Disgust and Desire: A Sobriety/Covid Novel

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Disgust and Desire

A Novel

1.

Sam sat on one of the green benches surrounding the Sailboat Pond in Central Park, near 72^nd and 5^th Ave. Mid-day in September on a Saturday. Twenty-twenty: The Year of Chaos. Trump. The Virus. Political division. More personally: Homelessness.

People were all around, but, due to the Pandemic—many New Yorkers had fled the city—it was still pretty desolate. The French man in all-white clothing played jazz on his saxophone. Sam remembered the first time he discovered the Sailboat Pond. The man had been playing that afternoon, too, in late August, 2017, and it had made him imagine Paris. Paris in the twenties, when Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Stein were there. Romantic. It had taken him away from his past for a while. And from his horrid present.

            It wasn’t all bad, being homeless. He had no boss. No one lorded anything over him. He didn’t pay taxes. He didn’t vote. He didn’t work, at least not often; only when he needed or wanted to. He just…survived. That was a fulltime job in and of itself. But, in many ways, he felt free. And yet, on the flip side he felt trapped. Horrendously, absurdly trapped. It was an evolving conundrum.

            It was around three in the afternoon. Sunny and nice. Blue sky. Hot sunshine against his skin. He closed his eyes, felt the heat on his flesh. Where would he sleep tonight? He needed money, mainly for alcohol. He was bone-dry. He didn’t like being sober. All those frizzy feelings came back when he was sober. His obsessive thinking. The bad recollections.

            He spent an hour begging for change. Tourists were kind. He made a fast ten bucks. In winter this would be impossible in an hour. But in early fall it happened sometimes.

Sam slid his messenger bag over his shoulder and walked south to 72^nd. He headed east a few blocks to Lexington. Down on Lex and 71^st there was a liquor store, Lexington Liquors. He entered like a child about to buy supplies for his first day of class. He bought a pint of Southern Comfort, 80-proof.

            Outside he ambled slowly back towards the park. No one was around but he knew the NYPD 19^th precinct was close by, on 67^th between Lex and 3^rd Ave. He wouldn’t risk it. He’d only encountered police a few times in the three years he’d been here, and they’d always been decent. They never gave him shit. They weren’t exactly kind…but they weren’t terrible. They were nicer than many pedestrians. He was white. That always helped. He’d witnessed the cops fucking with black homeless a few times. It was jacked-up.

            Back in the park—Billy Johnson Playground between 66^th and 67^th—he walked in and took a slight left and, beyond some benches, he moved into an area on the grass where some large, tall trees were. They provided shade and some solitude. He wanted to be alone.

            He slid down against a thick tree trunk. He heard the distant voices of kids. Wind rushed through the park, rustling the tree leaves above. He liked that sound. It reminded him of hiking with his father in Eastern Washington. Snoqualmie. Cougar Valley Regional Park. He saw the tall, craggy, snow-capped mountain peaks. The rugged, thin trails. He, just eight the first time, holding his father’s big, calloused hand. He remembered the brilliant stars in the dark dome of sky at night. Asking his father about the Milky Way, about stars.

            But then he had The Bad Thought. That memory. Eleven.  

Backpacking with Dad. This time in Rattlesnake Mountain area, about an hour’s drive southeast of Seattle. Just the two of them. Dad had been in a bad mood. He’d had to let go of an employee. His parents had fought the night before about it. His dad had gotten drunk. That was rare.

            That night, getting to camp—it was late October, cold, absolutely empty—a few miles in the backcountry, his father made them a T-bone steak, using the old rusty makeshift grill between two stones around the fire pit. They ate heartily, like cowboys in the 19^th century, or so Sam imagined. He’d brought a book to read, The Count of Monte Cristo. He’d use his headlamp in his tent to read, later. This excited him. But he looked forward to talking to his father before that. He knew his father loved him. But he’d always been a little cold. Detached. So he cherished these trips alone together.

            They finished their steak. Darkness had fallen. It was cold. Dad had built up the fire. It was raging, orange and red and blue, licking and popping. Sam loved the feel of the flames. The smell of it. The rich earth; the wood burning. Crickets made their noises. A coyote somewhere howled. The moon rose. Tall trees surrounded them.

            His father did something he’d never done before. He pulled out a big bottle—a handle of Vodka—unscrewed the cap, and drank from it. His father scrunched his mouth after each swig. Sam wanted to ask him about it but he remained silent.

            After a while, his dad set the bottle down and sat there, in darkness, silent. Sam wondered what he was thinking. Before Sam could speak, his father said, in a low, guttural voice. “I had to fire James Henderson a few days ago.”

            Sam had met James once. He’d come to their house a few years ago. But he didn’t have a firm vision of the man. He didn’t really know him. His father picked up the bottle. He burped. In that moment Sam felt afraid. Something was off. His father sighed, long and low and loud. He snatched a pack of Marlboros from his backpack—another thing he’d never seen his father do—and placed one between his lips. He used a blue bic lighter to light the thing, using the palm of his free hand to shield the flame from the breeze.

            “Dad?”

            His father drew hard on the cigarette, his mouth pinching, and Sam saw the orange dot in the darkness. He could see the silhouette of his father.

            “Yes, son?” There seemed to be an edge in his father’s voice.

            “Why are you drinking and smoking?”

            His father waited a long, long time to answer.

            “You know,” his dad said. He pulled again on his cigarette, and fondled his chin with his hand. “Your mother can be a real bitch sometimes.”

            Sam was shocked. Had his father just called his mom a bitch? They seemed to always be so kind to each other. Well. They yelled a lot. Once he saw his father shove his mother down to the ground. She called him a bastard. Ran off crying. But that was years ago.

            Before Sam could speak, his father said, “I had to fire James because of her. Your mother.”

            “But…why?”

            Dad picked up the bottle again and drank, long and deep. He set it down. Burped.

            “Well. Your goddamn mom claims that she and James had an affair. She says they’ve been fucking for six months. He supposedly takes her to some motel during his two days off during the week.” His father leaned his head back and laughed. He laughed so furiously, so hard, that it seemed fake. Like his father was acting. Trying to sound like he was laughing. “I dunno, sonny-boy,” his dad drawled. His words now were slightly edged with rage, slippery, mumbly. “I should have divorced that bitch years ago. You know that?” He paused. “God. My own goddamn employee. Figure that! Right under my fucking nose.”

            “Dad…”

            “Come here, Sam.”

            “Dad…”

            “Come to me, boy.”

            “But, dad…”

            “Get your ass over here, kid. NOW.”

            His father had yelled. It stunned Sam. This had never happened before. The silence of the night seemed cracked. He didn’t like this. He wanted to hike back to his father’s truck. Go home.

            Sam stood. He carefully, slowly walked by the crackling fire, feeling the radiating heat against his legs.

            “Closer,” his father said.

            Sam stepped closer. He smelled the Vodka on his father’s breath. The trace of his father’s cologne. His arm-pit body odor. And that unique dad scent.

            His father held Sam’s chin with his right hand. Dad’s eyes were black and loose, distant, far away. Sam just wanted this nightmare to be over.

            “Promise me,” his father said. “Promise me you’ll never be like your mother. Promise me you’ll be a good kid. That you’ll be kind. That’ll you’ll be generous. And decent.” He wanted to defend his mother but he was scared. He stood very still. His father stared at him. Then his dad picked up the bottle and said, “Drink.”

            Sam didn’t want to. He was a good kid. A little weird, kinda shy, but he studied and got good grades. He was thoughtful around girls. He listened. He followed the rules. He didn’t bully or cheat or steal. It was true he didn’t have any friends. But he read books. Authors were his friends. His guides.

            “I don’t want to,” Sam said.

            His father laughed. He let go of Sam’s chin. He grabbed his yellow hiking mug and filled it with Vodka. He held it out to Sam.

            “Drink.”

            Sam shook his head. “No. I don’t want it.”

            Sam didn’t even see the huge palm come at him. His father slapped him across the cheek with such force that Sam stumbled back, tripped on one of the logs around the fire, and fell over. He landed hard on his ass on the dirt.

            “Get up you little shit,” his father said.

            Sam felt like crying but he held it in. He wanted to run but he resisted the impulse. He stepped to his father. His father held out the mug. Sam took it. He smelled it. Nasty. Ruthless.

            “Go ahead,” his father said. “Make a man out of you yet. Your mom spoils you too much. Makes you soft.”

            He held the mug. He lifted it to his lips and drank. Just a small sip. It burned like acid. He nearly vomited. It was disgusting.

            “Again.”

            “Dad…”

            His father lifted his hand in preparation to slap him again. “Drink all of it.”

            He wanted to protest. But he followed orders. He half gagged on it…and had to take breaks. But he drank it all. He felt warm and somehow happy and alive. It was as if the flames were inside of him now. The kindling had always been there. But now the flames leapt and rose. The fear seemed to somehow dissipate. He laughed. His father palmed his shoulder.

            “Good job, son. See. It’s not so bad huh?”

            Sam smiled. “It’s good.”

            They sat there, across from each other, seeing one another through the crackling fire, in total silence, each on their own log, not speaking, hearing all the wildlife around their campsite.

            Then they both passed out. The last thing Sam remembered thinking, before he drifted off, was, I need to get some more of this stuff. It’s like magic.

2.

Laura was back at home. Glancing up at her apartment on East 69^th and Third Avenue, she sighed. Another work day over. She was an accountant at J.P. Morgan Chase. Her office was at the corner of 2^nd and 58^th Street, in Midtown. Easily walkable. Another 27-year-old Manhattan cliché. She was born and raised in San Francisco, in Pacific Heights, and moved to New York to attend NYU. She’d graduated with a degree in accounting two years ago.  

She entered her apartment, slamming the door and triple-locking it behind her. Christ. Leaning her back against the shut door she closed her eyes. She was exhausted. The first thing she did was kick off her heels—J-Crew D’Orsay pumps. Reaching in her cabinet she snatched a clean wine glass. From her fridge she grabbed her bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. She poured a nice, full glass.

            Stepping into her living room, she eyed her gigantic Matisse painting on her wall, the only piece of art she owned: Large Reclining Nude. The blue tiled background in the painting always stuck out to her. The misshapen, large-armed woman. The green bars above. The yellow ball, mixed with the red long rectangular shelf. It was oil and canvass. Her mother had bought it for her years ago. Mom, despite being a doctor, was a fervent art collector. She could talk your ear off about Matisse and Picasso and Cezanne and Gauguin. She especially loved 19^th century French art.

            Laura sat on her gray leather couch. It crunched. She kicked her feet onto the thick maple coffee table. She leaned back against the couch. Sighing again, she drank deeply from her glass. The chilled white wine swam slowly down her throat, into her stomach, that acidic, cloying taste, warming her insides. Thank God for wine.

            God, she thought. Greg Torino. Greg was her boss at Chase. He wasn’t a bad guy. It was just that he so badly wanted to fuck her. (Then again: Who didn’t? She laughed at her own vanity.) He was 42—fifteen years older than her. And married. He had two kids. Men were absurd creatures, really. Good ole Biology: They wanted to “spread the seed.” They didn’t care if they were married and had kids. They wanted to screw. Laura sipped more wine. She began to feel slightly more calm, relaxed.

            Getting involved with your boss was a bad idea. She’d been taken advantage of. At the first job she ever had. In San Francisco. When she was just barely twenty. The summer before she moved to New York City. She’d been a server at Joe’s Crab Shack along on Pier 33. Tourists came from all over the globe. She hated the job. People acted like assholes. Men undressed her with their eyes every day. The kids were out of control. Tips were shoddy. Rich people. She was annoyed by them even though she, herself, was “one of them.”

            One night, after closing, when the restaurant was locked up and a few of them were mopping the floor and counting the register, Juan, one of the cooks, approached her and said, “Hey. Boss wants to see you. Told me to tell you.”

            “About what?” she said.

            Juan shrugged.

            She leaned her mop against a nearby table and walked, slowly, across the restaurant, passing all the empty tables. She felt nervous. Her boss was a large, intimidating man. Mr. Rollins was easily 6’4. In his early fifties. He had a full head of graying hair, always gelled back like a greaser. On his right forearm he had a small tattoo. She’d realized weeks into the job that it was a military tattoo: An eagle clutching an olive branch with the letters U.S.M.C. around the eagle. He rarely smiled. He was married but had no kids. He and Laura had barely exchanged more than half a dozen words the two months she’d been there, besides her brief interview. His hands, she had often noted, were the size of baseball mitts, veined and wormy.

            She stood in front of his office door. The door was big and wide and red and had a giant brass knob. The impulse to turn around and take off raced through her. She glanced back down the hallway. Empty. Barely, she could hear the sound of Juan and another boy speaking Spanish a ways off. And the very slight click of a keyboard behind the door.

            Laura knocked, timidly. The typing ceased.

            “Who is it?” a deep, booming voice said.

            Her heart was punching her chest. “Me? Uh…Laura.”

            “Come in.”

            She breathed, holding the air, then releasing. Then she opened the heavy door. Stepped inside. It slammed loudly behind her.

            His office was spacious. Blank white walls. Boxes everywhere. A big black safe. His huge oak desk. Mr. Rollins himself, sitting in his gigantic black leather high-backed chair. A shelf of books to his right. A window behind Mr. Rollins which faced a red brick wall.

            He steepled his mammoth hands, creating a teepee with his fingers. He had a gray goatee. She didn’t think she’d even seen him in weeks. Barely at least.

            “Sit down,” he said, indicating the brown wood chair in front of the desk.

            She did, tugging her skirt down as she approached. She felt exposed. She was very conscious of her low-scooped blouse, with the stupid Joe’s Crab Shack gold pin.

            They didn’t speak for a moment. He stared at her and, even though his eyes didn’t seem to move, she knew he was scanning her body up and down. He leaned back.

            “So,” he said. He swiveled slightly in the chair. “How are you liking the job?”

            Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of her mouth. She didn’t know how to speak. Finally, she said, “It’s fine.”

            He grinned. “Just fine?”

            She blushed, feeling her cheeks stupidly redden. She felt like a child. An idiot.

            Laura shrugged. “It’s…fine.”

            He leaned back in the chair again. His eyes were pale blue and big. Everything about this man was big. He was big, she was small. That was life. That was gender. That was America. That was the world. She wasn’t a victim. But she was aware of his power.

            He ogled her for a moment, serious, his lips clamped. And then he said, “Come here.”

            “I’m sorry?”

            He shoved his chair back, exposing his gargantuan thighs, covered in brand new beige Dockers, creased down the middle. He wore alligator boots. A black collared shirt, the top two buttons undone showed off sprouting chest hair. A gold chain with a crucified Christ hung where the open shirt cracked.

