Boys by Scott Semegran
"Oh shit! What did you do?" Alfonso said, sitting up in his chair, astonished with Sarah's younger self's moxie. "Sorry, excuse my language, sorry."
"That is perfectly fine, young man," she said, a proud smile on her face. "My confidence as a young woman grew immensely that summer and I really knew what I wanted. I knew that I wasn't ready to go home just quite yet."
"What did you do?" I said, sitting up in my chair.
"One of my supervisors was this phenomenal woman named Jane. She was tall and beautiful and regal and from Massachusetts and she had this way about her that was just very confident and strong. She spoke in a way that reminded me of Jackie Kennedy but since I was a girl from a small town in Texas, I imagined most people from back East spoke like this, and maybe they did. I approached her about staying in Haiti longer and she said there wasn't any way I could stay in Haiti. The political climate just wasn't right for me to do that, particularly by myself. The charity was closing up and most of the staff were going back to the United States. I asked her if she was going back to the United States and she said no. She said she was traveling on to Jamaica to join another charity group for more vaccination work. I begged her to let me go with her, to continue my travels with her, and at first, she said absolutely not. After I begged some more, I think she realized something about me that made her change her mind, maybe she knew I was a hard worker and the kids we encountered liked me. She basically told me that if I could make do in a moment's notice with how events would unfold, if I could 'go with the flow,' as they say nowadays, then she would help me get to Jamaica. I graciously accepted her help."
***
"Are you boys hungry? I'm famished!" Sarah said, standing up then brushing out the bunched up material at the front of her dress, then brushing out her dress again because that's what stoners do for good measure. We looked at each other, astonished at her generosity, and astonished some more at the adventurousness she seemed to exhibit as a young woman and the fun she seemed to want to still have as an old woman. She made her way around the table then toward the oven where the food was waiting. "Come on, I know you have the munchies."
We laughed. We did have the munchies. Sarah pulled the warm meals out from the oven then grabbed some dishes from the cabinets, setting them neatly on the counter, opening the to-go containers, steam rising from the hot food inside.
"I usually order extra food because I always have a guest or two in the house, friends, neighbors. You know? I like to share," she said. She divvied up the food equally on three plates, lasagna, spaghetti with marinara sauce, penne pasta with fettuccini alfredo sauce, warm bread, a nice lunch, nicer than we were used to. We had served this food to hundreds of customers over the last few months but we had never had this food served to us in this way. I was overcome with her generosity and kindness, to the point where a lump formed in my throat, rendering me speechless.
"You two look like you saw a ghost," she said, cackling at the idea of that, patting Alfonso on the back, then me. "I bet you boys haven't seen your mamas or your grandmamas in a long while. True?" We nodded in unison, a little ashamed. "Now you boys go ahead and start eating. I have to feed my animals lunch too. Then I'll continue my story."
***
"I had everything I owned in a shoulder bag and I accompanied Jane in a taxi to the air field where our plane was waiting to take her, I mean us, to Jamaica. She told me that since she didn't have a ticket for me that she was going to have to use her powers of persuasion, something she rarely did but since she already told me yes and we were on our way, it was going to have to work. She told me that no matter what happened that if we found ourselves in a jam, to go to the men piloting the plane, look them straight in the eyes, and give them a look of desperation and helplessness. She told me, 'Every man will help a damsel in distress. I guarantee it.'"
We listened intently, shoving food in our dry mouths, our eyes fixed on Sarah. She continued.
"We got out of the taxi at the air field and there was a plane waiting for us, one of those prop planes with two propellers, one on each wing. Jane motioned for me to follow her and I did. There was a small group of folks waiting to board the small plane, maybe 8 or 9 people. The plane looked like it could hold a dozen passengers at the most. We joined the group and Jane introduced me to them as her assistant and that was it. With the exception of a few who couldn't believe the fortune Jane came across to receive an assistant with such limited funding from the charity, I was now Jane's assistant, just like that."
"Whoa! That's crazy. They just believed it?" I said.
