Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

My hair is twisted and crushed from sweat and the hat I was wearing. There are streaks of dirt down my neck and on the front of my wife-beater. I get some water on a couple paper towels and use them to wipe away the dirt on my skin and blot at my shirt.

The bus rocks as people start to pile back on. I get more water on my hands and rub them over my head, brushing my clipped hair back into something resembling its usual shape. Someone turns the stereo back on. Someone else bangs on the bathroom door.

I look at my face again. Would Mom recognize this face? The way she recognized my voice, would she see me inside this thing?

More banging on the door.

– Yo, Scarface, time to roll.

Yeah, right, time to roll. Not sure to where, but got to keep rolling.

I open the door and edge out into the press of bodies. Jay bugs his eyes at my tats.

– Jesus, yo. Look at you, all inked up and hooded out.

He squeezes into the can and closes the door. I maneuver back to the wheel, the kids around me cracking open fresh sixteen-ounce cans of Coors Light and tearing into bags of Doritos and packages of Chips Ahoy. I part the curtain and drop into the driver’s seat.

– Hey, man.

Miguel is sitting in the passenger seat. He’s shoved the box aside and has one long leg propped up on it.

– Mind if I ride up here?

– Nope.

He looks me up and down.

– Where’d all the tattoos come from?

– Different places.

– Cool.

– Thanks.

– I’ve been thinking about getting one. My nickname in college was The Hammer. I’ve been thinking about getting a sledgehammer hitting a baseball. Cool, right?

– Yeah. Cool.

I close the door, turn off the flashers and the brake and drop the shifter into drive.

– Where to?

– Doesn’t matter. Just driving is cool here. Everything is cool here. I fucking love New York.

We catch green lights down the avenue. Miguel has his arm stuck out the window, his hand flattened into a wing riding the wind.

– We missed you today, man. What happened?

– I got a call. Had to do some stuff.

I pull to a stop at Houston.

– Stuff for David?

– Yeah.

He reaches over and tugs the curtain closed all the way.

– What’s that like? Working for him?

I watch the signal light up ahead cycle from red to green. Traffic doesn’t move.

– It’s a job.

– Sure. I get it. You can’t say much. But, David. Is he OK? I mean, this deal I have with him. You think that’s OK?

The light goes to yellow. We move forward maybe a car length.

– It’s a deal. You take what you can get, I guess.

He turns in his seat to face me.

– Yeah, I know you work for the guy and all. I’m not looking to get you in trouble or anything. It’s just. You know I think you’re all right. So I’m just looking for your opinion if, I don’t know, if I’m doing this right.

I look at the box of money right next to him.

– Look, Miguel, here’s the thing-

The light goes red.

Jay yanks the curtain open.

– What’s up, yo? Where we headed?

Miguel points at the street.

– Cruisin’.

– Yo, man. We need to get out and stretch.

– We just got out.

– No, we need to like really get out. Get some air. This party needs some air before it punks out.

Miguel looks back into the throbbing heart of the bus.

– Man, this party ain’t punking anytime tonight.

– Uh-uh. Major punk danger. Must have O2. Driver, take us to a park or something.

I look at Miguel. He shrugs.

– Sure. A park. That’s cool.

The light is green and we move forward this time. I turn west on Houston.

Jay grabs Miguel’s sleeve.

– Get on back here, yo.

– Gonna sit up here for awhile.

– No, yo. Party needs you.

He tugs on Miguel. Miguel tries to pull away.

– Chill, Jay.

– Yo. You got guests here.

– They’re cool.

– No they ain’t. Come on back with the party.

He drags Miguel up out of the seat.

– OK. Chill, chill, chill. I’m coming.

– Then come on, fag. Chicks back here need you.

Miguel pats my shoulder.

– Check you later, man. I want to finish this.

Jay shoves him into the mass of sweaty kids, looks at me, nods, and follows Miguel, pulling the curtain closed behind him. I drive.

I take a left on West Broadway. The money box tilts and clunks against the door. I think about it. It’s pretty much impossible to think about anything else.

I reach over and touch the top of the box. I rest my hand on it. And I drive like that all the way down to the Battery.

– Yo! All out. Everybody out. Time to recharge.

There’s some bitching, but Jay herds them all toward the door. Through the windshield I see Miguel, the bartender riding on his back. I leave the engine running and go through the curtain. I need to find a pay phone again.

Jay is standing in front of the door, blocking the exit. In one hand he has my jacket. In the other hand he has two pieces of paper. The photocopy of my old ID and the clipping from the Post .

– So, yo, Scarface. What’s the most fucked-up thing you ever did?

– You were supposed to be the shit, right, yo?

– How’s that?

– That was the deal. You were like the all-American boy. That was the way they played it on the TV. You were, like, the shit. Baseball stud. Top prospect.

– Yeah. I guess so.

– Yo. I was the shit.

We sit on a bench that faces Hudson Bay. The plaza here is cobbled. Benches surround old trees. The ferry landing for the boats that take you to Ellis and Liberty Islands is quiet. We can see the statue in the middle of the bay. I have my jacket draped over my lap. Jay sits with his elbows on his knees and fiddles with the two pieces of paper.

– I was, yo, I was the shit . Little League. High school. I was the shit.

The gang from the bus is drifting around. A few of the players and their girls flag down a couple cabs on State and take off. Some others are wandering away toward the bar at American Park. Looks like the party is breaking up.

– Shortstop, yo. Started freshman ball, JV and varsity. Had all the school records, and a bunch of the district’s, too. Stolen bases. Hits. Runs. Fielding percentage. Average. Big numbers. Mad numbers. ’Course there was a problem. I’m five-fucking-six in cleats. That’s a fucking problem. Plus, you know, I’m playing with that guy.

He points at Miguel. The bartender is perched on the railing by the water, Miguel snugged between her knees as they make out.

– My man Mike was part of the problem. I was setting records, but he was, too. And he had the power. All-time single-season home run champ, California high school baseball. And he pitched. Led the state in strikeouts. And, yo, he had the body. Scouts come around to watch us both play, but once they get a look at him, I’d just drop right off the fucking scout-radar. Word got around I was even smaller in person than I was on paper and they stopped even pretending they were interested. Like a bunch of chicks, yo. All over Mike. All about the body.

He drops into a hick accent.

– Seen the body on that A-ray-nuz kid? Six-four, two hundred, and growing. Not a ounce a fat on that boy. Ripped like a NBAer. Kid’s got the pro body an he ain’t even eighteen. Kid’s gonna be a star.

He spits between his feet.

– Shit, yo. All about the fucking body. Mike got picked in the first round. The Brewers. That was a no-brainer. Said no thanks and took the Stanford scholarship. Me? Didn’t get picked by no one. Got a couple semipro teams called. Got a partial ship at UCSD. But, yo, my boy was headed up north. He says, Come upstate. Can’t break us up. Hang out. Take some classes. Get you on the team next year. Scouts see what you do in a big-time program, they’ll be all over you. Blew off SD. Went up there. But my grades weren’t good enough for that place. And they didn’t care I was Mike’s boy. Spent all my time hangin’ with him, working on his swing. See that flat swing he’s got, yo? That shit’s mine. Way he plays the field? Always getting the right jump on the ball? My shit. That ain’t no college coaching. That’s me and him. That’s what I did. I worked his ass, yo. He wants to fuck around with chicks, booze. Wants to find a poker game, head up to Reno. I kept his ass working. Junior year he goes back in the draft. First pick. Mets. Big time. My boy is big time.