            He smiled. “You heard me.”

            Then she saw his bulge; the outline of his dick pushing against his Dockers. Fuck. She didn’t know what to do. She felt completely alone. Underwater, at the bottom of the sea, struggling to break through the surface, to breathe, to get air.

            “Mr. Rollins. I better…I better get back to closing the restaurant. I have to get home.”

            He smiled even wider. “Come.” He patted his thigh. “Here. Now, sweetheart.”

            She didn’t like that. Sweetheart. Who did this demanding asshole think he was? One of those old-school sexist pricks.

            Laura stood up. She walked to the door. She placed her hand on the knob.

            “If you walk out that door you don’t have a job anymore.”

            She hesitated. She didn’t move. When she turned around he was looking at her angrily. This man, she knew, was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it.

            Uncertain, afraid, she let herself walk to him. She wasn’t sure why. She was twenty. She needed the extra cash from this job. Soon she’d be off to college in Manhattan, across the country. What did it matter? It’d be one more bad, disappointing experience. One more chink in the armor that was adulthood.

            She came to him. He patted his wide, thick thigh. She tried not to look at his bulge. She turned, facing away from him, and sat on his lap. He reeked of Old Spice, sweat, and cigar smoke. She felt it push against her. Immediately the fear rose up inside of her, mixed the slight urge to vomit. Her adrenaline electrified her whole body. Fight or flight. Run. And yet she felt captured, stuck in time. It was like standing on quicksand.

            Then his hands were on her stomach, rising, rising, grabbing at her breasts. He kissed her neck. His upper lip was scratchy on her smooth skin, tickling her collarbone. She felt confused and aroused. His hand reached to her thigh, felt slowly up, up, to under her skirt, and then found her panties. He removed the cloth and inserted his mammoth finger inside of her. It hurt a little. He moved his finger in and out.

            And then, as if a robot suddenly coming to life, she jumped up and leapt away, tripping on her own feet, stumbling. She ran for the door. Tore it open. She heard him yell something behind her but she ignored it. In a panic, she ran.

            She never came back. She received her final paycheck two weeks later in the mail. She told her parents she hadn’t liked the job.

            Her memory was cleaved in two when her iPhone vibrated. She pulled it from her bra. It was Dylan, her ex. Good God, she didn’t want to talk to him. But she answered the call anyway.

3.  

Laura waited until the sixth ring to answer Dylan’s call. She rolled her eyes. Oh, boy.

            “Hello,” she said.

            “Baby?”

            “I’m not your baby. Don’t call me that. We broke up five months ago, remember.”

            Dylan breathed heavily over the line. “Baby. Laura. C’mon. This is ridiculous. We love each other. Let’s get back together. You’re just playing hard to get.”

            Dylan Lansky had captured her with his perfect everything: He was 6’2, had a six-pack, a full head of wavy, brunette hair, a square jaw, and bright white teeth. He was a venture capitalist (First Mark Capital). Dylan came from real money. His father had worked in the department of labor under the first Bush administration and had invested well in the stock market. He did his undergrad at Duke, and got his master’s—in business analytics—from Harvard Business School. And of course the next logical place for him to live had been Manhattan. Where else? So he moved into a 3,500-square-foot two bedroom all to himself in Chelsea on West 24^th and 10^th Ave, right by the Highline.

            It was true that, superficially, he had it all. But there’d been one major flaw: He was awful in bed. And…he could be an asshole. He was selfish to the point of narcissism. He talked about himself endlessly. He constantly tried to impress her. And he could be mean. They’d dated for nine-and-a-half months…and then she couldn’t stand him anymore and broke it off. That was five months ago.

            She sipped the last bit of her wine. She stood up and walked to the kitchen to pour another glass. She sensed that very minuscule buzz sensation which she loved. She pictured Dylan standing in his giant flat, eight stories up, his gargantuan square windows which faced the Hudson River and the Hudson Parkway and the piers. He ran on the Parkway sometimes, another one of those shirtless, perfectly sculpted guys with glistening sweat and taut muscles. That image made her tingle momentarily between the thighs. God the man was gorgeous.

            “I am not playing hard to get, Dylan. We’ve talked about this. It’s over.”

            “Is it someone else?”

            She snorted, her nose deep into her glass, smelling the wine. That earthy, oak wood scent. She drank.

            “Not that it’s any of your business. But…no. I’m still single. By choice.”

            He laughed. His voice was somewhat high but masculine. She envisioned him naked. That hard-as-stone stomach, the way she used to run her palm along it in semi-ecstasy. He often struggled to get and then stay hard. It started to feel exhausting, like work. He rarely got her off. A selfish lover. (Most men were.) He took forever. Sometimes she’d just say, “Baby, baby let’s take a break.” He’d be determined though and would keep going and going and going until, sometimes, he just collapsed on top of her and fell asleep, that acrid body odor of his.  

            “Listen. Baby. Sorry: Laura. Meet me tomorrow. Will you? Please? I’ve been thinking about everything. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I made the wrong choice.”

            She sipped. “Maybe you were wrong? Honey: I was the one who broke up with you, remember?”

            “I know. I just mean, you know, maybe I was wrong to not treat you better.”

            What was the deal with men? What did they ever actually want? It always seemed like the goal was simply sex…but then they got emotionally bonded and it was like dealing with a fucking child. The only man she’d ever truly loved and respected was her father. Charles DiLane. She remembered him reading Goodnight, Moon to her when she was a kid. She’d be in bed and smiling up at him and there’d he’d be, Dad, with his dark brown mustache and his suit still on, the red loosened tie around his neck.

            “Well, you got that part right,” she said.

            “Laura. Baby. C’mon. I wasn’t that bad. Cut me some slack.”

            She wanted to say, Did you ever make me cum? Did you ever ask me what was going on in MY life? Did you ever once think of my family, or my needs?

            But instead she said, “Alright. Fine. I admit it. You weren’t that bad.”

            He chuckled. “You bitch.”

            “Whatever. You think you’re so goddamn hot.”

            She could practically hear him smile. She knew he knew he was winning. “Am I not?”

            “Brat.” She swigged some wine.

            He cackled. “Well. Hey. I worked hard for these abs, baby.”

            “I know you did.”

            “Laura. Meet me.”

            She flipped a chunk of hair off her shoulder. She was tired of arguing. He’d never give up. It wasn’t his style. She needed a hot shower. She wanted to call her mom, check in. They talked almost every day.

            “Where?”

            “Yes!!! Baby: You won’t regret this.”

            “I better not. You get one chance.”

            “Alright alright, you’ve made your point. Meet me tomorrow at 3PM at Bottega. Italian place on East 70 and 2^nd.”

            Tomorrow was Sunday so that worked. She didn’t have plans. Restaurants were open for outdoor seating.

            “I know where the place is, Dylan. I live two blocks from there. You know that.” She hesitated. “Don’t think you’re coming home with me after.”

            “Calm down, calm down. It’s a nice place. We’re just going to eat and chat. No expectations.”

            “Alright, Dylan,” she sighed out loud. “You win.”

4.

It was evening. Saturday night. Just past dusk. Sam walked north from 63^rd Street along the Waterfront. It was cool out. The East River was calm to his right. A massive red and black barge floated by. Cars raced along FDR to his left. He was almost under the freeway now. This was one of his regular routines. He enjoyed walking up the Waterfront to Carl Schurz Park, in the low-mid 80s where the traffic on FDR grew quiet. He liked to smoke and take nips from a pint and think.

            Yanking his pint of SoCo from his inner leather jacket pocket, he swigged, sliding the bottle back. He smoked his Marlboro 100. He still had three cigarettes left. A tourist had given him the dregs of his half-full pack days ago.

            Tonight Sam thought of his past.

            He came from Seattle. He missed the University District and Capitol Hill and Lake Washington, but not the nine months on and off of rain. New York was better in that way. Seasons. He’d attended the University of Washington. Freshman year he started drinking. It escalated quickly. Getting in fights. Stealing. Sleeping around. Halfway through junior year he was expelled for being in class drunk multiple times, and for once badly insulting his American Lit professor. For a decade he worked dead-end jobs. Survived. Moved constantly around Seattle. Always existed in tiny, rancid apartments.

            Around 30, his drinking increased. He’d become a regular at several Irish pubs around Capitol Hill. He blacked-out often. He woke up in strange women’s beds. He woke up with black-n-blue eyes. He woke up lying in the street. He rarely remembered anything.

            Sam tried to get sober. He crawled back to his folks over a five-year period, from 30 to 35. They put him in several rehabs. They weren’t rich. His father owned a plumbing and heating company, and his mom had been an RN. He kept leaving rehabs. He kept going back to the bottle. He couldn’t stay sober.

            Just shy of 36, he finally said, Fuck It. He left the rehab he’d been in in Eastern Washington, hopping freights and hitchhiking east to New York City. He took his time. He’d stolen a few hundred bucks.

            That was in 2017. Three years ago.

He called his parents a month after arriving in New York. They were worried sick. An argument ensued. His father said, Enough is enough, Sam. We’re cutting you off. No more financial help. No more rehabs. You have to fix yourself. They hadn’t talked since. 

And here he was. Sam Bouchard. Not yet forty years old. Alone in the world. A college dropout. A disappointment to his family. A societal reject. Young enough to be angry with himself, old enough to feel like a dismal failure.

Sam drank down the rest of his pint. He thought of his ex. Zelda. They’d met in Rehab. When he was 32. She was in for heroin. He for drinking. She had that tragic, wounded look in her dark eyes. She was tall, thin—you could see her ribs poking out—and had short, rough brunette hair. They met on his fifth day inside. She’d been there on and off for years. A 30-day stay, then out, then relapse, and then back again. Everyone knew her there. All the staff. She was a legend, had a reputation. She was known as a slut. But he didn’t see her that way at all.

He was mopping the kitchen floor one night—everyone had chores—before an AA meeting (he hated the meetings; he found them too religious and one-sided) when she walked into the kitchen, making Doc Martin boot marks all over the perfectly cleaned white-tiled floor he’d just done. His shoulders fell.

“Are you serious?” he said, to the woman’s back.

She didn’t respond. She walked to the cabinet, extracted a glass, went to the sink, filled it, and drank it all down in one massive gulp.

Then she looked at him. She saw the bright white tiles. Surely she could smell the bleach and hot soapy water he’d been using to clean it. They caught eyes and held. She was taller than him by an inch or so. There was something so tragic and dramatic about her eyes. About her whole face. The little button-nose. The dark circles around her eyes. Her angular, sharp cheeks. Her skin was as pale as the moon.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Who’s asking?” Her voice was soft, feminine, high-pitched. But there was an edge to it.

He grinned, just barely. “I am.”

“Who’re you?” He both liked and disliked her teenage attitude. It was immature. But sexy.

He smiled wider. “Sam. Sam Bouchard. Alcoholic.”

She chuckled. “What’re you a salesmen?”

“No,” he said, his feelings hurt. He was sensitive. Always had been. She poured another half glass full of water from the faucet. She turned her back to him. She drank it. She left the glass in the sink.

“I’m Zelda Dawkins. I’m a junkie.”

“You seem pretty young for a junkie.”

She shrugged. “Twenty-four.”

“Where’re you from?” he asked.

She crossed her arms. She walked right at him, those skinny, pale long legs. She had on a shredded denim skirt which ended just above her knees. A scar ran across her right arm, off-brown and mottled.

She stopped at him. She said, “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Maybe.”

“Where’re you from?”

He laughed. “Seattle.”

She ran her hand through her short frizzy hair. She stared at him for what felt like forever. And then she bent down slightly and whispered into his ear, “I’m from wherever you want me to be from, honey.”

She walked past him. He didn’t see her again for a whole week.

5.

Laura stood in her bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror, puckering her lips, applying her Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Pur Couture Satin Lipstick. She’d gotten it from Sephora. Where else? She loved pulling out the rouge lipstick from the gold case with the black “YSL” engraved on it, then swiveling it to make it protrude.

            It was 2PM. In one hour she was meeting her ex at Bottega. She really wasn’t sure why. She felt a mix of anticipation and dread. It was probably a bad idea. Why did that make it sound all the more fun? She tousled her hair, eyeing herself in the mirror, shrugging. Because he’s hot. God that sounded shallow. But wasn’t everybody that way? It wasn’t all about looks and money. But let’s face it: It didn’t hurt.

            She looked good. Damn good, actually. She had dark eye-shadow on, Tarte Amazonian Clay blush on her cheeks. She wore her tight, short silver skirt which she knew Dylan loved. It was glittery. He could never resist that skirt. It was cut about six inches above her knees. Her slim, low-cut white silk blouse showcased her flat stomach, her nice C-cups. The skirt displayed her near-perfect ass, and her long legs. It made her look much taller than her 5’7. And then her curly, thick hair added to the overall effect. She laughed at her face in the mirror, throwing her head back: You vain bitch!  

            She left her apartment at 2:15. Bottega was only a few blocks away but she wanted to walk for a little before she met Dylan. She could turn some heads in the process. What could she say: She craved the attention. Men couldn’t resist. Biology worked in her favor. Internally, she chuckled: Women weren’t victims. They had an incredible amount of power. Sex was power. And they held that power like men held guns. And yet she also knew that her sexuality—her womanhood—could be exploited. It could be seen as a weakness, something predatory men could pounce on and take advantage of.

            Outside, it was nice weather. She wore her facemask: A black velvet thing that said, LOVE IS THE ANSWER in white lettering across it. It was ridiculous. Her mom had mailed it to her. She wasn’t sure why. Probably as a joke. Her mom was sincere but liked to kid her daughter, too.

The first inkling of fall was in the air. A cool breeze blew, rustling her hair. Brown and red leaves were strewn along the curb. She passed all the usual liquor stores, pizza joints and restaurants. Some of them were closed. God: This fucking Pandemic. She tried not to think of it too often. She didn’t need to, really. She was white, young, well-off. Let’s face it: The virus mostly affected old people (Boomers) and minorities (black and brown people) and the poor (same). It was sad, of course. But…that was life, right? It was what it was. What could she do about it?  

            She took a right on 65^th and headed west. Four blocks later—passing Lexington, Park, Madison—she arrived at 5^th Ave, bordering Central Park. She waited for cars to stop so that she could cross onto the park side. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Temple Emanu-El, and just north of that was the Bernard Museum, the world’s largest synagogue. The cars stopped and the white walk sign came on. She crossed. She was by the Tish Children’s Zoo. She headed north. She wished she had water. She was thirsty. Pulling her iPhone from her brown leather purse strapped over her shoulder, she checked the time. Nearly 2:30. The walk was short.