"Yes," Sarah said. "Why wouldn't they? Jane was a very well respected woman."
"Suckers!" Alfonso said. We all laughed.
"Anyway, when it was time to board the plane, Jane approached the pilot and immediately told him that I was her new assistant and that room was going to have to be made for me on the plane. The pilot looked flushed and exasperated, knowing full well that there wasn't going to be room for an additional person on this plane, but Jane was determined. She gently grabbed both his lapels with the tips of her fingers, locked her eyes onto his for a moment, then pulled him close. She whispered something in his ear and a smile slid across his face, a look similar to when an injured patient succumbs to the calming effect of a morphine drip. He nodded and smiled some more, leaned forward in a slight bow, then hopped on the plane, making some type of adjustments at the rear of the cabin, then hopped back out. He motioned for the passengers to board the plane but his eyes were fixed on Jane, like a malnourished lion gazing at a plump antelope grazing in a field. When it was my turn to board, he told me to go straight to the back of the plane and I did. Instead of a normal seat, which were all taken, my seat was a wooden plank that folded down from the cabin wall, a place for a flight attendant, if there ever was one. Instead of a seatbelt, my form of safety was a piece of chain, bolted to the wall on each side of the folding wooden chair, and instead of a buckle, a metal clip. I sat on the plank apprehensively. It didn't look very safe but Jane gave me an assured glance and a smile so I clipped my safety chain around my waist and pretty soon, we were flying to Jamaica."
"That is amazing," I said, sliding my empty drinking glass toward Alfonso, tilting my head as if to say, 'fill 'er up.' Alfonso acknowledged and filled up my glass as well as his own and Sarah's with more rum. She continued.
"Amazing indeed, what women can do if they put their minds to it. I was so young, I didn't have a care in the world. The flight took four or five hours and was pretty uneventful. I watched the turquoise water of the Caribbean underneath us, occasionally seeing a cargo ship being chased by dolphins. It was such an amazing thing to see for a girl from Texas. When we landed in Jamaica, I literally had no idea what I was going to do or where I was going to stay. But Jane had assured me she'd help me, so I had faith she would, and she did. I tagged along with her to the headquarters of the charity she was working for and she convinced them that I was her assistant and that whatever accommodations she had then I would just stay with her. They agreed without any questions. That's how it seemed to work in those countries with those charities; no one ever seemed to question anything, especially with Jane. The charity had a room for Jane at a nearby hotel and I stayed there with her, sleeping on a couch while she slept on the bed. Back in Haiti, I never spoke much with Jane on a personal level, but that first night, we stayed up late into the night, telling each other our hopes and dreams. She wanted to change the world and hoped it would eventually be through politics. I told her that I wanted to see and experience the world. We were like two school girls, giggling and chatting all night long."
"She must have been a very nice lady, that Jane," Alfonso said. "I've never met anyone who would do something like that for me."
"Shit, me neither," I said. "Most people seem to treat me like shit and I have no idea why."
"Ain't that the truth," Alfonso said. "Well, you don't buddy. You're my homie."
I held out my fist and Alfonso tapped it with his fist
"Well, I was fortunate," Sarah said. "Obviously, Jane had a charitable heart, a charitable soul. I was lucky, I guess. That next morning, I went with her to the charity and we were assigned our duties. It was very similar work to what we were doing in Haiti, inoculating children from disease, but at night, things were different than in Haiti. I would walk around Kingston and catch the sights and sounds of Jamaica, which at the time, was a vital place for music. Ska and early reggae music was very popular in Jamaica and you could hear the music everywhere you went. It really was mesmerizing, hypnotic. I fell in love with the music and culture of Jamaica. I began to explore Kingston and I made new friends. They would take me to places to eat, clubs to listen to music, to interesting people's houses for parties. It was an amazing time for me. And that's when I met Robert."
***
"Would you boys like some pie?"
We looked at each other, amazed at our continued fortune that afternoon. It had been a very long while since we had been doted on by anyone, especially a grandmotherly woman offering pie. It was a nice feeling.
