - kinda been my problem these days…lately…I was, um, hoping…you…could lay some knowledge on me about that.”
He chuckles.
“Alright, alright, one subject the Professor always has time for, is imparting wisdom on the mysteries of the ladies. Mmm-hmm, always time for that. Step into my office, son.”
We walk back to this tiny office cramped with jazz memorabilia, books and clothes. He squeezes into the chair behind his desk and I sink into the old chair in front of it.
“So, what’s up, young man?”
Suddenly, I’m just blabbing. I mean, it’s like I’m in some kind of crazy confessional booth. I’m spilling out months of frustration and excitement, at a manic pace. Professor sits there, first blowing on, and then stoically lapping, the cream of mushroom soup up with his spoon. At least I think its cream of mushroom soup, as I observe it collecting on his beard. And he’s vigilantly swabbing at it with his napkin. He’s quiet, sometimes nodding in acknowledgement, other times arching his eyebrows in surprise.
I pour out the stories, the details about Esperanza, and how she seduced me in her car that night. Then how I saw her kissing the guy in purple. I could feel the heaviness push its way up my body, and well up in my tear ducts. Moistness clings there, fighting to make its presence felt, and I do not want to get emotional in front of the Professor. Very uncool. I steady myself, hoping he doesn’t notice, and continue onward. He smiles gently.
“My young brother, let me school you here for a minute, ok?”
I nod, eager to lap up this morsel of forthcoming wisdom.
The female mentality…well, my man (he chuckles), they got a whole other rhythm going on there…and it can change like that. (he snaps his fingers) We fellas…well, we might not understand it, sometimes. We might get confused, y’know? But, ultimately, you got to respect the lady.”
“But…but – Professor… what do you think I should do? I -
Let me lay it on you this way, young man…it’s like jazz. It’s like playing the horn. Sometimes you’re blowing, and it just doesn’t feel right – so you got to make some adjustments, dig? Sometimes, you got to take charge of the horn, so to speak. Now there’s other times when the horn just leads you, takes you where you want to go, dig? Then all of sudden, you hit that high note – BAM! Out of nowhere. That’s when it’s bliss. It’s all about understanding how to play that flow.”
Silence for a moment as I struggle to take it all in, trying to make sense of it all. A fleeting second of insight follows. Whoa.
“You’re right, Professor … I think I know what I have to do.”
“There you go, my man.”
“Another thing you could do, youngblood. You could buy yourself your own purple ensemble right now, we have some clean rags up here, you know? Fight purple with purple…catch what I’m sayin’?”
He smiles.
“Excellent idea, Professor! I’ll do that.”
LIFE GOES ON
Joey struggles to get himself out of the funk he’s been in ever since the Esperanza/purple guy incident.
The next week slogs by at school. Sadness and despair ebb and flow, intermingling with anger and nihilism. David White and the Orange Face brothers, swagger by me repeatedly, swearing and glowering. Na-Na hasn’t been in school for a while, and these jackals instinctively feel something is amiss. Circling me ravenously. Just waiting for the opportunity to pounce, and exact revenge. The longer Na-Na is away, the hungrier they become. Pining for the time when they don’t have to answer to his retribution.
It doesn’t get any better at night either. Still nobody to talk to, as I lay there in the silent darkness. No answers. Again. Seeking any kind of solace, I turn to the book, The Prophet. Again.
I flip through it, hoping against cynicism to glean a second chance at wisdom. Mostly, it’s this blabbering from this guy who comes down from a mountain and addresses these apparent retards from this village called Ophalese. And, they keep dogging him with a bunch of just inane questions. I’m about to kick it (the book) to the proverbial curb, when one passage catches my eye, ‘Speak to Us of Beauty’.
“All these things you have said of beauty. Yet in truth, you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied.
And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy. It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth.
But rather a heart inflamed and a soul enchanted.
It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear.
But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.”