            She wore her Tamara Mellon high-heel sandals. The heels clacked on the uneven stone along the park. She loved the Paris-like feel of the bumpy stone…but it wasn’t that practical for heels. Starting to get annoyed, and to think this whole thing was a bad idea, a man struck her sight.

            The man was homeless, clearly. He sat on the ground, near a green bench, his back against the wall. She could smell him from twenty feet away. He had a thick, reddish-brown beard. Dark, tangled black hair. He wore a dirty yellow shirt. His jeans were ripped and dirty, his black hiking boots ancient and duct-taped. A small blue and gray messenger bag sat beside him. A half-filled bottle of water. Two things struck her as unusual: One, if you cut that hair of his, and trimmed the beard…his face wasn’t bad; he was actually sort of ruggedly handsome. That was weird. Rare. Homeless people were never attractive. Second, he was reading a thick book which she saw the cover of: The Collected Works of Leo Tolstoy. A dirty, but handsome, homeless intellectual? Strange. Intriguing.

            As she was nearing him she felt a man’s eyes on her other side. She looked. An older guy, wearing bright orange shorts and orange Nike running shoes, with a paunch for a belly. He scanned her up and down and grinned like a fucking creep. Yeah, right, buddy. That was the other thing about men. So many weirdos, freaks and creeps. What was up with that? C’mon, guys: Act normal. The worst was online dating. She’d only done it once. But Mary, Mother of God. Men propositioned her constantly. Sent unsolicited “dick pics.” Called her “honey” and “sweetheart.” Ugh. The shit they said…reprehensible. What they would do when protected by anonymity and a screen. Fuckers. Again that thought: Why am I not a lesbian?

            She looked away from the fat man who pretended to be a runner. He was one of those people; he could run for the rest of his life and he wouldn’t lose weight. Hopeless. He probably ate like an ape. God, she mocked herself, you’re such an asshole, Laura. Have some fucking compassion.

            And there was the homeless guy. He, at least, was thin. Not skinny, but thin enough. And she saw that his arms were toned. Muscular. No tattoos. She didn’t like tattoos. They were low-class. She didn’t understand why they’d become so absurdly popular. Tattoos made her think of gangsters or else hipsters.

            At last he glanced up from his book. His eyes startled her; they were the deepest, most intense green she’d ever seen. My God, they were green. Deep green. Forest green. Green like the jungle in Colombia, where she’d once been. For a tense moment they stared at each other. No one spoke. Did she want to speak to him? He was homeless. C’mon, Laura. Then she realized, as if stunned, that she had actually stopped. She was just standing there staring at this guy.

            He gingerly placed a bookmark into his place and set the book down. His eyes never blinked, never looked away from hers. She blushed, averted her gaze. She felt the urge to keep walking. But she didn’t. She heard voices, people walking around her. She stood in the middle of the stone walk.

            At last he said, “Got any money to spare?”

            She didn’t move. Her heart, for some bizarre reason, was kicking like an unborn baby. She never gave money to homeless people.

            She pulled back the gold zipper of her purse, scrounged for some change, only found two dimes and a nickel, and just snatched a crisp one dollar bill. She carefully stepped towards him. His smell wafted; that deep stink of trash and homeless body odor. The smell of someone when they haven’t showered in weeks. Disgusting. And yet.

            “Here,” she said, staying at arm’s-length. She handed him the dollar.

            He took it, never averting his eyes from hers the whole time.

            Slinging her purse back over her shoulder, like a soldier with a rifle, she kept walking north along the park, her heels clacking, the sound crazily loud in her head.  

6.

Sam sat on the cold stone ground, next to his favorite bench along Central Park, by the Billy Johnson playground, between 66^th and 67^th. Cars rushed by along 5^th Avenue. It was sometime past 2PM. Sunday. The sun was bright but it was breezy and a tad chilly out. Early fall. The cold, he knew, was coming.

            Last night he hadn’t gotten back until nearly 3 AM. He’d gone down to the Bowery for a change of scene. He’d taken two trains back, jumping the turnstiles.

            Now, he felt slightly hung-over. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Not uncommon. He needed coffee. Sugar. Carbs. He was out of money and alcohol. That depressed him. So he drank some water and sat on the ground and pulled out his Collected works of Tolstoy. It was an old, battered, two-inch-thick Library copy he’d lifted from the University of Washington years ago. It had a torn light green cover, a drawing of Leo himself with his massive shaggy white beard.

            He was a few pages into The Cossacks, when he heard the sound of heels clacking along the uneven stony walk.

            The first thing he thought of was Zelda. They saw each other several more times after that initial meeting in the kitchen. From across the room at an AA meeting. Sitting on opposite couches in the TV room. Across from each other at the big maple table where recovering addicts and alcoholics ate dinner. One day, when he was outside on the brick porch of the rehab, smoking a Marlboro 100 on the porch steps, he heard the door to the rehab center open and fall shut. She sat down right next to him. She was so goddamn beautiful. That sharp, angular face. Those wounded, dark eyes. Her short jagged hair.

            “Hey,” she said. A feminine, rough-edged voice.

            He inhaled, held, plumed smoke. He felt like drinking. He felt like getting the fuck out of this rehab. In front of them was a large grass front yard, and then a road. Beyond the road: Houses that all looked the same. Above and beyond the houses: Mountains.

            He didn’t look at her. He knew she was playing a game. “Hey.”

            “Why don’t you look at me?” she said.

            “What do you want?”

            She breathed deeply. She scanned behind them. She touched his thigh. He looked at her. She leaned in. They kissed. It was a deep, wet kiss. Their tongues twined together, greedy. When they stopped they didn’t talk. He held her hand. Her palm was small and thin and bony. Like her torso. Bony but tough. Like a cheap, thin switchblade. But he liked her. He said her name in his head: Zelda. Zelda. Zelda.

            Sam looked up from his book. He and the woman caught eyes. The woman was gorgeous: She was tall, maybe an inch shorter than he was. She had pale long legs which stretched for miles. Her hair was long and thick and curly. Dirty blond. The skirt she wore was silver and glittery and very, very tight. And short. Same with her top. Good God. He could see all her contours. All her slight curves. She was a machine built for beauty. Her eyes were blue. Like Puget Sound.

            They just stared at each other for a while. It felt like a long time. It was probably fifteen, twenty seconds, at the most. The sun glinted off her glittery skirt. He wanted to ask her: What’re you looking at? Or: Man, you are striking. You’re like a Goddess. Like Aphrodite. He felt insecure. Embarrassed. She was so attractive and well-off—clearly—and well-dressed and perfect. He was dirty and a mess. He smelled. He was starving. God: What would he do for a shower? Or for a meal? Even half a meal. A pint. A pint. His craving for alcohol grew a hundred-fold. He needed booze. Not even Tolstoy could subdue that radical urge.

            Finally he said, “Got any money to spare?” It was all he could think of to say.

            He assumed she’d do what every other attractive woman did in this part of town: Pretend he didn’t exist and keep walking. But she’d already done more than most; she’d already crossed an invisible boundary: She’d stopped and full-on stared at him. For the most part people just walked right on by. They didn’t see homeless people as real human beings. They were subhuman trash. Like non-human outdoor furniture. They were negligible. Who cared about the homeless?

            She looked uncomfortable but she unzipped her fancy purse and pulled out a brand-new dollar bill. She hesitated, but awkwardly stepped towards him, in her high-heel sandals, and handed him the dollar. She did it at arm’s length, as if not wanting to risk touching the dirty man. He couldn’t blame her.

            Sam took the dollar. He didn’t say anything. She didn’t either. She re-zipped her purse, slid it back over her shoulder, eyed him for another few seconds, seemed like she might say something, didn’t, and then just kept walking.

            He watched her walk north a few blocks and then cross 70^th and head east.

7.

Laura spotted Dylan sitting at a table for two outside, surrounded by half a dozen other small square tables covered by fancy white tablecloth. Above the outside tables was a high olive-green canopy protecting the tables from either the sun or the rain. Inside it was closed to customers, of course. No one sitting outside wore a mask. That had become the norm now. She felt insecure wearing hers.

            “Hey,” she said, standing there, eyeing him. He looked great. He wore a suit. His hair was combed to one side. That classic square jaw. His thin lips. The signature pale blue eyes. He reminded her a little of the actor Aaron Eckert in Thank You for Smoking. Similar personality, too, in some ways.

            He pushed his chair back when he saw her, smiling widely. He stepped over to her. She could tell he wanted to embrace her but he resisted…Covid. As he buttoned his lower suit jacket button he scanned her up and down and said, “Laura. Baby. Wow. I gotta say. You look fantastic.”

            She felt her cheeks flush. She was used to men complimenting her but it always did something inside when Dylan said it.

            He gestured to the chair opposite himself. “Sit. Please.”

            A waiter immediately came over and asked if they had any drink orders. Without waiting Dylan said, “What’s your most expensive white wine?”

            The older Latino man in a suit—the server—pondered a moment, a fake grin plastered on his face, and then said, “Sir, that would have to be our Louis Latour Batard-Montrachet Grand Cru, 2015.”

            Smiling, Dylan said, “We’ll take a bottle.”

            The server nodded. He walked off. A moment later he returned with two wine glasses.

            “Well,” Laura said, sighing, “I see things haven’t changed.”

            “Are you going to take that ridiculous mask off?”

            She’d completely forgotten. She was so used to wearing the damned thing.

            “Oh. Right. Damn. Sorry.” She took it off. “My mom mailed it to me.”

            He chuckled. Twirling his empty wine goblet he said, “How is Grace? She must be busy at the hospital?”

            Laura realized there was a glass of ice water in front of her and she snatched it, drinking. The ice cubes clinked against the glass. She took in some air, held, released. “Yeah. I mean. Sure. She’s been busy. She’s doing oncology, as usual. But they pulled her over to the new Infectious Diseases floor for a while helping Covid patients during the hard months. March, April, May.”

            The waiter arrived and popped open the wine bottle, a loud thunk. He poured about an inch into Dylan’s wine goblet. Dylan slowly, carefully swirled the white-yellow liquid in his glass, then dipped his nose into the glass, closing his eyes, as if he were some wine connoisseur. Removing his nose he said, “M m m. That smells unbelievable.” The waiter waited in suspense. Laura did, too. It was like King Charles III trying it for the first time: Would he give the thumbs up or the thumbs down? Dylan had that kind of royal vibe.

            He sipped, slowly at first, and then he killed all of it. He set the goblet down. He mashed his lips together. He smiled. “Lovely. Leave the bottle.”

            The waiter poured his glass, and then hers, about half full, and set the bottle down. They had menus.

            “More time to decide on food?”

            She was going to say yes when Dylan said, “She’ll have the veggie lasagna and I’ll have the pasta Bolognese.”

            The waiter nodded again and removed the menus. “Bread?”

            With a nonchalant wave of his hand Dylan said, “No bread. Too many carbs.”

            Once more the waiter nodded. Then he left.

            They sat in silence. Dylan raised his glass. She followed suit.

            “To a reunion,” he said, grinning at her.

            “Reunion.” They sipped. She had to admit, the bitter, cloying taste was lovely on her sensitive palette. It was profoundly tasty.

            “So,” he said. “How is your father?”

            She shrugged. “He’s…well…you know Charles. He’s fine. Investing in this and that. Doing well. He always does well.”

            He slowly twirled the stem of his wine glass, staring at her deeply in the eyes. His gaze seemed to be saying, C’mon, baby. We both know why we’re here. You belong to me. “Yes. He always does.”

            “How’s work for you?” she said.

            “Me?” He glanced away for a moment, gazing at 2^nd Avenue. A rush of cars raced by.

It was in that second that the image of the man—the homeless guy—flashed through her brain. Reading Tolstoy. Sitting on the uneven stony walk. Those fierce yet powerful—striking, she’d say—green eyes. The unspoken energy between them. But, for the love of God, he was homeless. He reeked like trash. She must be losing her mind.

“You know me,” Dylan said. He sipped from his glass. “I’m great. The S&P-500 is all over the place. Apple and Amazon and Facebook and Microsoft keeping dipping and rising, dipping and rising. But the compound annual growth rate has risen up to 10.2 percent. That’s a first. Ever.” He paused, glancing away a second time, as if he were checking for somebody. “Kevin and I have been investing in some new apps. And in AI, mostly. Artificial Intelligence is the future of the stock market.”

“Interesting,” she said. She found this incredibly boring.

Suddenly he said, “Look. Laura. We didn’t come here for small talk.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Let’s get real.” He stopped, focusing on her body. “By the way. You look incredible. I mean…damn.”

She smiled. It was forced. “I know you love this skirt.”

“And that top,” he said, staring at her chest for a moment. He swigged the rest of his wine. “Baby. Look. I made a mistake. I didn’t treat you the way I should have before. Ok? It’s been five long months. I’m sick of paying for my mistake.” His cheeks reddening, he reached across the table, took her hand. His palm was big and sweaty, strong, masculine.

“Aren’t we not supposed to touch because of Covid?”

He waved this fear away. “Ah, c’mon. We won’t get it. We’re young and healthy.”

She sighed. She looked down at the tablecloth, white and thick and clean. Cars drove north and south along 2^nd Ave. People walked by the restaurant, most masked, some not. Families with loud kids. Did she want kids? She still didn’t know. She was still on the fence. But she was three years shy of thirty. She had time. This wasn’t 1975. This was 2020. People took their time growing up. She was slowly “adulting.”

She caught his eyes. “I don’t know, Dylan. You hurt me. You were selfish. You can be a jerk sometimes. I wasn’t happy.” And you sucked at sex.

He gripped her hand tighter. He stared right into her eyes. She imagined those forest-green orbs again. That guy. What was it about him? Why was her mind obsessing about this? It must just be some kind of OCD thing, her brain trying to distract her from this…here…now; from Dylan.

The waiter arrived then with their food. He set the plates down. Asked if they needed anything else. Dylan said, No, they were fine.

A moment passed. They put their napkins on their laps. Picked up their forks. Eyed their steaming food. He poured them both more wine. They drank. She felt slightly buzzed.

Silence enveloped them for a while and then she had a recollection of when they first met. A year-and-a-half ago. She’d been at work. Halfway through her day a tall, attractive man in a suit had walked into the Chase bank. She caught sight of him and stopped what she was doing on the computer in her little cubicle (checking Payroll). The man walked across the building and shook hands with Devon, one of their personal bankers. She saw them smiling and talking with each other, but couldn’t hear them. She felt drawn to him. It was seventy-five-percent lust. But twenty-five-percent pure curiosity.