"We would never turn down pie, ma'am," Alfonso said.
"He's right. That would be rude," I said.
Sarah opened her refrigerator and pulled out a glass pie dish, a mountain of fluffy sweetness at the top of it, and brought it over to the table. She sat it between us as we sat there, speechless, our mouths wide and drooling. We adjusted ourselves in our chairs, sitting up attentively, preparing to fill our stomachs with sweet, delicious joy.
"Homemade lemon meringue pie," Sarah said. She smiled at her masterpiece, its appearance straight out of a cooking magazine, perfect light brown peaks of meringue, jutting up from the marshmallowy base, inviting us to indulge ourselves in a way that was almost shameful. "I'm not keeping you, am I?"
"Oh no... no, no, no, no, no, you are not keeping us," Alfonso said, holding his fork, licking his lips.
"Because if you need to get back to work, I would certainly understand."
"No, ma'am. We don't need to get back," I said. "I mean, we are at work. We're working right now. You know? We are delivering your meal to you." I nudged Alfonso with my elbow then winked.
"Right. We delivered your meal to you and we set your meal up for you. Then we served it to you," he said.
"We pride ourselves in delivering great service to our customers," I said.
"That's right. And we wouldn't be satisfied unless you were satisfied."
"And now, we are accepting a gratuity from you," I said. Me and Alfonso giggled and snickered like little kids. Sarah smiled at our mischievousness. She turned the pie a quarter turn, then another quarter turn, looking for the perfect place to slice first, then raised both hands to her face, surprised.
"Oh! I almost forgot," she said, turning back to the kitchen and walking to the counter. She leaned over the counter, pulling a coffee pot toward her. She adjusted the machine, making sure it was straight and in order, patting the top, then turned it on. "You can't have pie without coffee."
Alfonso and I looked at each other, the corners of both our mouths turning upwards. I leaned toward my roommate, my homie, my best friend.
"We lucked out today," I said, whispering. Alfonso nodded.
Sarah brought three coffee mugs to the table and sat them down. She placed her hands on our shoulders, giving a tender squeeze.
"The coffee will be ready in ten minutes. Now, where was I?"
***
"He was a beautiful young man. His father was white and his mother was black and the two of them created a man whose skin was the color of a macchiato, a creamy light tan, and his hair was as black as night, shaggy and wild. I met Robert in a tiny café one morning while waiting for a cup of coffee to take to work. He was filled with passion for music and pride for his country and when I asked him where he worked, he said he was a musician and that he was on his way to a recording studio to play guitar and sing. He asked me to tag along with him but I couldn't. I had to work. So he asked me to meet him after I got off work and, for whatever reason, I agreed. He gave me an address and I told him I'd meet him at seven o'clock."
"You weren't afraid?" Alfonso said. "I mean, you didn't know him at all."
"Oh, no. I wasn't afraid. He had the kindest smile I had ever seen. Do you want to see? I have a photo of him in the other room."
We nodded and she got up and fetched a framed photo from the parlor room. When she came back, she sat the framed photo down on the table and Alfonso and I looked at the photo of a young Sarah standing next to the man she was describing, her arms around him and one of his arms draped across her shoulders. He was tall and lanky and it seemed his skin was the color of a macchiato but it was hard to tell since it was a black and white photo. She had a love-struck look on her face; he looked confident and satisfied. But the strangest thing about the man was that he looked strikingly like Bob Marley, the legendary reggae singer from Jamaica. I felt a sense of paranoia wash over me and I wondered to myself that maybe I was too high or too drunk. I rubbed my eyes and looked again and this man, Robert, still looked like a young version of Bob Marley but without the long dreadlocks, a bushy afro in their place. I nudged Alfonso so he could see for himself but he was too busy eating pie so I grabbed my paranoia by the reins and reeled it in. Sometimes, you just have to do that when you're high. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
"Is this who I think it is?" I said, pointing at the man she called Robert.
