Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

His voice doesn’t sound right, it sounds like its coming from the back of his head, not his mouth. He cracks the window.

“Just need some fresh air.”

She smiles and he can see, even in his state, hope trying to fight off doubt. She’s lonely, he can tell. Who else would invest a Saturday night in his drunken ass? Now he feels bad about what hasn’t even happened yet, about ruining this unlucky soul’s night. He makes a silent vow to make Denise — lovely, kind Denise — happy in some small way.

“I’m fine,” he says again. “Let’s hit it. The night is young.”

She starts the car.

“Where to?”

“You pick.”

He can rally, he’s roused himself from a stupor before. He needs to catch his breath. Maybe they’re going someplace far. The drive will do him good. The car smells nice. Denise’s bed probably smells nice too. Soft pillows. He winks at Denise and his eyelid fights to stay lowered. He chuckles.

“What is that anyway?”

“What?”

“The bag.”

Franky looks down at the plastic bag in his lap, unsure what it holds. He opens it and sees the Knicks jersey.

“A gift for my nephew. My godson. It’s his birthday.”

She purrs in response and this irritates him.

“How old is he?”

“Nine. He’s gonna be nine.”

Suddenly, the car feels too small and he knows there will be no rally. He’s had too much, the damage is done. He’s stumbling closer to the edge, sending pebbles into the darkness. He shouldn’t have done that shot. Inkiness seeps into his head, obscuring things, hiding patches of time. The needle skips.

* * *

They’re at a bar, sitting at a table. He doesn’t recognize the place, doesn’t remember getting here. Is he crying? He is. And Denise is staring across at him, pitying and horrified. He lurches to his feet, nearly stumbles. The room spins, a kaleidoscope of faces, contorted and twisted.

He is in the bathroom staring at the floor, trying to steady the world. The latticework between the floor tiles is lifting off the ground, tiny ghost lines vibrating in the air. Someone is staring at him. He is on the floor, struggling to rise. The man reaches down to help him.

“I’m fine,” he hears himself say.

The sink and mirror. Water on the face. A hand on his back. A demonic smile in the mirror. His own.

* * *

In the backseat of a car. Where is Denise? Gone.

“Bitch.”

“What?”

Franky follows the sound of the voice to the front seat. Someone is driving this car. A fat man wearing a Yankees hat. Listening to The Doors. Waiting at a red light.

“Take me to Kelly’s.”

“I think your night is done, buddy.”

“Fuck you, fatso.”

The car screeches to a halt. The driver moves well for a fat man. Some hand wrestling at the door. A kick or two. Laughing and heavy breathing. A blow to the head. Out. Onto the ground. Flesh of the face meeting gravel. Stinging pain, felt through the haze. The fat man throws a plastic bag at him. The car tears off.

Up. To his feet.

“FUCK YOU, FAT MAN.”

A black boy on a bike, arms resting on handlebars.

“Yo, fat man fucked you up.”

He lurches but the boy glides off, effortlessly, laughing. He leans down for the bag, starts walking.

* * *

Walking, walking. Trees and darkness, a park. Face feels torn below the eye. Crying again. He has been wronged. So terribly wronged. He doesn’t remember the details, knows only that he has been wronged. An injustice committed. Someone will pay. Someone has to pay. Who?

More walking. He watches his feet move below him. Left, right. Left, right.

The fog is starting to lift. Everything is being recorded, albeit on grainy film by a negligent observer. He sees a street sign, knows where he is now.

Forest Avenue. Kelly’s isn’t far.

* * *

He sits at a bar. The world has returned to him and he to it. He is beyond drunkenness, has reached a state of numbness so complete it resembles sobriety. He lifts his mug to his bloodied lips and the beer slides in.

“Another one, Franky?” asks Pat. A friendly face in a storm. No judgment here.

He nods, lifts a towel filled with ice to his torn cheek.

He feels a fingernail jab his right triceps.

“I knew your brotha.”

“What?” he says, shifting the towel below his eye so he can see who’s talking to him. A woman with spiky blond hair in a butch cut, built like a softball player. Something alluring in the face, despite a stud in the nose. Not lacking for confidence. She was pretty once.

“Your brotha, Bobby.” She jabs his triceps again, which bears a tattoo. ROBERT E. AMENDOLA. RIP. 9/11/01. NEVER FORGET.

He shifts in his stool to face her. Her eyes float up to meet his. She’s almost as drunk as he is. A kindred spirit.

“You knew Bobby?”

“Yup.” She takes a sip of her vodka drink. She leans in. “I gave him a blow job in the back room of the Leaf.”

Franky snorts.

“Was that back when you liked boys?”

She punches his shoulder.

“Be nice, asshole.”

“What’s your name?”

“Chrissy Nolan.”

“Patty Nolan’s little sister?”

“That’s right, muthafucker.”

She gives him a sloppy high five.

“Well, Patty Nolan’s sister, you’re a fucking liar. My brother never…”

Before he can finish, she leans over and sticks her tongue in his mouth. The movement knocks the ice out of the towel and the pieces fall to the floor. He kisses her back, roughly. He can taste his own blood in his mouth, but she doesn’t seem to care. They make out, unabashed, for what seems like hours. The rest of the bar is watching them, but he doesn’t care. He needs this, needs someone to take care of him, to tend to his wounds.

She licks the lobe of his ear, whispers into it.

“Let’s go to my place.”

“Let’s go,” he says.

* * *

Another car ride. Teeth and tongues. Giggling and groping. A stranger’s room. Soft light. An urgency, clothes removed. The exhilaration of unfamiliar flesh. Something sad and sordid drifting below the scene. The fleeting revelation of penetration, staggered thrusting. Over and done with.

Sleep, that dogged hit man, finally catches his quarry, puts his man down.

* * *

He’s climbing behind Peter. Bobby is behind them, anxious. A narrow tunnel. He can see light from above filtering around Peter’s body. Bobby’s fingers touch his calf in the darkness. This has already happened. Not like this but almost.

“Where are you guys? This isn’t funny. I’m scared.”

Bobby’s finger taps his calf. Franky laughs, puts a finger to his lips. Crouching and hiding, shorts and scabby knees.

“We can’t leave him, Franky. Mom’ll be pissed.”

“Pussy.”

“Where are you guys?”

Tap on the calf. Lifting the leg, leaving him in the dark.

“C’mon, guys.”

On the bikes, Peter looking over his shoulder.

“We should go back.”

“Pussy.”

An impulse, nothing more. Some devilish whim, succumbed to.

“Where’s Bobby?”

Eyes down.

“Where’s your brother?”

The sun not set, not yet, but going. He shrugs.

“Peter, where’s your brother?”

She knows who to ask.

“We left him.”

“WHAT? You did WHAT?”

Her face crimson with rage. Clutching the keys, out the door. A slow turn of the head.

“What if she doesn’t find him?”

“Don’t be such a pussy.”

Waiting, waiting. The sun below the horizon, the light dying. Waiting. The phone rings, startling the conspirators. Peter answers.

“Hello?”

“She’s not home right now.”

“Good-bye.”

Tears on his face. Waiting. The street is a dark rug, tiny strands of light weaving through it. Waiting. Nothing. Darker still. Nothing. The light is gone. Still no Bobby. No car lights flashing in the street.