She kept working but she consistently looked up and around, checking. About an hour later, he walked out of Devon’s cubicle. She watched the two men chat for a minute, smile, and then shake hands vigorously. Then he walked, medium-pace, across the building again.

Nervous, she stood up and left her cubicle. She saw the trajectory. She pretended to be looking down at the paper document she carried. She bumped right into him.

“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry. Wow. I’m embarrassed.”

He smelled like vanilla extract and Creed Aventus, that men’s cologne. He was so tall. She was wearing her usual Chase uniform: Tight black skirt; white blouse with the Chase pin; blue sweater; black pumps.

“It’s quite alright,” he said, and he grinned stupidly. He reminded her then of Don Draper from the show Madmen. God he was hot. She could tell that, under his suit top, he had a six pack. She imagined him working out. Running. Throwing fast fists at a punching bag in some expensive gym. “You work here?”

She blushed. “Yes. I’m an accountant.”

“Ah. I see.” He paused. “Dylan Lansky. I’m a V.C.”

“V.C.?”

He chuckled at her naïve ignorance. “Venture capitalist. I was here to discuss some investments with Devon.”

She tried to smile. “Devon’s great.”

“He is. This is true. But he’s not nearly as attractive as you are.”

She glowed. She felt so embarrassed and happy. “Well, Dylan. It’s nice to meet you. I better get back.”

“Hold on,” he said. He pulled a fancy, thick card from his wallet. The card was thick and black with gold lettering which rose up from the card. Dylan G. Lansky, First Mark Capital, New York City. It had a fax number, an email, an office number, and a cell number. He handed the card to her. She took it. “Tell you what,” he said. “Give me a call tomorrow. I’ll take you to lunch.”

“Thanks. Sounds great.”

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Laura,” she said. “Laura DiLane.”

“Italian?”

“Yep.”

He extended his big hand. They shook.

“Call me tomorrow, Laura.”

“I will.”

“Give me another chance,” Dylan said now. “You know I love you. I always have. Always will.”

“Dylan…”

“It’s true, babe. I do. I love you. I’m not afraid to admit it. I’ll yell it on the street corner.”

She was silent. She lifted her fork and had a bite of the veggie lasagna. It was actually pretty good.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

He twirled his fork around a bite of pasta, lifted, chomped. “Well. Think about it fast. A guy like me comes around once in a lifetime.” He laughed, playing it off. But she knew he was serious; he thought that highly of himself. And yet she was still attracted to him. His energy; his drive; his ambition; his confidence; his success. And she was lonely. She hated to admit it. Everyone who wasn’t in a relationship was lonely right now. The Pandemic had changed everything.

Maybe she wasn’t afraid of getting sick…or dying. But it had still cracked the land underneath her like an 8.2 earthquake. Socially, at least. Sometimes she lay awake in bed at night and cried, imagining a man in bed with her. Sure, there was online dating. She could get any guy she wanted. But she wasn’t talking about sex. Sex was easy. She wanted love. A true, authentic emotional connection. That’s what she wanted. Could Dylan provide that? Had he changed? Or was he just blowing steam?

He destroyed his food and sipped more wine and gaped at her and said, “God you look good.”

“Thanks.”

“Let me come back to your apartment,” he said.

She shook her head. “No.”

He leaned forward. “Please, baby.”

“No, Dylan.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Alright. Will you at least see me again?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

Silence. He looked her in the eyes, reaching for her hand, he said, softly, “Look. Laura. I really am sorry. I didn’t treat you the way you deserved to be treated.” He averted his gaze, his cheeks reddening. “Give me another chance. Let me do better. I know I can. You’re such a good person. A good woman. You deserve the very best. I can do better. I swear. Let me try.”

She rubbed his fingers. They shouldn’t be touching. But who was she kidding: That was going to happen sooner or later. Their eyes held each other’s. She felt pinned by his stare. It was confusing. Thoughts swirled inside her mind. What did she actually want? She wasn’t sure. That irritated her. Her codependence could be annoying. Sometimes she wondered if she respected herself. She wanted to please him. She wanted to please everybody. And her parents loved Dylan. But what about herself? How could you want so many conflicting things at once?

“I’ll consider it,” she said, facing him.

He rubbed her palm lightly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

8.

Monday, Sam strolled lazily around the Sailboat Pond. It was bright and sunny and cool. Fall was his favorite time of year. Early September wasn’t too cold yet. Kids were out and about. Tourists in small numbers. It was too early for the white-clothed French jazz player. He didn’t come until around 3:30. They’d chatted a few times. He was a nice guy. Thick French accent. He had come to NYC from Marseille, a decade ago. He loved the international, metropolitan culture of Manhattan, how people came from all over the globe. It was the Paris of America, he said.

            Sunlight beamed off the pond. The water was green and still. The Alice in Wonderland statue stood behind him. In the distance he heard a siren cutting through the air. By now he was used to not working. During Covid millions were in the same position. Many had lost their apartments. Some were on the streets. Or put up in hotels paid for by the city on the Upper West Side. Some had been released from jails and prisons due to the Pandemic with nowhere to go. It was a scary time. Luckily for Sam, he was used to homelessness.

            He couldn’t get that woman off his mind. From yesterday. How she stopped, full period at the end of the sentence. How she just stared at him. Her hazel, intense eyes. The way he felt her gaze, stopped reading, looked up at her. The energy, which seemed to feel electric between them. She was otherworldly beautiful. He wondered what her name was. Who she was. Where she lived.

            He sat down on one of the long curving green benches. The tree branches above him waved in the wind, the scuttling sound of leaves rattling. That increased his feeling that fall was coming. Which excited him. And made him simultaneously afraid. The cold. Cold was a homeless man’s enemy. He didn’t want to have to deal with the shelters again. He hated them. It felt like jail. He’d been to jail once. In South Dakota. On that three-week trip across country to New York, when he “escaped” from his fourth rehab. It was awful. He’d only been inside for five days, but that was enough. They’d picked him up for vagrancy and resisting arrest. In Vivian, a tiny town in the southern part of the state along the long vein that ran across America: Interstate-90.

            He remembered the two giant white cops. They were mean. They were rough with him. They put the cold cuffs on his wrists too tight. Then he was in the jail, being booked, thumb-printed, his mug-shot taken. He felt like a piece of shit. They gave him a phone call. He didn’t call anyone. They threw him in a cell with four other guys. Two were white drunks. One was a Mexican guy on meth or something. The fourth seemed to be Native American. He just sat against the wall and talked quietly to himself and stared off into space. Two days later they moved Sam into a cell with one other guy. A twenty-two-year-old black guy. His name was Leon. They got along. They became friends. Told each other their life stories. Leon was in for armed robbery. A few days later Sam got released. They bumped fists.

            “Stay safe out there,” Leon told him.

            “Good luck, man,” Sam said. “Keep your chin up, brotha.”

            And then Sam had been out, back on the road, thumbing east along I-90. He’d been scared but it was an adventure. Life was an adventure.

            Twenty minutes later an older man in a gray jacket sat on the bench not too far away. He started reading a hardback book. Sam tried to see the cover but the man held it too low. The man had big yellow eyes and white curly hair. Must have been in his mid-sixties. As old as his own father.

            A group of three women walked by and one of them reminded him of a woman he’d met on the trip across country, a week or so after jail, in Ohio. He’d begged for enough bread to get a Greyhound bus from Ohio the rest of the way to Manhattan. Across the narrow aisle from his seat he saw a woman. She was younger than him. Mid-twenties. Too much bad makeup. A short skirt. Torn black blouse. A couple small, faded tattoos. She seemed lost. Kind of had a wandering Courtney Love vibe going.

            He watched her for miles and miles. She gazed out her window. No one sat next to her. He was on the aisle side. An old man sat next to him, at the window. He leaned over to her and said, “Hey.”

            She turned, saw him. She scanned. “Hi.”

            He wasn’t sure what to say but he was feeling bold so he said, “What’s a pretty woman like you doing on a Greyhound bus?”

            She laughed quietly. “That’s a terrible, terrible pickup line.”

            “Hey. At least I tried.”

            She giggled. “What’s your name?”

            “Sam.”

            “Deborah.”

            They shook hands. Ten minutes later he was sitting in the empty seat next to her. An hour later they were deep in conversation, sharing everything. She was twenty-four. Married. Had a kid. Had gone to see her folks in Indiana and was now on her way back home to West Virginia. Husband was in the military. He told her his story. Soon they were holding hands. Then kissing. Knowing this was temporary, and low-risk, and that she was married, and that they’d never see each other again, it felt thrilling. They made out like crazy. They talked all through the night. She even suggested he come with her to West Virginia, stay in a motel on the edge of town. They could see each other for a while. It sounded so tempting…romantic. But, he said, he had to get to New York City. He told her about his drinking problem. Rehab. Zelda. All of it.

            A black guy Sam’s age with a jacket that said, Yes We Did, and a blue and red image of Obama’s face on it strolled by slowly.

            “Hey man,” Sam said.

            The guy stopped. Turned. He was tall, thin, bald. He had a thick scraggly beard. “What’s up?”

            “Any chance you have any change you could spare?”

            The guy hesitated, then reached into his wallet. He pulled out five dimes and handed them over.

            “Thanks, man,” Sam said.

            The guy walked off.

            A gray-haired woman walking a Chihuahua walked by.

            “Scuse me, ma’am? You have any money you could spare?”

            She ignored him.

            A group of five teens approached, two guys and three girls. The girls had tight yoga pants and were gorgeous. The guys had taut muscles and toned stomachs. They all looked like carbon copies of one another. Tall, good-looking. Well off. White. Taken care of. None of them, he assumed, suffered from addiction or depression. None of them knew what it was like to come from domestic violence. Alcoholism.

            “Hey, guys, got any money to spare? A buck or two?”

            Everyone ignored him except for one girl. She glanced at him with such a look of pity in her eyes that he almost looked away. “Sorry,” she said. They kept moving.

            Another guy, late twenties, looked like a hipster. Bright, fresh ink. Tattoos that seemed completely random: An upside down cross; a bird in a cage; a half naked woman. Shorts too tight. The guy walked a fixed-gear bicycle with no brakes. A paperback poked from his back pocket.

            “Hey,” Sam said. “What’cha reading?”

            The guy glanced over for one second and then faced ahead again. He ignored Sam.

            Another guy in his forties walked over. Thick, big arms. No ink. Black wife-beater. Tough-looking. Pulled-back greaser hair. He was on the phone, talking loudly.

            “Hey…” Sam said. The guy didn’t respond. “Hey!” Sam half yelled.

            The guy pulled the phone away from his ear. “What?!”

            “Spare any change?”

            “Psssshhhhhh,” the guy said, gesturing angrily with his hands. “Fuck off you goddamn bum. Get a fucking job.”

            “Hey, man, we’re in a global pandemic.”

            “Then get unemployment, ya fuckin loser.”

            He placed his ear back to the phone and kept walking and talking.

            Sam was already exhausted. This was how it was, day in and day out. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. This was when he hated his life. He needed a drink more than ever. And food again.

            Then he heard a man say, “Hey. You need money?”

            Sam swiveled his head.

            “Over here.”

            He looked. It was the old white-haired man reading the hardback book twenty feet away on the bench.

            “Yeah. I need money,” Sam said.

            The man had a pair of shades on. He removed them and stuck one of the arms into his mouth, just a bit. “Well. I need some help. Cash. Under the table.”

            “What’s the job?”

            He shrugged. “Basic shit. My wife and I just moved into a new place in Morningside Heights. She’s out of commission with a bad back. I have a fucked-up knee. And I’m old. We don’t want to pay professional movers. Too expensive. I’m still working but…ya know. Just a few pieces of furniture to move upstairs. And a lot of boxes.”

            “What do you do?”

            The old man stared at him a moment and said, “I’m a contractor.”

            “How much would you pay me?”

            The man laughed, his mouth wide, exposing yellow, chinked teeth. “Gee. You’re kinda demanding for a homeless dude begging for change.”

            “Fair enough.”

            The man got serious. “Look. I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to help for eight hours. Whatever we get done.”

            “Alright,” Sam said. “When?”

            “Tomorrow?”

            “What time?”

            “Eight o’clock. You gotta cell phone?”

            “I don’t.”

            The man reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a pen. Then he tore a page out from the back of the book. He wrote down his address and name. He shifted down the bench and handed the paper to Sam. Sam took it. He read it. It said, James Langton, 646-4527-9825. Apartment: 111 West 114^th Street, between Broadway and Amsterdam. Right across the street from Columbia University.

“How do you know I won’t cause you trouble?” Sam said.

The guy smiled, placing the pen back in his pocket. “I’ve seen you around. You sleep on a bench along 5^th. I can tell from your eyes and the way you talk that you come from a normal life. You just fell down somehow and can’t get back up.”

Sam looked down, ashamed.

“Are you a drunk?”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah.” There was no reason to lie.

“How old are ya? Forty-five? Fifty?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“Thirty-nine? Wow. The lifestyle, I guess. Where you from, kid?”

“Seattle, originally.”

“Family?”

“Two parents.”

“And…”

“Look. It’s a long story. I’ll meet you tomorrow at this address at eight AM. Ok?”

James ogled him for a moment, then he smirked and shrugged. “Alright, son. I’ll see you then.”

“Thanks for this opportunity.”

He nodded.

“Hey,” Sam said. “One last question.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you reading?”

The man held up the cover. It was Lee Child’s The Killing Floor.  

9.

Someone—Laura wasn’t sure who—was chasing her. She was on the stone sidewalk along 5^th Ave. It was late at night. Very quiet, save for the light sounds of cars passing. An occasional honk. She ran, wearing three-inch heels, sweaty, panicking, terrified, seeing only a dark vague blob in the shadows behind her. She tried to scream but couldn’t.

            She turned and, still running, saw the blob taking shape. A man: Tall, wearing a sharp black suit, hair parted to one side, a deadly grin. Then she realized. Dylan. She ran faster. Dylan did, too. He was gaining. She frantically looked around for a taxi or a person or an escape route. There was nothing. No one. No help.

            As he got closer, he pulled out a machete; moonbeams gleamed off the shiny silver blade. She tried to scream again but couldn’t.

            Just as he was about to lunge for her with the machete, another blob appeared from out of the bushes. She smelled the shape. Saw a book in the man’s hand, and a balled fist. His green eyes were intense and somehow burning brightly against the night.

            Dylan lunged for her. The man leapt at Dylan. A scream of terror. A crashing noise from the collision of two hard bodies.