Something about this hits me as beautiful. The truth. Or at least part of it. I close my eyes, conflicted. Feeling vaguely bad. Or sad. I brush it off as nothing more but the usual flowery philosophy that you can’t translate to apply in the real world.
It does, however, lead me to reminiscing about that meeting with the Professor, when I bought my gold ensemble. How fascinated I was by their world, and the way they used that jazz jive, like calling guys “cats”. Yeah, maybe I just need to buy some new clothes! Maybe that’ll make me feel better!
THE LONGEST WALK OF MY LIFE
After observing the whole scene with Esperanza and the guy in purple, Joey is stupified. He begins to walk home unsteadily, in a state of confusion and numbness, when he comes upon Warnanco Park, just falling onto the grass, dazed and staring into space.
Two hours later, I plod into my living room, dragging my feet heavily on the floor. Dinnertime. My mother and sisters scurrying around in the frenetic ballet that is preparation for the nightly ritual of dinner.
“Pick your feet up when you walk, will ya, for crissakes?” my father yells out from the dining room table, even though he can’t see me. The sound of feet dragging was just one of the litanies of noises that irritated my father. Living with him is like playing the game, Operation. You never know which move or noise will strike a nerve, and make him buzz. My mother, a large serving dish of meatloaf in her hands, halts in mid-stride.
“Oh my God Joseph, what is wrong with you?”
My eyes downcast, I don’t - or rather - can’t respond.
“I got the bent fork again! Every goddamn night we go through this!” my father bellows.
“You look like a ghost! Are you sick?” my mother continues.
She places the meatloaf down on the table, feels my forehead, first with her hand, then with her cheek.
“You don’t have a fever - but you’re so clammy ...what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
If she only knew what the problem really is! If she only knew about Esperanza. But, there’s no way I can ever tell her, or any of them, about that. I plop down at my position at the table, trying to summon up the will to pick up the serving spoon from the bowl of mash potatoes. My sisters and little brother compete in a frantic grab for the biggest piece of meatloaf, a job usually reserved for me. They sense a weakness in me tonight. Opportunity beckons. Eventually, I manage to slop some mashed potatoes onto my plate. My mother continues to peek over at me, concern revealed in the position of her eyebrows.
“Joseph, are you sure you’re alright?”
A half-assed squeak, somehow, escapes from my mouth. Kind of, like, The Tin Man, when Dorothy has to oil his jaw.
For a minute, it becomes silent, all activity ceases, as my sisters scrutinize me. Their plates are full now. Apparently, I’m the next victim of the feeding frenzy.
“Oh my God, he is so on drugs, Mom! The other day, he was like dancing around with the broom and everything, right, and now look - he can’t even keep his head up! Oh my God, that’s like the classic symptoms of a drug addict.”
“Yeah, we just saw this video in health class the other day, about these drug addicts just like that. They get hyped up on speed, and then gotta come down on, like, Quaaludes, or something,” Chimes in Karen.
“OK doctors, just mind your own business, alright.” My mother defends me.
“What kind of horse’s ass would you have to be to go down that road?” my father grumbles, shooting a glance at me.
“Alright, can we all just eat dinner now like a normal family? Thank you.” Mom pleads stressfully.
I force down a couple of gulps of mashed potatoes, but I can’t eat, and I’m in no mood to be dissected tonight, either. I ask to be excused from the table, go up to my room and crash land on my bed.
Flash! Flash! Flash! Like those giant flashbulb cameras newspaper reporters used in the 1930s. Shots (images) relentlessly invade the darkness. Even though my eyes are closed.
Purple. The purple jacket. A velvet purple jacket. Flash. Scenes from, Death Wish. When they raped Charles Bronson’s wife. Perfectly tailored purple jacket. Flash! Me and Esperanza, making it in her car that night. Flash! Violet shirt. A light shade of violet, unbuttoned down past his chest. A myriad of gold chains dangling from his neck. Medallions, and a crucifix. Flash! The rape scene with Margaux Hemingway, in Lipstick. Flash! Purple shoes. Suede. This guy’s walking around with his jacket open, shirt unbuttoned all the way the hell down. It’s November. It’s fucking thirty-eight degrees, man! Asshole.
