Rafael Yglesias - Only Children

“Are you nuts? Of course not.”

The elevator doors began to close. Eric held them back. He nodded for her to exit. “I’ll tell Gomez to get the cab.”

“That’s a good idea.” She smiled like a child and moved out confidently. But once in the lobby, she stopped in her tracks. Gomez was sprawled in the tall-backed oak chair facing the doors. His head had flopped to one side, his mouth was open, and his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of a deep sleep.

Nina hissed as she breathed in sharply: “Oh!”

Eric looked at his watch. “Contraction begins,” he said loud, hoping to arouse Gomez.

“This isn’t bad,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Eric said.

Nina backed herself against the wall, closed her eyes, and took deep, slow breaths.

“Fifteen seconds!” Eric almost shouted, keeping his eyes on Gomez. “Contraction is building.” Gomez snorted, lifted his head slightly, yawned, and stretched his neck, apparently about to wake up. But then Gomez nuzzled his shoulder and resumed sleeping without having opened his eyes. “Great! The entire PLO could be entering the building!”

“Shhh!” Nina said, and started to pace, quickening her respiration.

“Gomez!” Eric said.

“Leave him alone — ah!” Nina rushed to the mailboxes, put her back to them, bent forward as much as she could, and pushed against them.

A long, inquisitive grunt came out of Gomez: “Hmmmm?” But no movement.

“Thirty seconds,” Eric said furiously. “Contraction is peaking.”

“Comeon comeon comeon comeon!” Nina chanted, her eyes shut tight, squeezing her hands together.

“We have to get to the hospital,” Eric said to the ceiling.

“We’ll get there, we’ll get there, we’ll get there.” Nina spoke through her huffs and puffs.

“Forty-five seconds. Contraction is subsiding.” Eric cupped his hands and shouted toward the doorman, “Gomez! Wake up!”

“Huh?” Gomez started up, tried to right himself by grabbing the chair’s arms, but his left hand slid on the polished wood and brought the weight of his body against it, so that slowly, but inevitably, despite Gomez’s cry of surprise and despair, he and the chair toppled over.

Nina laughed briefly. The pain cut it short, but she laughed again after a gasp. Eric, however, ignored the calamity, calling out: “Gomez, my wife is in labor. Get a cab.”

Gomez, a tall, lean man with a solemn face, looked up from his position. “I can’t get up.”

“Something broken?” Jesus, Eric thought. I’m going to have to take both of them to the hospital.

“No, no. The chair. Get it off me.”

“Sixty seconds. Contraction is over.” Eric walked over and lifted the heavy chair. Gomez crawled a few feet away before getting up. He looked at the chair suspiciously.

“I told Gary to get another one. That one’s dangerous.”

“Are you all right? Listen, she’s in labor. Can you get us a cab?”

“What?” Gomez looked at Nina, alarmed. “What?”

“We have to go to the hospital, so—”

“Right away, right away.” Gomez hustled out the door.

Eric sighed and returned to Nina’s side. She looked pale. “Is he getting a cab?” she asked.

“Yeah, I just hope he doesn’t get run over.”

Nina laughed reluctantly, as though it hurt. “That was funny.”

Gomez returned, jogging in, distraught. He stopped inside the lobby doors and looked at them.

“You got one?” Eric asked.

“There are no cabs.” Gomez said tentatively, as though trying out a lie.

“It’s three in morning! You have to look longer than that. I’ll go—”

“No, no.” Gomez turned to leave again.

“We’ll both go,” Nina said. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Eric said. He picked up her bag and extended his arm for her to take.

Gomez looked agitated. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he said. Gomez went up to Eric and pulled him a few feet away from Nina.

Eric was outraged by this physical familiarity. It’s what I get for being a regular guy with them, he thought. “What are you doing?”

“There are bad boys out there,” Gomez whispered.

He’s flipped, Eric thought. He’d always suspected Gomez was the night man because he was a nut on Thorazine and couldn’t handle the heavier social tasks of the day shift. “What?”

“Hoodlums.”

“We won’t get mugged, Gomez.”

“No! Right outside now!”

Eric looked Gomez full in the face, directly into his eyes. As he did, he realized it was the first time. Although he had often been waylaid by Gomez on late-night excursions for ice cream and been forced to dawdle at the elevator discussing the fortunes of the Mets, or the Giants, Eric had managed to keep his eyes averted, away from the final bond of seeing into Gomez’s eyes, to know whatever might be there: shy worry; the glitter of excitement; the dull glaze of sadness. For Eric, once that contact happened, the person became a responsibility, someone to whom one could never again be rude without the aftereffect of guilt, someone whose feelings had to be considered with each request. Obviously that would be a grave inconvenience with doormen.

Gomez’s eyes were scared, and weary from the fear, as though he had conquered the dread repeatedly, only to lose to it each time, so that the challenge held no prospect for victory.

My God, for years he’s been the night man living in terror. Why doesn’t he keep the door locked and stay awake? He’d feel safer.

And now, on top of his cowardice, unable to get them the cab, Gomez was embarrassed. It was his job, after all, to provide them with security. Instead, he was forcing Eric to take the risk. “I’ll be all right,” Eric assured him, and meant it. He doubted Gomez’s ability to judge danger. And besides, Eric had grown up, as he often told people, in a tough neighborhood, had had his share of street fights, and was a big man. Prowling the city at night, being six-six and two hundred pounds, he’d never been hassled. And he didn’t expect to be.

“They have a knife,” Gomez whispered intensely, glancing at Nina.

“Honey, what’s the matter?” Nina called out.

“You’d better wait here. It’ll only take a minute for me to find a cab.”

“I’ll stand at the door and watch you,” Gomez said with enthusiasm. He obviously felt better that he could offer some help.

Nina approached, her big stomach in the lead, towing the rest of her slowly. “I want to go with you.”

“Honey! It’ll take a second. Stay here.” Eric let go of the overnight bag (to have his hands free) and quickly walked out the inner-lobby doors to prevent any further discussion.

As he approached the exit to the street, he heard them. There was a radio playing rock music and a rhythmic tapping on something metallic and hollow. Eric decided to walk out boldly, not glance at them or move in the opposite direction, but to behave as though they were harmless — as, indeed, he assumed they were. At least to him.

The emptiness of Ninth Street was disconcerting; usually busy during the day and well into the evening with cars and cabs going crosstown, at three in the morning there was no traffic to be seen in the orange haze of the streetlamps. The only life was the presence of three black teenagers clustered around a fire hydrant. Their heads turned at the sound of Eric’s exit from the building. In the harsh light their faces loomed at him, almost glowing. One backed away immediately, his arms hanging loosely, ready for flight. The tallest had a joint in his hand; yellow smoke burned from its tip directly into his right eye. He closed the lid deliberately, a puppet winking, but didn’t move the joint.

“Hey, man!” he called out, greeting a friend. But his body was still, ominous.