            “Ohhhhh!” Laura shouted out loud, sitting up in bed. She scanned around her, eyes wide, heart thumping. Jesus H. Christ. It’d been a dream. A nightmare. Dylan: Chasing her. With a machete. The…homeless guy: Saving her. What would Freud say? What about Jung? She rubbed her palms against her face, pulling her hair back.

            Her alarm clock started raging. It was 6:30. She almost always woke up one minute before it went exploded. She smacked the “off” button. She threw the covers off her body. Shuffled into the kitchen. Started water for black coffee. Chugged a glass of water. Entered her tiny bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked absurd: Matted bed-head; eyes half closed. Yawning, stretching, she turned the faucet on and rubbed cold water onto her face for a minute. It felt good. It woke her up. Then she dried her face with a towel. Looking at her hazel eyes in the medicine cabinet mirror she said, “Laura. It was just a nightmare. Calm down.” But what, if anything, did it mean? Was it a sign?

            She heard the noise of the coffee being brewed. Thank God. Life without coffee was not worth living. She loved living alone. No roommates to fuck her morning up. That sounded antisocial but…she didn’t care. Of course she yearned for a partner. A man. But that was different.

            Laura poured a mug of coffee. Plucking an ice cube from the freezer she gently dropped it in. She dipped her nose into it. Mmmmm. Arabica. Delicious. She blew on it. Sitting down at her big oak desk she turned her laptop on. She opened her gmail account and started reading through her New York Times daily update. The usual: The United States still led in the highest number of Covid cases. Another unarmed black man had been killed by white cops. Trump was putting pressure on the Postmaster General to suppress votes in the November election. The federal government was considering the legitimacy of the China-based company Tick-Tock. The continuing unraveling of America.

            She read and sipped her coffee. Her mind drifted to her upcoming day at work. She had to finish balancing the books for her Chase branch, as always, and to keep working on her slowly-developing annual report to both the Chase executives and the investors. A profit and loss report for tax purposes. Sometimes she got excited about going to work. Sometimes she dreaded it. Most often she stood somewhere in the middle. And of course there was her boss, Greg Torino. He’d be there, as he was every day, annoying her, questioning her, pestering her… checking her out. He always thought he was sly. But she knew every single time. Men were such fools. Women knew. They had to know. They had radar. The Male Gaze was something women had been dealing with for eons. If only men could be in a woman’s shoes for one day.

            Then she thought of Dylan. They were meeting tonight at 7 at—she loved the irony here—The Bull and Bear Prime Steakhouse, on Lexington and East 49^th. Bull and Bear, like the stock market. He sure was pushy. He sure was handsome. Adonis, carved from stone. Beyond human. The loneliness she felt had been, since the Pandemic, like a sack of bricks tied to her ankle. She sensed that hollow pit of despair. There was a depth inside of Laura that she never let anyone see. She protected this part of her. It was fragile, sacred. Holy, almost. You had to wear a mask socially and you couldn’t show your true self. She feared rejection more than anything else. Didn’t everybody?

            What about the homeless guy? What about him, Laura? She didn’t know. What was there to do in that department? She chuckled. Nothing, of course.

            Her iPhone started buzzing. The Journey song, Don’t Stop Believin’ played as her ring-tone. One of her favorite songs. Years ago she did a wicked karaoke version of it. She glanced. Mom. They hadn’t talked in a few days.

            “Hey mom,” she said. “Good morning. God, I still don’t know how you get up at four in the morning Monday through Friday. Incredible.”

            “Morning, honey. How’d you sleep?”

            “Ugh. I slept okay. But I woke from a terrible nightmare.”

            “What was the nightmare about?”

            Laura hesitated. “Well…I can’t really recall it now. Kinda vague. A distant blob. But Dylan was in it.”

            “Really?” her mom said, her voice curious, gossipy.

            Laura rolled her eyes. “Yeah. I don’t know. I met him for lunch yesterday.”

            “You did? Are you guys…”

            “I don’t know, mom. I mean. I don’t—”

            “You know we always liked Dylan.”

            She rolled her eyes again. Yeah. Because he’s wealthy and successful and looks like the perfect, stereotypical New York City “man.”

            “I know, mom. But. There are things about him you don’t know. Stuff that happened between us.”

            “Oh, honey,” her mom said, like a typical mother, that loving, condescending voice. “No one is perfect. He’s a man. Men are…you know…flawed. They need our help. Our forgiveness. They’re needy and emotionally childish. You’ve just got to give him time. He’ll grow out of it. He’s still in his early thirties; he’s practically a baby still, sweetheart. Give it a chance.”

            Laura supposed her mom—having been married to her father for almost 48 years—had some authority here. But then again: Her folks were Boomers. They came from the generation which didn’t believe in divorce. The generation who committed no matter what. Many of them probably should have gotten divorced decades before. And yet, not her parents. They seemed, for the most part, happy.

            “God. I didn’t realize you were so Pro-Dylan.”

            Her mom was silent a moment. Laura slurped the rest of her coffee. She stood to pour another cup. She needed to get off soon. Take a shower. Get dressed. Head to work. There was the 12-block walk. She liked walking to work. It cleared her mind.

            “Well. He was better than Todd. Todd was awful.”

            “Mom.” She felt her irritation ever-so-slightly beginning to rise from the pit of her gut. “Todd and I broke up eight years ago. When I was nineteen, for Christ Sakes. I admit. I made a mistake. It’s ancient history.”

            Silence.

Laura suppressed a groan. “How’s the hospital?”

            Her mom cleared her throat, probably glad her daughter had changed the subject. “It’s nice being back fulltime in oncology. I might go back to helping out with Covid, of course, depending on what happens as we go deeper into fall.”

            “I see,” Laura said. “Well. Listen. Mom. I’ve got to jump in the shower. Head to work. Do me a favor: Don’t tell Dad about Dylan. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet and I don’t want Dad getting excited too early.”

            “Ok, honey. Don’t worry. Mum is the word. My lips are sealed.”

            “I love you, mom.”

            “I love you so much, Laura. When you were born in 1993, it was the biggest gift your father and I ever received.” Her mom said this often. It slightly poked at Laura. And yet she appreciated it. It made her feel special. Warm. Loved. “Bigger than our love for each other, even. Bigger than our marriage. Bigger than medical school at UCSF. Bigger than the wealth I inherited from grandma. Bigger than your father’s amassed income. Bigger. Than. Anything.”

            Laura felt emotional. She thought she might cry. Chugging her coffee, she said, “Thanks, mom. That means a lot.”

10.

Sam had taken two busses and walked in order to get to James Langton’s apartment. His messenger bag was slung across his torso. He turned, seeing Columbia across 114^th. The South Lawn. Rare Book and Manuscript Library. Alfred Lerner Hall. A pang for formal education pushed through him. He remembered The University of Washington. His literature classes. He could still smell the classrooms and huge lecture halls. The desks. The professors’ tweed coats. The smell of learning.

            What if he went back someday?

He knocked, and the white-haired man opened the door as if he’d been standing there with his hand on the knob waiting.

“You’re early,” James said.

Sam smiled. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

James grinned. “C’mon in, son. Coffee?”

“Thanks.”

James opened the door wide and Sam entered. The door shut behind him. A ground-floor apartment. He liked that. The apartment was spacious. A big open kitchen with an island. A large table in the living room. Reclining chairs and two couches facing a huge flat-screen TV. He saw a large gray cat run out from somewhere. The cat was old and had very long fur.

“Ah…that’s Satan,” James said.

“Your cat’s name is Satan?”

James chuckled, indicating for Sam to sit at the table. He pulled his messenger bag off and set it on the floor. He sat. James came over and sat himself and slid the big orange mug full of coffee to Sam. They clinked their mugs together and drank.

“Well,” James said. “You haven’t seen that bastard when he gets mean.”

Flummoxed, Sam said, “Oh. You mean the cat?”

James nodded.

A beat of silence.

“So, tell me a little more about yourself,” James said. He slurped some coffee. James wore denim coveralls. A red baseball cap over his white curly hair. Wrinkles lined his tanned face, the flesh like beat-up uncooked beef. He had the type of face which had seen serious life. Struggle. Fear. Love. Hate. All of it. There was something admirable about that face

Sam drank some coffee. It was hot and good. It nearly burned his tongue, but he didn’t mind. “What do you want to know?”

“Start at the beginning.”

Sam glanced at the wall clock, an old grandfather. He heard the subtle, distinct tick as the second hand moved. “Shouldn’t we get working?”

“In time, son. In time. We can have some coffee and chat for five minutes, can’t we?”

Sam felt uncertain, insecure. “Well. I was born and raised in Seattle. Dad owns a heating and plumbing company. Mom was a nurse.” He paused, nervous. He sipped coffee. “We didn’t have a ton of money but we weren’t poor. Small house. Two cars. Folks worked hard. I was weird, always needy and sort of…disconnected. I did well in school. I got a partial scholarship to The University of Washington. I worked summers and paid the rest. My folks pitched in a bit, too. I didn’t know what I’d do with a degree in literature. I thought maybe I’d become a critic. Or I’d teach.”

There was a pause. Silence descended. “And then what?” James said.

“Well. I did OK in college for a year or so. And then I started getting in trouble. Always late for class. Failing tests. Talking back. I started drinking. I came into several classes drunk. I screamed at a few teachers. Passed out in class once. It got worse. I was reprimanded several times. I started drinking more. I was booted. Thus began the years of rehabs. I went to four different places. My parents paid every time. I don’t know how they afforded it. I always relapsed. Escaped, as I referred to it. Failed.”

Sam didn’t speak. Neither did James. Sam felt stupid, ashamed. Part of him wanted to leave. Right now. Just grab his shit and go. Fuck this guy. Fuck the money. 

James got up, entered the kitchen, poured them each a full mug again, and sat back down at the table.

“You know,” James said. He removed his red hat. His hair was as white as Santa Claus’s beard. As white as the snow in Montana in winter. “I was born in 1952. I’m sixty-eight now. I had four brothers. You have any siblings?”

“Just a younger sister. Amanda. Married. Kids. Lives in Portland, Oregon.”

“Well, I had four older brothers. I was the baby. God: They used to mess with me something awful. And my father. Mean drunk. He would beat the shit out all of them. But not me. I was the kid. The child. I was James Junior. My dad never touched a hair on my head. I saw him beat two of my brothers black-n-blue a few times. My mom, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

James shrugged. “It is what it is, son. In 1969, when I was seventeen, I joined the Army. My folks had to sign the release papers because I was underage. They shipped me off to Southeast Asia. I fought in Vietnam. I was in for two years. Most terrifying two years of my whole life. I saw things you can’t even imagine. Villages burned to the ground. Babies impaled on spikes. Teen girls with Agent Orange or Napalm burning their bodies.”

James glanced away, his eyes loose. He was reliving his time in war.

Sam coughed.

James faced him. “I guess my point, son, is, you survive shit. I did. You will. We have to. You come from a foundation. Parents. Abuse?”

“Some.”

“Verbal?”

Sam nodded.

Twirling his mug, lowering his voice, James said, “Physical?”

Sam nodded. “Some.”

“Bad?”

Sam nodded.

James shook his head. “I’m sorry, kid.”

They killed their coffee. They got to work.

Sam worked all day, until close to 5. It consisted of moving a big desk upstairs (which was heavy as Hell), a medium-sized table (same), a heavy metal filing cabinet, and then dozens of heavy small-to-large sealed boxes. Much of the boxes, James told him, were composed of books. Sam envied him for that. He wondered what books there were. A Vietnam vet contractor with boxes upon boxes of books. Intriguing.

He got hot and sweaty and tired. James gave him a bottle of water to drink. He was starving but he didn’t want to ask for food. That would be presumptuous. Besides, he’d leave here with big bucks.

As he worked he thought of James and his story about his brothers and about his time in Vietnam. He thought about his own time, when he was thirteen and his dad came into Sam’s room one night and started yelling at him. Sam tried to speak but couldn’t get a word in. He tried to hide but couldn’t get away. He even tried to pry his window screen off so he could leap out. His father caught him by the collar and punched his son right in the face.

That was the first time Sam ran away.

11.

Laura sat at her desk in her cubicle at Chase, working on the profit and loss report. The bank had only been open again for a few weeks. Phase Two. It housed half the employees in total and everyone wore masks and gloves and had bottles of sanitizer which they applied to their hands obsessively. It was almost time for her to leave. Five. She was antsy about meeting Dylan at seven at the restaurant. Part of her didn’t want to go. She could make some excuse. Another part, though, did want to go. Loneliness drove her to go. Curiosity. And that small, blind hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d actually changed.

            She remembered dating Dylan. She’d called him and they’d set up a dinner meeting at Buvette, a French restaurant in Greenwich Village. The waiters were very professional and all seemed to know him. They got a perfect little table in a corner with dark shadow and low red light. They ate and drank some expensive white wine. He told her all about being a venture capitalist, and about his experience at Harvard Business School. He dazzled her with his intelligence, his articulation, his knowledge of politics, and his drive, ambition, and hunger for the highest success possible. He talked 90 percent of the time.

            She was buzzed from three glasses of white wine. The Uber dropped them off at his place. His place was massive; with all those floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, overlooking Chelsea. They made love multiple times. They drank more wine. She felt herself smiling, her body laughing. A load had been lifted off her shoulders. The sex hadn’t been that great, but it had been fresh, new, and still somehow exciting. Besides, the sex was often bad the first few times. She rarely got off until they worked at it a while. So many of her girlfriends faked orgasms. She made sure he was sexually satisfied in the beginning.

            The relationship went from there. They started seeing each other all the time. She stayed over at his place three, four, five times a week. She got to know Chelsea. Soon she was basically living with him. They cooked together. They explored his neighborhood. They walked the Highline. They walked the Hudson Parkway. They went out to fancy dinners. He always paid for everything. He was kind and thoughtful. The sex remained mediocre but it didn’t seem to matter that much. She was in love.

            About three months after they started dating was the first time he acted like an asshole.

            “How’s that profit and loss report going, Laura?”

            She was jerked out of her reverie. There was her boss, Greg, standing in the opening of her cubicle, his dark gray suit, one arm casually placed on the cubicle wall. He was about 5’10, overweight, with thinning brunette hair. His cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. She could tell he was smiling under his blue Chase mask.

            She forced a smile under her black velvet mask. She wiped some drool from her chin. She’d been completely daydreaming.

            “Fine,” she said. “It’s going fine. It’ll be done by Wednesday.”

