Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

The pizza was extra good, pepperoni slid down the slice on an easy river of grease; I ate each red circle one by one. The Italian guy behind the counter, taking money and making friends, had jokes with me when we’d bought our food. I’d laughed extra hard because I was too damn nervous.

— So, what’s your first name? I asked him.

His face didn’t know how to deal with me. — Louis.

— Your name is Louis?

— Uh-huh.

— Louis J— I blew out the name like bubbles, it made my lips numb.

— Do you like it?

— The pizza?

— My name.

— No.

He bit more slice, swallowed and asked me why.

— I beat up a kid named Louis.

— On your own? He raised his shoulders like I was making him happy.

— No, I said. Me and my friends. We kicked his ass. I waited to see if he was the kind of guy to blow his dick out if I cursed a little. My mom was like that. He didn’t squawk.

— What did Louis do?

— I don’t know, I said. I had made the whole thing up.

— You remember when I saw you a few years ago? he asked me.

— You never been to see me.

— That’s true, he said.

The front door kept opening and closing, jingling its bells. People were hungry, but I wasn’t. I took another chew, drank some soda. Sprite. — How old are you? I looked at his face; it was big and not too pretty, but something about him was nice. I could see him being trusted.

— I’m almost forty. Thirty-nine and looking good. This was my dad, wearing the Yankee cap he’d bought for me, the one I didn’t want. He’d made the purchase after saying hello and good-bye to my mother.

— What do you do? I asked him.

— For a living?

— Okay.

— Well, when I was with your mother I was teaching. High school, grade school. Whatever.

— What subject?

— I did math a lot but really I taught biology.

I was impressed, duke sitting across from me, looking like a broke-ass Al Pacino, had taught the subjects I’d be failing soon. He leaned forward. — How do you think you’d do in one of my classes? Are you a good student?

— No.

He sat back, stretched his arms, crossed them. — Why not?

— Bad teachers.

He laughed; he sounded like a little girl, like me and my friends when we got joking.

— You still teaching? I asked him.

He shook his head. — No.

— Can I get another slice? I asked. He bought me one. I watched him at the counter, he was good at being social. He leaned forward when he spoke so it seemed like he was only talking to you. When he sat he was quick with the answer to my next question.

— I’m a police officer.

Whatever words were planning to pop out next stuck up in my throat and made me cough.

— Surprised? he asked.

— Scared.

Pops nodded. — Okay.

I whispered, — So you have your gun on you?

— No.

— Why not?

— Just don’t, he said. I’m a cop in Connecticut, not around here.

— Where’s that?

He lifted his arm and pointed over my shoulder. — There.

— How far from here?

— Maybe an hour.

Funny that this dude who had disappeared on me was enforcing laws in another state.

— You ride around in a car or what? I was feeling less scared of my man; he had been huge when he’d shown up at our apartment amazingly, but he was not as universal as before. The ovens were sweating out their heat; I kept my jacket on. My father slid his off and wiped that skull; this was an endurance test.

— Yeah, he said. I ride a car and I have a partner.

— Your partner’s black?

— No.

— If he was then you two could be like I Spy .

He nodded. — Sure.

— I was in a play, I told him.

— So you’re an actor?

— No.

— What play was it?

I started and stopped because my chin was begging for some napkins. I cleaned myself off then explained. — A scene from Return of the Jedi .

— The Star Wars movies, right?

— You got it, I told him, pointed right at his face.

— So what did you do?

— I was Darth Vader.

— With the mask?

— Uh-huh. And I got my mom to buy me a real good one. It was heavy and came apart like the real one. But it was hot.

— Did it look good?

— Of course it looked good. That mask was like thirty dollars!

— Thirty dollars? He tried to whistle. Pretty expensive.

— Yeah.

— And your mom didn’t mind getting it?

— Are you kidding? She went crazy! She was screaming, Thirty dollars! Thirty dollars! Grandma told her not to get it.

— Yeah, your grandmother doesn’t like spending that money.

He knew. I laughed. Then him. — Sometimes, I said. Sometimes I ask Grandma for some money to get a comic and she tells me to read the ones I have, but I’ve read them ten times! I leaned forward; the walls of the pizza place were hard to hate — Dave Winfield was signed, framed and posing, swinging on a nail. Next to him? Craig Nettles.

— Your mother and me were dating once, this was before you were born.

Ah-duh, I thought.

— And man, I showed up to take your mother out for some dinner, but your grandmother wanted me to come in. You know, say hello, all that stuff. So I came in and she served me some tea. We drank that for a little while.

— Too much milk in the tea? I asked.

— That’s your grandma. So we finish and we’ve talked for a while and your mom comes out ready to go, looking great as usual. Man, I’m telling you, your mom was the best-looking black lady I ever saw. I mean she had those hips and … well, so your grandmother, she takes our cups and sits there, while I’m watching, she sits there draining out what’s left of the tea; then she collects the little grounds that are left at the bottom of the cup and drops them on a napkin. So I’m sitting there thinking, what is this? And your mom tells me later that your grandmother reuses the grounds. She gets about three cups where us mortals would get one.

We laughed because he had my grandmother down solid, seemed like he was going to pop into imitating the way she held her neck. I stopped, but money was laughing so hard his balls had to be hurting. I was smiley for another minute, then I got angry. — Stop laughing at my grandmother.

He was heaving; it wasn’t as funny as all that. — I’m sorry Anthony. I’m sorry.

— Then stop.

— Okay.

But he didn’t and I sat watching until he got rid of all the humor in his lungs.

— So you done with that pizza?

I was, but half the slice was there on my plate. I didn’t want to waste it, but I didn’t feel hungry anymore. I killed what was left of the soda and told him I was ready to be out. We moved for the door. Teenagers were cramped into a booth and smoking at one another. I was sad because I liked the smell of cooking cheese, but the right thing to do seemed to be to get going. Outside it was four in the afternoon.

— You want to go home? my father asked.

I looked down the block, past the Korean market where the fruit was sitting out on green wooden stands; grandmothers were clawing at the produce. Two blocks away was my apartment building and a game of punchball or tag. I looked at this guy. — I don’t have to go yet.

His face was plain, he nodded extra-happy; we walked together. Across the street was the place where I got my glasses, where they welded those plastic-framed tortures to my skull. When we had gone about a block my father stopped. — What? I asked.

He was looking down at me, there was a grin. — Your mother ever tell you about me?

— No. I never ask.

He laughed, trying not to seem embarrassed. — Aren’t there some pictures of me around or anything?