Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

Trisha said, — I think it’s sweet.

We were outside school, by the library. She and I had walked out, to the October cool, because I wouldn’t hold her hand in front of a crowd. — Are you that nervous? she asked.

Her hand wrapped around mine. I thought I should kiss her, touch her face, find that spot that works — opening her mouth, closing her eyes. I said, — Yeah, a little.

— Why? She was older than me. Sixteen.

— Just am.

We sat on the cold steps. She smiled. She had braces; they were shimmering and comely, there in her mouth. I had cuts across the backs of my hands. Trisha rubbed them with an open palm.

— How did these happen?

— I don’t know.

— No, seriously, you can tell me these things.

I really didn’t remember what had scarred them. She laughed; usually I got that reaction, laughter, from her only on the phone, where I could loosen up; in person I was always overcome by my goddamn emotions. When the cold air hit us harder, I thought of her, asked if she wanted to go in.

Trisha nodded. — It is cold. But we can stay.

I was quiet so long I forgot we were supposed to say anything.

Trisha stared to her right, to the wall where I had played handball at nine or ten. I was very tired all the time. It didn’t seem strange that I was fifteen and already feeling ancient.

She had been attached when I met her. Dating someone older, a freshman in some upstate college. He still sent her things, like bus tickets. This guy promised that if she went to him he’d give her the thing she liked most: perfume. Nice stuff I couldn’t afford; all she had to do was visit. Working in my favor was distance, with its power to break bonds.

— You’re quiet, I said.

She squeezed my palm. — Your hand’s stopped shaking.

— You want to go to a movie? I asked quickly. We weren’t dating yet, that day, just the early affection.

Her laugh came out slow so, at first, I thought she was considering it. I let go of her, asked, — What’s funny?

— You should have heard yourself, she said. She squeezed her nose between two short, thin fingers, talked all nasal, You want to go to a movie?

— I sounded like that?

She touched the back of my head. — You should get a fade.

— You think so?

— I think you’d look so good with one. And, sitting like that, it was on her to lean in for the kiss. I was surprised, uncomfortable.

Then Trisha stood; I still sat, touched her feet. — They’re so small.

She said, — My feet are perfect. Even the toes are nice.

I stood, laughed, liked that she was arrogant about the stupidest things.

When the four of us stopped running, Carter was the first to catch his breath, said, — Man, we could have fucked that dude up.

I punched him in the chest when I could stand straight. James and Willy heaved a minute more. We had no speed left, but we were safe. Not for the first time in our lives we were lucky.

Until a year ago none of these fellas had been my boy, but here we were looking out for one another. I went through friends quickly. That was the best thing about guys — trust comes quick and no one cries when it’s over.

We walked to Twenty-seventh, where the hookers were a populace. This was their beauty: almost nothing worn, skin. We stood at a corner to watch these women move. The worst-looking one was more gorgeous than the rest of the world.

Here in the land of ass a-plenty, we were being ignored. Four black kids on foot spelled little cash and lots of hassles. These workers had no time for games. Station wagons sped through with single passengers acting alternately calm and surprised, as though they’d found this block by accident. Husbands, fiancés and boyfriends. Newer cars bursting with twenty-year-olds eased down the street, their systems pumping heavy.

— These girls are not going to take care of us, said Willy, the pragmatist. The rest of us dreamed ideally, waved twenties at the high heels thumping past.

A woman with her glorious brown chest mostly exposed saw us, said, — Go down to Twenty-fifth.

— What’s there? Willy asked.

— Crackheads. She kept walking, moving in that extra-hips way that paid her bills. The backs of her thighs were right there, platformed and performing. Exposed. It is not an exaggeration to say I would have married her that night.

We made that move. Stopped at a car, the guy inside getting a blow job. His friends were waiting, herded around a telephone, laughing. The top of a woman’s head worked furiously, faster than I’d have imagined possible. I craned my neck to try and see more.

— That’s Nicky! one of his friends screamed. The car window was down and Nicky inside smiled back. We rejoiced with them, but only a little, any longer and a fight might break out. They were muscle guys in zebra-print pants, leather coats; their skin looked so tough I doubted anything short of a shotgun would pierce their shells.

On Twenty-fifth the market crashed, both customers and workers. Women here wore jeans and T-shirts like someone’s fucked-up neighbor out for a stroll. This block looked like our school’s auditorium had belched out its worst; there were slight variations on us, in groups, canvassing the street. Truly ugly men rode through in cars that rattled and died while waiting at a red light, crackheads hopped into their cars two at a time. Some rubbed close on all us boys. We tried to act calm.

James was tired and bored. A woman appeared from a shadowed doorway, he asked her, almost absently, — How much for you to suck my dick?

— Fifteen.

All of us but Willy bolted upright, so sure we were going to leave Manhattan unfulfilled. Willy stayed shrewd. — Yeah right. He’ll give you five and so will the rest of us.

She brightened, scanned the crew. — All of you?

Willy nodded; she agreed. That was the benefit of going to a crackhead, you could haggle.

Finally it was my turn. Carter and Willy leaned against a building while James, just done, rubbed his stomach. Trucks were parked on this block. Police cars seemed to have become extinct. Occasionally you heard their sirens bleating a few blocks up, but they seemed to have left everything on this block for dead. Charlene ushered me down the alley she’d made into her workplace. She was about my height and twice as old. We were well hidden but she took me farther, behind a green Dumpster, lid shut.

— You know why I wanted you last, right?

I smiled. Her scalp was hidden under a blue scarf with white dots, the haphazard folds making them look as random as the salt spread out on the sidewalk after it has snowed. She kicked away the cardboard she’d laid out when taking care of my friends. I wasn’t thinking of Trisha.

— I wanted the good stuff from you, she said. She brought herself close; I was not going to fuck her, no way. Get my dick sucked and move on. Then came her punches, two of them: one in the face that didn’t hurt, but the second got me in the throat and I went down. On my hands and knees, this little crackhead had taken me out. The concrete was cold and one palm rested on an empty bag of chips. She was in my pockets, but found nothing. Then she gave me the real one, something popping against my head like a fucking brick. It was a gun.

— Get up, she said. Stand. It was the shittiest piece you’ll ever see; a rusting.22, one inch above a zip gun. She was in control. Now give me that money.

No games, I got it for her. She counted out all thirty dollars, slowly, in front of me, like she was trying to rub it in. You could say I was scared, but it was delayed, didn’t go off in my stomach until the four of us were catching the train an hour later and I couldn’t ease my token into the slot; Carter took it from my palsied hand and pushed me through.