            “Uh huh,” Greg said, gazing away from her, picking some invisible microscopic lint from his suit jacket. He stared at her. He obviously and grotesquely scanned her chest. She felt like adjusting her blouse, a nervous habit, a self-protection thing. His stares made her feel violated. It was workplace harassment, really. And he did it way too often.

            “Is there something else?” Laura said. “I really gotta get going in about fifteen minutes.”

            “Big date?” His question was slightly muffled under his mask.

            She forced the smile again. “Greg. That’s none of your business.”

            He chuckled. Removing his arm from the cubicle wall he placed both fists into his front pockets. “Listen. Laura. Are you free on Saturday?”

            “Does this have to do with work?”

            He chuckled again, but this time with a nervous edge. “Well…no…not exactly..I mean…I just thought we could…ya know…”

            She sighed, leaning back in her leather swivel chair. “Actually, Greg, no, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

            Red bloomed in his cheeks. “Well. I just thought. You know. That we. I mean. That you and I could. Ya know. Get some dinner.”

            She didn’t speak for a moment. Then she said, “Greg. With all due respect. You’re my boss. You have a wife and two kids. This is highly inappropriate. And we’ve had this discussion before.”

            He scanned behind him and both left and right. He stepped a few feet into her cubicle. She just wanted him to go away. What was it with powerful men: The more you pushed them away, the fiercer they became in their resolve to get you.

            “Are you seeing anybody?” he said, his voice in a near-whisper.

            “Greg. I’m serious. Leave. Me. Alone. If you keep persisting I’ll have to file a formal complaint.”

            “You wouldn’t do that.”

            “Try me.” Asshole. Prick.

            “Honey. Listen. It’s just that skirt. It gets me every time.”

            He gaped at her with eyes that seemed to say, You can’t honestly expect me to treat you as an equal, with respect.

            “Greg. This is your last warning. If you don’t leave right this second, I’m going to file a sexual harassment complaint.”

            “That a threat?”

            “Call it whatever you want.”

            “Alright, alright,” he said, palms up. “I’ll leave you alone.”

            “Thank you.”

            “I want that profit and loss report by Wednesday, nine AM sharp.”

            “You’ll have it.” Dickhead.

            She was out of the bank by 5:30. She had an hour and a half until she would meet Dylan. She decided to walk back to her apartment, to think and get some air. She’d change and then take an Uber to the Bull and Bear Prime Steakhouse.

            Once home, she changed quickly and then thought, irrationally, I want to go see if that homeless guy is there, along 66^th and 5^th. Jesus. Was she certifiable? Maybe.

            She had 45 minutes. She walked the four blocks to 5^th, scanned both ways, crossed the street to the park side, and started moving north. She looked carefully. She felt anxious. She wasn’t even sure what she’d say when she found him. What was there to say?

            But, she didn’t find him. He wasn’t there. No trace of the guy. She hailed a yellow taxi on 5^th.

            Laura walked up to the Bull and Bear five minutes early. The place was on Lexington and East 49^th, right by the Waldorf Astoria. From the sidewalk she could tell through the windows that it was massive inside, low lit, with red light. It reminded her of their first date. There were NASDAQ stock reports on the walls. In the center of the place was a statue of a bull and a bear about to fight, facing each other. The symbol of the animalism of the stock market. The brutality of it. But she saw all this from outside, where they’d be sitting.

            “Hey, baby,” a man said, approaching.

            Dylan with his crooked grin, his perfect suit, his 6’2 stature, his parted, greased hair. He smelled like money. She didn’t seem to be able to resist him.

            He clutched her hand.

            “We have a table in the back corner,” he said.

12.

Sam left James Langton’s apartment at nearly 6 PM with $120 cash in his pocket. James had fed him after they were done. A turkey sandwich. It was good. They chatted another half hour and then it was over. They promised to chat again soon. James would find him in the park, or else Sam could come over any time.

            Sam took off searching for a bar. He needed alcohol badly. His arms and back and shoulders were sore as Hell. He hadn’t done manual labor like that in probably half a year. Since the Pandemic had started. In a way it felt good. And he was thrilled about the cash.

            He walked west to Amsterdam and headed north. Just past 115^th Street, passing Columbia’s Warren Hall, he found a bar. A student place with outdoor seating called Arts and Crafts Beer Parlor. A dozen young people sat out there, at round white plastic tables, gripping glass pints of brew, chatting loudly all at once. They seemed hopelessly young. God, at 39 he felt like an ancient sage. Kids seemed to get younger and younger to Sam. Or maybe it was just that he got older and older. Either way, 25-year-olds seemed like teens him to now, and 18-21-year-olds seemed hardly born. They were so dependent on GPS and the internet and Facebook and Snapchat and YouTube and Google.

            He found an empty table and sat. A waitress approached. “What’ll it be?” She didn’t bother to ask for ID. He looked 50.

            “Three shots of Southern Comfort and a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

            “Got it. Anything else?”

            He shook his head. 

            He noticed his hands were very slightly shaking. Trembling just barely. The beginnings of Delirium Tremens. He sat upright and anxious in his seat. He watched the students and young people all around him, smiling, throwing their heads back and laughing, gesturing with their hands, cutting each other off. Several wore blue Columbia University sweaters. With shame he thought: I could have finished college, gone to Columbia for a master’s in English Lit. I could have come to Manhattan the right way.

            The waitress came back and set the medicine on the table. He nodded. She left. He rubbed his palms together.

            First he slammed one shot. It burned. The liquid squirmed into and warmed his belly. Oh, God, yes. That was what he needed. He slammed the second shot. Down the hatch. Then the third. He felt eyes on him. He turned and caught the waitress ogling him. She glanced away when he saw her. Yes, he thought. I know. You know. We all know. I’m a fucking drunk. So what?

            Sam leaned back in his cheap white plastic chair and sipped his Pabst pint. It tasted like cold urine. He hated beer. But it was something to hold onto for a while. So he had an excuse to be there. Where else did he have to go?

            He thought of the woman again. Who stopped on 5^th and stared at him. Her body. Her eyes. Her energy. What was it about her? Something inside of him wanted to see her again. Almost needed to. Why?

            This made him think of Zelda. After that night when they sat together on the porch at the rehab, they started escaping at night, out their windows and down the fire escapes. They held hands and kissed and hiked around the woods surrounding the rehab in Eastern Washington. He told her all about his parents, growing up in Seattle, his dad’s anger and violence and the drinking. His mom being gone all the time. What happened when Sam was eleven, camping with his father. Then Sam’s own addiction. His struggle to stay sober.

            She told her story one night while they sat on a cluster of boulders about a half mile from the rehab. They’d brought headlamps they bought in town and had jackets. It was three AM. The stars were brilliant against the dark dome of sky. The rehab was miles and miles from any major city. It was early spring. Starlight glinted off Zelda’s dark eyes. They both wore jeans. She wore her black, scuffed Doc Martin boots with red laces. Sam sat on an adjacent boulder, five feet from her.

            She said, “I grew up in Ohio. Cleveland. Right along Lake Erie. By the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame.” She chuckled, seeming embarrassed.

            “What?” Sam said. “Why is that funny?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. Just…such a fucking shit town.”

            Silence. It was very quiet.

            “Anyway,” she continued. “My dad died when I was six. He had some cardiac issue. Heart disease or something. My mom never really told me the whole story. She never remarried. I had two older brothers. They were both assholes. They had sex all the time with these trashy chicks they found God knows where.” She gazed up at the stars. Sam knew there was something she didn’t want to say. “My brother Jared, the oldest, he molested me a few times when I was a kid. I mean…not sex but…other stuff. Then he was gone. He joined the Marines. And then Frank, my other brother, he used to beat me up. Mom was gone all the time. Busy working two jobs to support two kids. When I was fourteen Frank left, too. After he left he was in and out of jail. My mom and I didn’t see eye-to-eye. We fought, verbally and physically. It was terrible. I dropped out of high school. Started hanging out with these Latina girls I knew from the neighborhood. They were mostly the girlfriends of gangbangers. At first we smoked pot. But then it morphed into speed. Cocaine. And, eventually, Heroin. By fifteen I was shooting it and was fully addicted. That was nine years ago. I’ve been in twelve different rehabs since then. But…it just never works out. I go three months, six months…and then back again. The longest I’ve gone is nine months.”

            “How long do you have clean now?”

            She shrugged. “Four months.”

            He didn’t say anything. He took her right arm, the one with all the injection scars, and slowly, gently kissed all the jagged scars. Then they were kissing, deep, eating each other like hungry tigers.

            Before they knew it they were peeling each other’s clothing off, piece by piece. It was cold out in early March but it didn’t matter; they didn’t care. They found the flattest area of a nearby boulder that they could and, the breeze blowing through the forest, tickling his exposed penis, he laid down on the hard rock and she sat on top of him, sliding herself in. She was very wet and very tight. She bounced on top of him and he looked right into her eyes. He felt passion. Fire. He felt truly connected to her. It wasn’t like the wasted sex with all the lights out he was used to. No, he felt spiritually connected to her. Like a cosmic umbilical cord connecting them. He wanted to tell her this but he didn’t. They were huffing and puffing, heaving and moaning and panting. It was exciting. Sober, fucking outdoors in the middle of the night, against rehab protocol.

            Out of breath she said, “Can you cum?”

            “Yeah, baby,” he said, gripping her waist.

            She grimaced on top of him, her body machine-like pistoning up and down, up and down, and she said, “I love you, Sam.”

            Zelda made a loud groaning sound and moaned into the dome of stars.

            “Did you cum?” he asked.

            She smiled, still bouncing, still panting. “Yes.”

            He focused, looking into her eyes. In those eyes he saw the stars reflected. He saw freedom. “I love you, too,” he said.

            And he felt the explosion.

13.

Laura and Dylan sat back against their seats in the far rear corner table at Bull and Bear, outside. The tables were all filled now. The place was packed. A loud, buzzing chatter permeated the night. Honking from cars on Lexington sometimes bleated like angry sheep. Laughter cut through the air. They’d finished eating. She’d destroyed a $25 burger, and he’d chomped down a fancy $55 Rib Eye steak, medium-rare, drenched in seasoning and butter, with a small patch of green parsley on top. They sipped their third glass of white wine. Dylan lazily dug at his teeth with a beige toothpick the waiter had brought over.

            “Hey,” Dylan said, eyeing her, smiling. He looked so sharp in that suit. She guessed that suit cost him close to fifteen-hundred dollars. It was one of those Armani Collezioni’s, wool and dark blue. It made him look sophisticated. “Where are you?”

            She lifted her wine goblet. Her head was in the clouds. She was thinking of her nightmare that morning.

            “Sorry,” she said. “Just feel a little distracted.”

            He grinned, slowly twirling his wine glass by the thin stem. “Distracted by…”

            She sighed. “Well. Work, for one. It’s been busy. And…”She felt insecure, embarrassed. “My boss keeps harassing me.”

            “Greg?”

            She nodded. “He just makes me feel so uncomfortable sometimes. His eyes scan me like I’m subhuman.”

            He stopped twirling the glass. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Want me to talk to him?”

            She laughed. “God, no. I don’t want any trouble. I threatened him though. Said I’d file a formal sexual harassment complaint if he didn’t stop.”

            Dylan lifted his wine glass. She did, too. “To filing sexual harassment suits against bosses.”

            She chuckled. They clinked their glasses. They drank.

            “There’s something more, though, isn’t there?” he said.

            “What makes you say that?”

            He looked away for a moment, scanning the crowd of customers. He pushed his seat back a little, crossed his legs. “I can tell. It’s in your eyes. And in your tone. And the edgy way your voice deepens. It’s kind of sexy.”

            She remembered a few months into their relationship, last year. The first time he’d been an asshole. They’d had plans to go see the movie Joker in Midtown, at the Rooftop Cinema Club. She’d been darkly fascinated by the premise of the film and she loved Joaquin Phoenix. Several hours before they were going to leave they had sex in his bed. She could still vividly envision his white top-sheet and white bed-sheets and white comforter; they all smelled pure and fresh, almost like Irish Spring Soap. He’d been on top of her, pounding away, regular missionary position, and she’d felt profoundly bored. Distracted. During it she’d thought of Joker, and imagined not Dylan but Joaquin Phoenix on top of her. She even adored his harelip. It made him look mildly tough in a sexy, masculine way.

            Then Dylan had grunted and thrust harder. He came inside of her. She was on the pill. They hated condoms. Who didn’t? After, instead of asking if she’d cum—she hadn’t—he climbed off of her and took a shower for fifteen minutes. She lay there and got herself off, using Phoenix as her guide. She sat up in his bed. She gazed out his tall, gargantuan windows at the nearby Hudson River. Jersey buildings rose up and glimmered in the late afternoon sun. She imagined lighting up a cigarette, shaking out the match, like in some 1950s film noir.

            Dylan came back into the room twenty minutes later. He wore nothing. He liked to air-dry. His thin, long cock hung down, used and flaccid. His thighs were muscular and thin. His legs were long and taut. His stomach was iron-clad, a perfect six pack sculpted as if from Michelangelo’s brush. Those piercing blue eyes. The angular face. Carved arms. Chiseled; that was the right word to describe him. Adonis. A human delicacy, like chocolate.

            Dressing in front of her, facing away, out his massive windows, he said, “Hey, babe, I forgot to tell you, I can’t go to the movie tonight.”

            She sat up on her elbows. “What? What’re you talking about? We planned this last week. We talked about it. Dinner. Movie. Walk along the Hudson after.”

            He’d put his white tight boxers on, and his slacks. His torso still exposed, he turned around. “I know, babe. I know. And I want to. Only, a good buddy of mine, Fred Boyle, from Harvard, is in town. Found out last night. He wants to meet this evening. Get some drinks. Catch up. Do the town.”

            She squinted, frowned. “Can’t you just see him tomorrow?”

            Dylan snatched his starched white collared shirt and put it on. He buttoned it up, buttoned the cuffs. Then he walked into the bathroom and returned a minute later with his hair combed back, making him look serious, glorious, stunning. Almost a young Brad Pitt.

            “He’s only in town one night. He lives in Los Angeles. He’s here for a biochemical conference. We’ve known each other for twelve years. I haven’t seen the guy in nearly twenty-four months.”

            “Dylan…this isn’t fair.”

            He threw on his jacket, shot his arms out, adjusted the cuffs. He placed his $2,500 gold Ronde Solo de Cartier wrist-watch on his right wrist. He faced her, buttoned his jacket, smiled, came to her, bent over her in the bed, kissed her on the forehead—she smelled his light spritz of Christian Dior male cologne—and said, “I love you, honey. I’ll be back late tonight. Don’t wait up. Take Vickie to the movie or something.”

