Atticus Lish - Preparation for the Next Life

You got a magnet? All I want is to get this metal out of me.

Watch this, Frankie said. Hey, Charlie, what’s that from? You get shot or what?

I need a magnet to get this out.

What’s it from, nigga?

An IED.

In Iraq, right?

When Iraq was mentioned, Charlie jumped away. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him. Frankie put a hand on his shoulder and Charlie looked at his shoulder where you touched him as if he felt defiled by your sympathy.

What’s wrong? C-Rock?

He turned around and marched away, hurrying down the block, as if something awful had happened.

Frankie winked at Jimmy, who smirked.

The liquor store was opening and they went down to it, leaving the sunbather, who nodded at them, nodding to his music, which sounded as if it had a scratchy connection. He had an unfilled-in tattoo, just an outline of an animal drawn during a period of institutionalization on his shining oiled white arm.

Charlie was coming back up the street walking with the young attractive short-haired Chinese-American woman who ran the liquor store. He was offering to help her open the gate and she was saying, That’s okay. He started yanking on the handle before she had the lock off. Wait, she said. After they got the gate up, he made a sound of dismay and showed her his hands, which were black with dirt now. You can wash them in there, she said, pointing back at the bodega.

A black guy with his hand in a brace came over to the liquor store and bumped fists, using his good fist, with Frankie. He had a scar over his left eye, through the eyelid, wore a blue horizontally striped shirt, was over two hundred pounds, about 45–50 something. Charley went over to him to clasp hands with him and the guy said, Ow, not my bad hand, motherfucker.

They were drinking a clear plastic flask of Georgi vodka now, and Charlie started talking about the gas station fight again.

Am I gonna hear about this all goddamn day? asked Frankie. The two of them had never been locked up together, thank God. Charlie had been in jail in Long Island. His wife was a cunt. Renee. You threw that bitch through a glass window, didn’t you?

Where were you? Charlie asked. He appealed to Jimmy. This guy was nowhere to be found. I was outnumbered and he wasn’t there.

Sometimes you take a loss, Jimmy said.

Frankie covered his mouth laughing.

Yeah, I just took one, Charlie said, and began on another story. I fought in the World’s Fair. I was fifteen! I was fifteen. I fought Ramirez. You know who that is? I never lost. I had one hundred-twenty, two hundred fights. The first round I knocked him down. The second round there was a standing eight count. The third round, he got knocked down. His name was Ramirez. You know what the judge’s name was? Ramirez. They called it a draw.

And you’re still talking about it?

I can’t get a break. My father didn’t come to any of my fights—

Oh, my father! Frankie mocked.

— Now look at me, Charlie said. I’m a loser. He hit himself in the head with the plastic Georgi bottle.

Tell him he’s a loser for hitting himself with a bottle.

For a few minutes, Charlie went and stood by a mailbox on the corner.

Look at him. He’s runnin outta steam. Up all night smoking… You runnin outta steam, nigga?

It was getting hotter, the sun was shining. Charlie shook his head at them, apparently tired, or simply unable to speak. He took his jersey off, wearing his white t-shirt underneath, and looked as if he was resting. A few minutes later, he came back, drinking from the flask and getting revved up again. They looked at each other and examined each other, finding things to talk about. Frankie had a scar on his face.

My father had HIV. I went to see him in the hospital and these niggers said don’t touch him, you’ll get AIDS. I said, You ignorant fuckin niggers. I fought them. One of them had a razor and I got sliced.

Frankie snatched the vodka away from Charlie and drank the rest and threw the plastic bottle bouncing on the ground. He shook his head between his shoulders as if he were going to spar again.

You don’t wanna gas me up, nigga! he bellowed. Howbout my man Kenny the Flushing Flash who’s my neighbor down the block?

It’s about respect, Charlie insisted.

Whatever, Jimmy said.

Charlie insisted, Look at me. He got head-to-head with Jimmy, who pushed him away. He staggered back and came back in. It’s about simple respect, he said. He stank of vodka and cigarettes through his mouth, face, skin, his red throat. He described how the cops had come into his house and asked to hear his wife play the violin. She was known throughout the neighborhood. They followed me all the way through that park to those two buildings there, you see them two? and as soon as I stepped across the line, they arrested me. Can you believe that? Fourteen cops came into my house, and before they left, they asked to hear her play the piano. The cop was putting his hand on her back and going like this: It’s gonna be okay. There, there. Charlie stared in Jimmy’s eyes, waiting for a response. The piano, he said. After they all had coffee in my house. My wife was wearing a nightgown. They’re not supposed to do that.

He was in my house! My house! Charlie screamed. His throat expanded.

That’s interesting, Jimmy said.

Your wife’s nice, the cop told me. How does her pussy smell? I was handcuffed. I headbutted him. Right there. They beat me down outside. I was in a wheelchair.

They fucked you up bad, bro, Frankie said.

My mother was crying. I couldn’t see.

He hit his head on a wall, while the other two observed.

Harder, Frankie told him. Charlie knocked his forehead against the granite again, making a coconut sound. You got any meth? Any shrooms? Any mescaline? Any angel dust? so I can put my head right through this fuckin wall?

I got weed.

Na, weed’s no good.

They went across the avenue and sat by the Punjabi grocery, near the rail fence in the sun.

We’re just three white men. You’re white, right? We’re dinosaurs, son. They don’t make’em like they used to, beloved.

What do you think I am? Jimmy asked. Frankie avoided his eyes. Jimmy ground out his cigarette on the asphalt making a gritty sound under his boot.

Charlie was talking about the casino bus, saying it went to Foxwoods, reporting what they gave you. They gave you a coupon for the beef flambé and thirty dollars you could gamble. That ain’t bad. Whaddya say, let’s go. C’mon. I got you guys.

You don’t got me, Jimmy told him.

Yes, I do. C’mon.

He had left his jersey on the fence, and Frankie shouted: I’m always babysittin him. Pick your shit up. He lost a 250-dollar phone.

I got you, Charlie insisted.

Put your money away. You got rent, nigga!

Casting a glance at Jim, Frank said he was going home to roll a blunt. He stood up in the sun, his sweatpants pushed up above his fat calves. You need to go on a diet, motherfucker, Jimmy said, not getting up to go with him. I know I do, nigga. Frankie lingered for a minute. Jimmy pretended to find Charlie interesting. Charlie was still talking about common respect.

Frankie went around the corner, as if to leave, and seconds later ducked back, snatched the jersey off the fence and ran with it.

Charlie sprinted after him and Frankie stopped and they pushed their chests into each other as if they were guarding each other in basketball, threatening each other, whispering in each other’s faces: Do something. Do something. Do something. I’m not afraid of you, Charlie insisted, standing on his toes to be taller than him.

The jersey got thrown on the ground and Frankie spit on it. You won’t give me your shirt, but you’ll leave it there for some nigger.

Charlie picked his jersey up.