"Who do you think it is?" she said, curious.
This exchange snapped Alfonso out of the hypnotic state the pie put him in. He looked at the photo too and I think he saw what I saw, that distinctive face of the musical legend peering back at the two of us. It was weird.
"He sure looks a lot like Bob Marley," I said. Sarah smiled. "You're telling me you knew Bob Friggin' Marley?" She continued to smile.
"Whoa!" Alfonso said, taking the photo from my hands and examining it closely.
"Yes, I knew him for a short time while I was in Jamaica. He was very sweet on me until I found out he was married."
Alfonso and I got a kick out of that but then the doorbell rang--to the tune of One Love it seemed--and Sarah quickly got up to answer it. Me and my friend sat in a state of astonishment. It seemed to me that this elderly woman was way cooler than we were at that moment, WAY cooler. How could that be?
A few moments later she came back in the kitchen, her demeanor changed.
"Sorry, my friends, but something important has come up with one of my neighbors. I'm afraid I have to go help him." Alfonso and I looked at each other and disappointment sank in. Her story was just getting too good for her to stop at that point but we knew we really weren't there for a social call. We were just delivery boys. "But I'm very glad to have met you both. You are welcome back any time."
I stood up, wiping the crumbs from my lap, and extended my hand to her for a shake. She grabbed my hand then pulled me in for a hug, a tight hug like my mom used to give me when I was a boy. She hugged Alfonso too and led us to the door. After one more goodbye, we walked out the door, across the front yard to my Civic. I looked back to wave at her. She waved back then closed her door.
Party at the Slave Quarters with a Certain Other Employee
Alfonso's 1983 Honda Accord sat stranded in the parking lot of my apartment complex, covered in bird shit and june bug carcasses and dried leaves and cedar pollen, its tires partially deflated from sitting in one place for too long, its windows covered with palm prints from thieves looking inside then discovering just how worthless the car really was. Three of its hub caps were missing from too many tight turns on the way to work, and its license plate was bent at the bottom from scraping against one too many parking curbs. It was a real goddamn mess. Few other residents dared to park near it in fear that their cars would catch its disease, the pathetic-abandoned-poor-bastard syndrome. Alfonso had given up on starting it after trying unsuccessfully for an hour a few weeks before, punching its steering wheel and stomping it
"Piece of shit," he said. I snickered a bit as we walked by it. After looking the car up and down, he turned his head away. "I refuse to look at her anymore. She's a goddamn WHORE!"
"Maybe we can try to start her again on Monday. I think we're both off work," I said, trying hard to sound consoling.
"Maybe but I doubt she'll start. I probably just need to have her towed to a shop. I better start saving my money."
"Oh shit! That would cost a lot of money."
"Yeah, no shit, a lot of money I don't have."
"Ah, forget about it. Let's go to the party and have some fun tonight. All right?"
"All right."
My car was a row over. It was a little less shitty of a ride than Alfonso's car--mainly because it would start when I needed it to, it was a few years newer, and it had a few less dents. Still, it was no prize. It was just transportation, really. I unlocked the doors and we both hopped in. I lovingly caressed my car's steering wheel.
"I bet she'll start right up." I put the key in the ignition then winked at Alfonso.
"Fuck off," Alfonso said, folding his arms across his chest, his mouth twisting into an unhappy squiggle.
"And..." I turned the key and the car started immediately, sort of purring as it idled. "BAM!"
We put our seat belts on and were off, my Civic coasting down the hill toward the parking lot exit, turning north on South First Street, then east on Barton Springs Road to Riverside Drive. The party was at a P.W. employee's place, maybe the mooch Warren's place, maybe at the grumpy Levonne's duplex, somewhere on the East Side, who's house it was didn't really matter. All that mattered--to me anyway--was that a certain other employee would be there. They had an address scrawled on a piece of paper and the handwriting looked very similar to Levonne's crappy handwriting. Alfonso studied its juvenile scrawl, its shaky lines, its shriveled vowels, its wrinkly consonants.