            She glanced away from him, angry. He doesn’t make her cum. Changes plans last second. Is condescending. What a prick.

            “Please,” he said. “Stay as long as you want.”

            “I had a nightmare,” Laura said, in response to his observation. “You were in it.”

            “Really?” he said, emphasizing the word. He drank the remainder of the wine in his glass. Poured himself more. “And what did I do?”

            She restrained a light chuckle. “Well.” She shrugged. “You…chased me. With a sinister gleam on your face and…a…machete.”

            He still had a fake smile on his face. But she knew he was disturbed, disappointed, annoyed, and confused. “A machete?”

            She nodded. Sipped wine. She felt buzzed. Happy and light. “Yes. You were chasing me. Like you were going to murder me. Until this guy…” Her voice trailed off into an abyss of silence.

            “Until this guy…” he prodded.

            “Nothing.”

            Dylan reddened in the cheeks. He adjusted in his creaky chair. The waiter approached and said, “Anything else for you guys? Desert menu?”

            Dylan waved him off without removing his eyes from Laura. “Just the check.”

            The waiter nodded and walked away.

            “Laura. Until this guy what? Tell me. I want to know.”

            She looked up at him. “Careful. We’re broken up, remember?”

            “That a threat?”

            She ran her tongue around her mouth and said, “It’s nothing. Just this…homeless guy I walked by the other day. On 5^th. We just…connected.”

            He scrunched his eyebrows. Drank wine. She followed suit. “So let me get this right. I chased you maniacally with a mad look and a machete…and some random homeless guy saved you from me?”

            She burst out laughing. “Well…yeah. I guess so. That’s right.”

            He leaned back in his chair again and said, “Who is this guy?”

            “Just some guy I saw. Sitting on a bench. Reading Tolstoy.”

            He smiled. “What? Some homeless thug reading 19^th century Russian literature in Central Park? What is this, Laura? What’s going on?”

            “Nothing’s going on.”

            They both drank. The bottle of wine was finished. She’d slid from buzzed into mellow drunk.

            The waiter came back with the bill. Without looking at it, Dylan handed the waiter his Bank of America Premium card.

            Dylan leaned forward and reached for her hand. He held her palm. He grinned at her. “Baby. Laura. Come back to my place.”

            He looked so goddamn hot. That face and those eyes and that suit and that flat, hard stomach. She swigged the rest of her glass. She said, “Alright. But. One condition.”

            “Anything.”

            Whispering, leaning toward him, she said, “You’ve got to promise to make me orgasm.”

            “You got it, baby.”

14.

Sam woke up in the bushes near the Sailboat Pond, not far from the Alice in Wonderland statue. He was hung-over. His head ached. It was very early. He checked his watch. Ten minutes to six AM. He sat up in his sleeping bag. He remembered last night: Working for James Langton; the Arts and Crafts Bar on 115^th, the shots and beers. He dug his hand into his pocket and found his crumpled cash. He counted it. He had seventy-four dollars and sixteen cents left. Not bad, considering.

            Shuffling the sleeping bag off, he walked to the pond. Not one single soul was around. He wore his leather jacket zipped all the way up to his chin. And an old wool beanie. It was freezing. His messenger bag was in the bushes still. He went back and retrieved it and threw it round his shoulders and walked out of the park to get coffee. God, the headache.

            He went to a café called Corrado, on Lexington and 70^th. They were just opening, two small Mexican men carrying out small tables.

            “Hola,” he said. “Abierto?”

            One man smiled and said, “Si.”

            He walked into the small building. A white older woman was tying a white apron round her waist. He ordered a croissant, a bagel with cream cheese, a bottle of water, and a large black coffee.

            Outside he sat at a table. He drank the water down in two massive gulps. Then he devoured the bagel and croissant. Some cars drove by lazily on Lexington but it was very still out. The sun had no yet started to rise in the east. He shivered in his jacket. He watched the Mexican men use rags to clean the tables and listened as they spoke in fast, clipped Spanish.

            Sam drank his coffee slowly. It burned in a good way. He wanted to splash cold water on his face and hair. The traffic on Lexington increased. Some honking started. Steam rose from a sewer. A tire clinked over an unstable manhole cover. Ah, New York. The sun started to rise. He felt alive and awake. The headache began to recede.

            He was thirteen. After being beaten by his irate, drunken father. When he ran away. He’d slowly, over a period of seven months, stolen about $500 from his father by taking a ten from his wallet here, a twenty there. His dad would drink and pass out and he’d rifle in his pocket, pull his nappy black leather wallet out, steal the bills, and slip it back into his pocket. He only did it when Dad had a lot of cash, so it wasn’t obvious. Dad was such a drunk he never knew how much he spent at the bars. When Sam had enough, he removed the screen from his window one night and, at 4AM, he silently stole away.

            He looked old for thirteen; more like sixteen. He was scared but he hitchhiked for a few hours, going east on I-90. But each ride was very minor, getting him a few miles each time. It seemed to take forever. He sprung for a Greyhound bus and got out at Ellensburg, a small town about an hour-and-a-half southeast of Seattle off the Interstate. He got himself a room in a dingy motel. The sun was rising. He passed out in the nappy room which reeked of cigarette smoke and latex and liquor and the faint stink of vomit. He left the TV on, low volume. He felt free and wild and rebellious. He was shocked at his courage and bravura. It still didn’t quite feel real.

            He woke a little past noon. He felt groggy, confused. For one staggering moment he felt like Kerouac in On the Road when he’s thumbing west towards Denver from New York: Totally unsure who he was or where he was or why. Then the blurry picture started to come back into focus. Violent father. Distant, busy mother. The cash. Hitchhiking. Ellensburg. Then that feeling of anxiety and adrenaline returned. He was thirteen, living life on his terms. Where would he go next?

            That first time running away he only lasted two days. He walked around the tiny, insignificant town of Ellensburg that first day, ate at a diner, and asked a bum to buy him liquor. Then he just sat in his motel and drank. It was sunny and nice out, late April. He felt stupid. Ridiculous. What was he doing? Was he honestly going to try to run away for good? Where would he go? How would he survive? He couldn’t legally work at thirteen. He could work for cash under the table. But who’d hire him? He didn’t know shit about the real world. That made him feel afraid.

            The next late afternoon around 3PM he was drinking alone on the motel room bed when a loud knock sounded against his paint-peeling blue chipped door. Fear seized him.

            “Who is it?” He took a swig from the bottle, capped it, and set it in the drawer beside the red Gideon’s Bible next to the bed.

            “Police. Open up.”

            Sam swung his legs off the bed. Stood up. Walked to the door. The knock came again. He flinched, stepped back. He glanced through the peephole. A large cop stood there, his black uniform. Sam saw his badge and his cap and his duty belt with hanging pepper spray, baton and holstered handgun.

            “What do you want?” Sam said. His voice sounded so tiny, small, miniscule, feminine, pathetic.

            “Kid. You have one second to open this door or I’m kicking it down.”

            Sam unlocked the knob button and the bolt. He opened the door. It was still sunny and nice with some lazily drifting white clouds. He was buzzed from the Maker’s Mark.

            The cop looked down at Sam and said, “Are you Samuel Bouchard?”

            “Yes.”

            “From Seattle?”

            Sam nodded.

            “Father is a man named Earl Bouchard? Owns a heating and plumbing company?”

            Sam nodded. “Yes sir.”

            The cop said, “Good. I found you. They’ve been looking for you. Worried sick.”

            Without asking the cop stepped inside. He shut the door behind them. The cop scanned around the room. “I’m Officer Mallory,” he said. “God. It smells like shit in here.”

            Sam shrugged.

            The cop settled his dark brown eyes on him. “How old are you, son?”

            “Thirteen.”

            “Why’d you run off?”

            Sam glanced down at the ratty carpet.

            “Something happen at home? Something…bad?”

            Sam said, “No. I just didn’t want to be there.”

            The cop ogled him for a minute and then said, “You smell like alcohol. Been drinking?”

            “No, sir.”

            The cop grinned. He felt the bed. Walked around the room. Opened the closet. Ran his hands through Sam’s small backpack. Found the cash in his pants pocket. He counted it.

            “What’s a kid your age doing with so much cash?”

            Shame slithered down his spine. “I just…have it.”

            “Uh huh,” the cop said.

            The man walked over to one of the bed drawers. He opened it. Empty, except for a local Mexican restaurant menu. Then he walked round the bed and opened the other. He found the Bible and the bottle of Maker’s Mark.

            He held up the bottle. “A Bible and booze, huh?”

            The cop uncapped the Maker’s Mark. He smelled it. Smiled. Took a nice big glug. He closed his eyes. Sniffled. Said, “Mm-mm. Wow. That hits the spot.” He faced Sam. “I could get you put into Juvenal Hall, kid. I could arrest you for underage drinking. I could report this stolen cash. I could…”

            “Please don’t,” Sam broke in. He felt the hot tears sliding down his cheeks. God, how vile, how weak. Be a man, he imagined his father saying.

            The cop sat on the very edge of the bed. “Tell me the truth. I won’t tell your parents. I won’t arrest you.”

            Sam was silent for a long time. It seemed like an eternity. Looking down at the floor he said, “My dad’s a drunk. He beats me and my mom. I couldn’t take it anymore. I stole the cash from him, over time. I didn’t know where to go. So I ended up here.”

            “What was your plan?”

            “No clue. Head east I guess.”

            The cop said, “Alright. Come on. It’ll be between you and me. I’m going to drive you back to Seattle, to your house. I have some business to attend to a little east of Seattle anyway. I don’t mind.”

            “Alright,” Sam said. He felt disappointed. But what did he really expect?

            They got in the cop’s squad car, black and white with the cage protecting them from the empty back seat. The red and blue lights on the roof. There were gadgets all over the consul and dash of the police cruiser. Sam heard white noise and calls from a police dispatcher every minute it seemed. They talked. The cop told Sam about his own boyhood, growing up in South Texas.

            Then the cop pulled along the curb in front of his house. That old 1950s A-frame craftsman with the purple door. The short driveway. The small front yard. His father’s white Toyota pickup truck. Mom’s green Nissan parked along the curb a ways down.

            They both got out. The cop rang the doorbell. His father opened the door. He gaped at Sam, eyes angry and twisted. Sadistic. Sam knew he wasn’t safe.

            “Inside,” his father said. Sam eyed the cop. The cop nodded. He looked at Sam as if to say, It’s ok, kid. One day you’ll be 18 and free. Do as you’re told, son. You’ll have your moment.

            As he walked down the hallway to the stairs leading to his room, smelling that familiar stench of iodine and laundry detergent, he heard the two men talking softly. What was the cop telling his father? What was his father saying back?

15.

Laura and Dylan burst into his West 24^th Street, 8^th floor apartment. It’d been over five months since she’d last been here and it all looked the same. The white King-sized bed against the wall out in the open. The ancient African and Mayan art on the walls. Oil paintings of both George Washington and John D. Rockefeller. It smelled as it always had: cinnamon incense and Christian Dior, with just a whiff of something recently cooked; olive oil, avocado, tomato, spicy Italian sausage.

            They kissed deeply. They’d torn their masks off the second they fled the taxi. Now, Dylan kicked the door shut behind them. He locked it.

            “More wine?” he said.

            She smiled. Roughed up her curly long hair. “Sure.”

            He kissed her forehead and went into the kitchen. Laura stepped to the massive, high windows. She saw the brilliant city lights of Manhattan. The Hudson, wide and flowing and black in the night. And then, across the river, New Jersey. She’d really never spent any time in Jersey. Except Atlantic City, once, with two girlfriends. It’d reminded her, of course, of Las Vegas. And she hadn’t been to Vegas since she was twenty-one.

            “Here you go, honey,” Dylan said, coming back into the living room. He handed her a wine glass with yellow-gold liquid nearly to the top. She faced him. He’d taken his suit jacket off. His white collared shirt was unbuttoned at the top. His tie was loose. He smiled down at her. They each held a glass. “This is Sonoma County Chardonnay, 1999. For a special occasion.”

            They eyed each other. They clinked their glasses.

            “To a new road together,” he said.

            She lifted her glass, clutching the thin stem. “A new road.”

            They drank deeply. Then he set his glass down and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her. Their mouths opened and sought each other; their tongues danced. She had to admit, she was turned on.

            Dylan unbuttoned her blouse, slowly. She was breathing hard and fast, almost panting. He rubbed her breasts over her red Victoria Secret bra, still kissing her mouth. Then he unhooked it from behind and he was sucking on her nipples and she was moaning and closing her eyes and her palm cupped the back of his head.

            Before long they were on his bed, that same bed as before, and they were naked and his long, slender fingers were inside of her, poking, prodding, like pincers. They rolled around like wild animals. It was all so dreadfully and gloriously familiar. Like déjà vu. And yet it felt foreign now, too, distant. He groaned. She took him in her mouth, sucked. And then she was on top of him, bouncing. It felt surreal. It was like rewinding the tape; going backwards in time. She wanted this. And she didn’t want it. She tried to avoid his eyes.

            In her mind, she saw the homeless man.

            “Oh, oh…” she moaned, on top, eyes slammed shut. “Keep going, Dylan. I’m going to cum.”

            They kept going. They were breathing heavy, sweaty, loud. She saw the homeless man, rescuing her from Dylan, who chased her with the gleaming machete.

            She climaxed. A rush of pleasure shot up her spine and spread to her head and throughout her whole body. She stayed there like that for a moment and then fell onto his torso, her head in the crook of his neck. She saw his golden chest hair. She touched his breast, played gently with his small pink nipple.

            “Thank you, Dylan.”

            “Are you going to get me off?”

            She laughed, still partially out of breath. With her head on his chest she lazily reached behind her and played with his long, thin dick. She rubbed it up and down. It took five minutes. He came.

            They lay in his bed for a while, silent. The red digital alarm clock on the bed-stand said: 10:17 . He played with her hair, slowly running his fingers through it. Her cheek lay warm against his chest. It was unexpected…but…at least for the present moment…she felt content. Maybe not happy, per se, but close. A brother or sister to happiness. She breathed into his nipple. He liked the feel of his fingers through her hair. But she wasn’t totally present.

            “I’m glad you came back with me,” Dylan said.

            She didn’t respond. She traced little triangles with her fingernails on his chest.

            “I want to be with you again, Laura. I love you.”

            Fear and joy rushed inside of her. She craved that emotional bond she’d missed for the past five months. She craved love. Attention. She wondered if she had the capacity to resist Dylan, or to truly forgive him. He hadn’t done anything horrible, after all. He’d just been selfish, egotistical, manipulative. But what could she expect from a wealthy man like Dylan? It would make her parents beam with pride…not that that was a reason to do anything. But still. In a certain practical way the puzzle pieces did seem to “fit.” They were a match.