More ruminating. Then the really horrifying, deep down truth of the matter assaults me. This guy is so fucking good-looking! I mean, like Omar Sharif/Warren Beatty handsome. I’m no homo - but this guy is like the male Esperanza. Regular rules don’t apply to these kinds of people. They’re like another species. That’s what’s really eating at my intestines. Plus, he’s probably Puerto Rican, too, from the look of him. Another strike against me. Kind of tall. Pencil mustache. Perfectly coiffed curly/wavy hair, with the curl strategically dipped below one eye. His scarf it was apricot. No, wait a minute, that’s Warren Beatty in You’re So Vain.
How could she do this to me? I thought we were in love! She even took me to her house! I thought everything was going to be like, great, from here on in. Maybe there really is no such thing as love. Maybe it really is all just bullshit.
THE BAD SCENE
After Joey experiences the Esperanza love euphoria for a few days, he decides he MUST see her again - but when he heads up to The Tijeras de Oro to see her - he is met with a horrifying sight!!
Thursday arrives, I have a day off from The Fox Hole, and I cannot wait anymore, I miss her so much. I’m going to go surprise her at the shop. I’ll bring her up those Polaroids I took of the mural, the last night Na-Na and I were there, so she can show ‘em off to the ladies at the shop. Yeah, she’ll like that. I hop off the bus, and practically skip to the bodega at the corner of Broad Street, to buy some Peppermint Patties. Women love expensive chocolate. I head over to the Tijeras de Oro, all dreamy, romantic, and goose bumpy.
A little more than half a block away, and across the street, I spot her outside the shop. Conversing with a guy all dressed in purple, for some reason. I slow down a bit, not wanting to interrupt her, because this guy could be a customer, or something.
As I get a little closer though, I can see the conversation is becoming more animated. More heated. She’s yelling at him, but I can’t hear or understand what she’s saying…and now he’s screaming back, gesturing wildly with his hands. Suddenly, she slaps the dude right in the face! Holy shit! What the hell is going on?! In a split second, she’s flailing away at him, kicking, cussing – then, he grabs her arms, blocking her kicks with his legs. She’s struggling, crying, and shouting. I’m going to kill this motherfucker!! I don’t care who he is. I charge up the street, bristling with fury - but the freaking traffic light turns red now. Damn! It’s rush hour. There’s a crazy, frenetic onslaught of buses and trucks rumbling by me, temporarily blockading my view. C’mon, light – change! I get a slight reprieve, as I briefly spy them again through the barrage of vehicles. He has her face in his hands, forcing his lips upon her! No fucking way! I dart out into the middle of the freeway-like avenue, intent on beating the shit out of him and rescuing my girl. Trucks and taxis lock their brakes, screeching to avoid smashing me into pulp! I duck and juke in and out, between them. She’s squirming madly, trying to fight off his macho advances, as he grabs her by the waist. I’m flushed with rage - a bus swerves, just missing me, as he slams down on his horn. Adrenaline speeds through me, making me feel as I can fly right over all the traffic. Beeping - beeping. All of a sudden, she surrenders her struggle. Gives in. Embracing him, as she throws her arms around his shoulders. Caressing him desperately. They absorb each other, kissing passionately, ferociously. I stop right there. Paralyzed. A tractor-trailer rumbles in front of me, shaking the ground like a freight train. Black toxic exhaust spews from a hundred tail pipes, surrounding me with an impenetrable filthy cloud, choking me, gagging me.
“Mericone!”
“Huevon! Puto!”
“Pendejo! Get the fuck out of the street, asshole!”
The curses, the screams, the screeches, and the horns are beeping in a myriad of varying tones and pitches. All coagulating into a kind of horrific, chaotic, opera of madness.
The next thing I see, is Esperanza and this purple guy retreat into his silver Cadillac, and roar off down the avenue.