Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

Arabs in the Staten Island Mall. Un-fucking-believable.

“It’s finally done. They finally destroyed it completely,” he announces to Kielty and a handful of confused passersby. “This Island is completely and totally fucked.”

He walks into Foot Locker, hands raised in exasperation.

* * *

“Look, they have the new ’Melo jerseys,” Kielty says, holding up a kid’s blue and orange jersey so Franky can see. “These are pretty sweet. Little Bobby’d love this.”

Franky eyes it doubtfully. He feels better now that he’s in the Foot Locker, surrounded by sneakers and mesh shorts and all the other accoutrements of athletic endeavor. He feels like an athlete even though he hasn’t shot a ball, not even men’s league, in five years. Somehow, in here, it doesn’t matter. His belief that all he needs is a new pair of kicks and five weeks to train and he could be back in game shape seems reasonable in this place. The tools are available; all he has to do is decide to do it.

Plus, Carolina covered, cutting into the hole he’s in. The day is maybe halfway salvageable. He shakes his head at the Carmelo jersey.

“Can’t do it, Double K. Every gindaloon on the South Shore will be wearing one. Every fat little Ant’nee who fancies himself a baller will be rocking this.”

A little frown from Kielty.

“What?”

“You’re Italian. So is Bobby Jr. So was Bobby.”

“Half Italian, but not a gindaloon. Half Irish, but not a fucking donkey either. It’s not complicated, Kielty. Don’t hurt yourself thinking.”

“I’m hungry,” says Kieran, partly to deflect Franky, but mostly because it’s true.

“Me too, Double K. Thirsty as well.”

He spies another jersey, a throwback number 33 with EWING stenciled on the back. He takes it from the rack.

“This is the winner. Old school.”

“Will he know who Patrick Ewing is?”

“Doesn’t matter. His pop’s favorite player.”

“I don’t know, Franky. Is he even a Knicks fan?”

“’Course he is. He’s from New York.”

“Yeah, but the Knicks have sucked for basically his whole life.”

“Doesn’t matter, Kielty. You root for your teams, no matter what. You don’t jump on and off the bandwagon when it’s convenient.”

“I know, but he’s a kid.”

“So?”

“So maybe he likes a different team.”

“Like who?”

“Like the Heat.”

Kielty holds up a Miami Heat jersey, the name WADE in black letters on the back. Wade. He’d nearly forgotten about Tina’s new friend. What the fuck kind of name was Wade anyway? A douche bag’s name. His throat is dry and he can feel his leg twitching.

“I’m not getting him a fucking Heat jersey like some goddamn front-runner,” he yells, startling Kielty, who quickly puts the offending jersey back.

“Okay, Jesus, Franky. It was just a suggestion.”

“Here’s a suggestion: shut the fuck up.”

Franky stomps to the register, clutching the Ewing jersey. He drops it on the counter and gives the girl manning the register a smile. She has a bit of a horse face, and her black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, making her face seem even longer. Skin is almost orange. Franky can’t decide whether she’s attractive or hideous. Maybe a little of both. He really needs to get laid.

She lifts the tag with long, pink fingernails and swipes the gun over the bar code.

“Fifty-two, twenty-seven,” she says between snaps of her gum.

“For my nephew,” Franky says as he reaches for his wallet. She smiles, bored. He pulls out a credit card and hands it to her.

“Excuse me,” says an accented voice from behind him, “is this on sale?”

Franky turns and the Arab in the ratty Giants jacket is standing there, holding a baseball glove. The young boy stands obediently at his side.

“You’re gonna have to ask a salesperson,” says the girl.

Franky stares daggers at the guy, hoping the man will say something to him. He’d love a fight. God, would he love a fight. To grab this filthy fucking Arab’s head and slam it into something. Nothing would make him feel better. When he slammed that cabbie’s head onto the hood of his own car, he’d felt a rush stronger than anything the bump had ever given him. Every violent impulse he’d ever had succumbed to in one cleansing moment. So he’d done it again and again and once more, for good measure. None of the bullshit afterward mattered: not his mother or Peter, not the handcuffs or the courtroom. It was a worthwhile trade. Standing over that terrorist sack of shit as he bled into his own hands and prayed for mercy from his worthless god. He would do it again. He would do it today.

And how did that start? With words. He was walking away, skipping the fare, but walking away, and then the dumb shit opened his mouth.

You are disgrace to your mother.

Am I now?

Words could lead there. That’s what he wants now. He wants this guy to say something. Anything. He needs this, more than a drink or a snort or a fuck.

Please, Lord, he thinks, let this guy say something to me.

He takes a half step closer to the man.

“Please, they told me to ask you,” says the man, his eyes darting between the girl and Franky.

“She said to ask a salesperson, you filthy camel fucker,” Franky says, leaning into the guy. The man moves his son to the other side of his body, putting himself between Franky and the kid. Franky can hear Kielty behind him, breathing heavy and nervous. He can see fear in the man’s eyes, can sense it even coming from the girl behind the counter. Everyone’s nervous but him. His body has adjusted to the adrenaline surge. He’s humming, keyed up, ready to go. He smiles at the man, a nasty, derisive lip curl.

“Let’s get out of here, Franky,” says Kielty. “C’mon, they’re gonna call security.”

“Say something,” he says to the man, whose son is hiding behind him now. “Say something.”

The man doesn’t respond. He keeps one hand on his son and raises the other like he is trying to soothe a wild dog.

“Say something,” Franky says. He can feel tears starting to slide from the corners of his eyes. He knows the man won’t say anything. The blood in his body starts to throb less insistently.

“Franky, please,” says Kielty.

He reaches over and grabs the plastic shopping bag that holds his nephew’s birthday gift. He turns and walks out of the store without speaking, the sudden emptiness in his chest in desperate need of liquid attention.

* * *

At a table near the bar, surrounded by faux sports memorabilia and bargain-basement kitsch, Franky watches Kielty devour a plate of buffalo wings, unsure whether he should be disturbed or impressed. The fat fuck simply inserts a blue cheese — slathered piece into his maw and then removes a scrap or two of bone, his teeth somehow having shorn the wing of all meat and flesh and sauce. It doesn’t even matter whether the piece is a drumette or one of those annoying rectangular pieces with two bones; Kielty is a machine. His face is covered with orange buffalo sauce. Some things, at least, never change.

Franky chuckles, drains his mug.

“You’re a piece of work, Kielty.”

“What?” he says as he uses a small army of mini wipes to clean his hands.

“Applebee’s? Where we going next, Olive Garden?”

“I like Olive Garden.”

Franky flags down a waitress, orders another beer.

“You want another?”

“I’m driving. I’ll have a Diet Coke.”

“Some fucking drinking buddy you are.”

The waitress leaves with their orders. She isn’t much to look at, but Franky finds himself checking out her ass as she walks away. Christ, he really, really needs to get laid. He turns back to Kielty.