            She sighed, louder than  expected. She squeezed Dylan’s torso with her arms. She kissed his stomach and chest and used her teeth calmly with his taut nipples. She felt his hard, muscular abs, ran her palm down his body. Felt his thighs. His cock, she realized, was arrowing straight up again, like a vibrant flag pole. She gripped his dick, grinning at him, looking into his eyes, and started jerking him off.

            “I love you, too,” she said.

16.

After Corrado Sam felt better. His headache had faded into the background. Water, coffee, sugar, and more alcohol always did the trick. He snagged a pint of Old Crow, jumped the turnstile and rode the Q train to Union Square/14^th Street station. He got out and walked around Union Square Park, seeing the freaks and the weirdos, the early twenties kids sitting around laughing and passing a joint, the Hip Hop music blasting from some mysterious stereo, the George Washington statue, the benches, the steps, the guy on East 14^th who sold classic rare hardback books, some gray-haired woman speaking in the “free speech area,” using a small generator and a microphone, ranting about how the Pandemic was a fake, government-produced hoax and that people who wore masks and believed the lies were suckers; sheep. Probably eighty-five percent of people wore masks. But most did not seem to be social distancing.

            Sam adjusted his blue hospital mask over his nose and mouth, the white strings aching around his ears. He hated wearing the mask, but so did everyone. It was not normal. Nothing about America in 2020 was normal. Trump. The BLM protests and rioting and looting. George Floyd. The Pandemic. The racial and political rage and division across both party lines. The far left and the far right. A time of extremes. Polarization. They were in the middle of a cultural earthquake. A high-magnitude one at that. The fact that he hadn’t talked to his parents in eight months was sad. For all he knew they had the Virus. For all they knew he had it. He didn’t always wear a mask. When he walked around people he did. But life is life. Choices are choices. Addiction is addiction. Here he was. He said this to himself all the time: Here. He. Was.

            He walked south for about 45 minutes, into the Bowery. Walking had always provided solace. It cleared his mind; gave his legs something to do. He spotted the Williamsburg Bridge. Why not? Something to do.

            He thought of the woman again. The one he saw days ago. Those hazel eyes. That curly blond hair. The way she stopped and stared. He wished he could locate her. But how?

            This brought him back to Zelda. After the night they’d  had sex on the boulder outside, under the dome of stars. They’d pledged their love to each other. They escaped several times a week in the middle of the night. They never got caught. They couldn’t keep their eyes off each other. He thought about her every second of every day. He was obsessed. He knew deep down that she was radically wounded, but then again, so was he. They all were. A bunch of addicts and alcoholics, struggling to exist in this insensitive, brutal world. He had six months sober. She had four months clean. Secretly, Sam wanted to murder her older brothers. The one who’d sexually molested her, and the other who’d beat her up.

            They made plans and then did it one night in late April. It was cold but not too bad. Three-fifteen in the morning. They escaped. Only this time they wore black hoodies and had headlamps. He had his little messenger bag with some clothes and she had a blue backpack with a few things she needed. They kissed, grinned nervously at each other, and, silently, they ran away from the rehab, into the woods. In a way it was absurd. He was 35, she 24, and they were fleeing as if they were teenagers in Juvie. It felt that way to Sam. He didn’t want his folks to know. They’d guilt-trip him. And besides: He wanted to drink. And he wanted to be with Zelda. She held his hand as they ran, their packs jiggling on their backs. A ways off from the rehab they laughed.

            The rehab had been a little north of the small town of Sprague, in Southeastern Washington. After an hour of running, both of them panting, they finally reached Interstate 90. They hugged and yelled into the empty, barren night. Sam felt like a criminal having escaped Alcatraz. It was thrilling. It felt like freedom. And they were doing it together. That was the key.

            They started walking east along I-90. It was 4:30 AM. Still dark. The stars were bright white and pulsing in the sky. He grew cold. She did, too. They jogged for a half hour, warming up a little. He gazed at her from behind as she ran, her rail-thin, gaunt body, her long thin legs, her scuffed Doc Martin boots, her short brunette hair. She vaguely reminded him of a taller, younger, thinner Natalie Portman in V for vendetta, when she looks beautiful but haggard in her holding cell.

            No cars had passed. A little after 6AM, as the first yellow-orange rays of dawn were just beginning to slowly rise in the mysterious east, and they walked again, Sam with his thumb up, a rusty blue Ford pickup truck slowed and pulled off onto the shoulder.  

            They gaped at each other.

            “You think it’s safe?” Zelda said. He could sense the worry in her voice.

            “Only one way to find out,” Sam said.

            “You got your knife?”

            He pulled his red Swiss Army Knife out. “Yep.”

            She kissed him and said, “I love you, Sam.”

            He grinned. Almost laughed. Felt warm and safe and alive. “I love you, too, Zelda.”

            They jogged up to the truck, white steam pluming from the jiggling exhaust pipe.

17.

Laura sat on her couch the next evening, sipping Whitehaven white wine, half-watching CNN on mute, exhausted. Her legs extended in front of her, her bare feet on the maple coffee table. She and Dylan had stayed up until nearly 2:30 last night. She’d woken up with a start—bolting up in bed—at almost six. She’d leapt into the shower, snagged an Uber back to her apartment, changed into her work clothes, and took another Uber to work. She was still ten minutes late. Torino hadn’t said a word.

            After work she’d hailed a taxi home. She felt tired and lazy. She didn’t know what to do about Dylan. Did she really want to date him again? They’d said “I love you” to each other. But he’d kind of tricked her, with his phenomenal looks, and his charm, and his paying for everything, and his fantastic apartment, and his getting her off (keeping his promise). She smiled, remembering the sex, closing her eyes. It had been, for the most part, good. She dropped her head onto the back cushion of the couch. God, he really was that fucking hot. She didn’t think she’d ever known a man more conventionally handsome. He even smelled gorgeous, Christian Dior, vanilla, lemon.

            On CNN she saw Trump, on mute, standing behind a podium, in front of the press, making some speech, his orange craggly face, his yellow false hair, his mammoth body, those short, childlike hands. What an animal. Dylan felt conflicted, she knew, about Trump. He had voted for Trump in 2016, thinking he’d improve the economy and deregulate business. But now, after Trump’s reprehensible mishandling of the Pandemic, and with the constant lies and the denigration of United States soldiers, the firings of anyone who challenged Trump, the “Fake News” fiasco, and all the other absurdity and corruption…Dylan had decided to vote for Biden. At least he had that much sense.

            Out of the blue she felt a crazy, maniacal urge to go look for the homeless guy. Again. She imagined his torn jeans and that yellow T-shirt and his intense green eyes and the jade cover of the Tolstoy book he was reading. She envisioned his blue and gray messenger bag next to him. The fierce look they shared, ogling each other. The crisp dollar bill she handed him. It was so bizarre. What was it about him? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about this character? It was like some deep drive inside of her, deeper than anything else in her life. She couldn’t rationally explain it.

            She argued with herself. She was tired. Lazy. Drained. It was past seven in the evening, cold out and dark. But she lived close to where she’d seen him days ago. Yet last time she checked he wasn’t there. Maybe he wouldn’t be there now, either. Maybe he’d only been there that one time. Maybe he’d been an optical illusion and had never actually existed at all. Why did she want to poke the bear? Get involved in this? She had Dylan now. The guy was homeless. She laughed and finished her glass of wine. Sweet and bitter and lovely.

            Fifteen minutes later she twisted down her stairs and exited her apartment building onto East 69^th. She wore tight jeans, her purple Nike running shoes, a thick wool coat and a black beanie. Probably overkill but it was September and cold. Her hair cascaded out of the beanie. She yanked her black velvet mask out and strapped it on around her ears.

            She walked west, passing Lexington, Park, Madison. Everything seemed mostly closed. Except outdoor restaurants. Those were filled with people outside, sitting at small tables, no masks, laughing, gesturing, a loud, buzzing, constant chatter. She thought of being a server at Joe’s Crab Shack in San Francisco. Mr. Rollins. The assault. Why hadn’t she reported the asshole? She’d been afraid. Would anyone have believed her? Probably not. Powerful men always got away with shit. Pricks. She just wanted to flee the city.

            Laura bumped into 65^th and 5^th Ave. Now she stood on the uneven bumpy sidewalk paralleling the park. Like the first time. She sensed some sort of hovering tension, some lightweight danger, a flickering, vague hostility in the charged night air. Her face mask kept her mouth warm. She was actually grateful for that. A few runners jogged by with headlamps. One or two walkers going the other way. Some cars rushed south along 5^th. But it was mostly pretty quiet. She liked that…usually. But now it for some strange reason felt sinister. She couldn’t figure it out. Call it a premonition.

            And then, slowly walking, crossing 66^th, up a ways, she saw the homeless man. She could only see his shadowy silhouette, but she knew it was him by the way he sat silently on one of those green benches. It looked like he was drinking but she couldn’t be sure.

            As she drew closer she felt terrified. What was she doing here? What did she want from this guy? What would she say? What if he were unstable? What if he were dangerous? Mentally ill? She admitted she hadn’t even considered those angles. They were extremely possible… even likely. Anyone who slept on the streets of New York City must have …something wrong with them. She saw he did have a mask, one of those cheap hospital-blue ones with the white strings. It was pulled down under his chin.

            She grew closer. Fifty feet away. Forty. Thirty. Oh, God, what am I doing? Turn around, Laura. Go back home. Drink more wine. Watch a movie on Amazon Prime. Call Vickie. Text Dylan.

            But she instead found herself saying, “Hi. Um. Excuse me?”

18.

Sam sat on the green bench on 67^th and 5^th Ave. It was a little past seven. He’d gotten another pint, this time of Bombay Sapphire Gin. He was down to forty-seven bucks. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. What was money anyway? A made-up currency which society had given value to. Fuck it. He didn’t need money. Or if he did it certainly was only a means, not an end. Money ruined people. Money destroyed morality and integrity. Money, power, corrupted.

            Sam uncapped the pint and chugged. God it was good. Medicine, just like Nyquil for a cold. It changed him; fixed him. He leaned his back against the stone wall dividing the lumpy sidewalk from the park. Closed his eyes. Breathed in slow, released. Sighed. What was so bad about being homeless when you really got down to it? He was free. He didn’t have to do a goddamn thing. No overbearing, asshole boss. No woman telling him what to do. No government to pay taxes to. No job to go to sleep early for. Fuck it: He did as he pleased.

            He thought of James Langton. Maybe he’d go to his place in a few days, ask for more work. Maybe James would find him something to do. He liked the old man, with his snow-white hair and his stories of Vietnam and his older brothers and his drunk father. He related to much of it. The man was kind. Wise. Different. They were on the level.

            He flashed back to the second time he ran away from home. Age sixteen. About half a year before he left for good, after he got a partial scholarship to the University of Washington.

            After the runaway attempt at thirteen his father had beat him so badly that he’d had to miss two weeks of school because his face looked so awful. His parents fought like raging lions, clawing at each other. His mother was enraged at the abuse. Dad was savage and said it had been “for his own good, the little shit.” Sam stayed hidden in his room. He had no real friends. He lived in his own inner world of fantasy, books, games, his imagination. He got a job in the summer before he turned fourteen as a dock-boy in Lake Washington, showing tourists how to drive the small skiffs. He saved his cash. He plotted. He planned. The next time he’d be more successful. He wouldn’t get caught.

            An older guy in town he knew named Steve Dobbs—his father’s car mechanic—showed Sam how to hotwire a car. It was simple. You used a file to unlock the door, disabled the alarm system, popped open the control panel on the steering wheel column, touched the ignition wire and the battery wire and the starter wire together, and voila. Steve showed him how he used a screwdriver to jam the ignition in an emergency. Sam practiced on cars in the lot. Sam got his driver’s license but he didn’t have a car. His parents couldn’t afford to buy him one, and they both needed their cars for work.

            Close to the end of the school year one night, he went to bed early. For close to three years, since his last escape attempt, he’d put his head down at home. He’d gone to school and gotten good grades. He’d obeyed his father. He’d listened to his mom. He drank and partied on the weekends but came home at a reasonable time and didn’t argue or pick fights. He made a few friends but they were superficial. He felt angry, numb, internally out of control. He couldn’t communicate with his parents, especially his drunken father. Dad still drank and yelled and hit him, though admittedly now less often.

            The night he left it was late May. Cool outside, but dry and clear. He filled a sock with all his cash from working summers; about two-grand. He stuffed the sock in his pocket. He wore a beanie and jeans and an REI jacket. He had long-johns on under the jeans. Thick hiking boots with crisscrossed laces.

            He listened for sounds of his father and heard nothing. Vaguely he thought he heard light snoring from their room but he couldn’t be sure. He was silent. He removed the screen from his window. He climbed out and down. Sam glanced up at the dark night sky. It was a bright white full moon. It felt like a sign. He was on the right path. He stared back at the house, the A-frame roof. The purple door. The small front yard. He quietly spit at the house. Then he walked off.

            He wandered round the neighborhood and soon found a string of cars parked along the curb on NE 15^th Street. A silver BMW, moonlight beaming against the hood. No, too expensive. Too risky. A red Honda Civic, old. Too shitty. A white pickup truck. No. Some poor working man needed that truck. Some shithead like his father. Then he spotted an old 80s blue Chevy truck. Rusty in spots. There was a rust spot on the door which was in the shape of the United States.

            Sam stopped. He scanned all around him. The houses across the street all had small front yards like his, little driveways. A few driveways had cars in them. Some were empty. All the houses’ lights were out; all was dark. The moonlight, however, was almost like a light-bulb. He was both glad and bothered by this. It could help…or hinder.

            He stepped to the blue truck. He pulled his file out. His heart was slamming against his ribcage. He felt high and alive and scared. What if he got caught? What if a cop drove by? What if he got arrested? His father would kill him.

            He got the file in and pulled up. The lock rose. He replaced the file in his pants and looked around nervously once more. No one. Empty. Silent. He gulped. Breathed in long and slow. Fuck. Ok. Here we go.

            Sam opened the truck’s rusty door. It creaked badly. The inside of the truck reeked of old musty leather and cigarettes. He clicked the door shut as quietly as he could. A Virgin Mary medallion hung from the rearview mirror. A blanket was spread across the bench seat. He felt so nervous that his hands trembled. He tried to remember what Steve Dobs had taught him. Oh. Right. He felt around on the steering column. Found the little control panel door. Opened it. He looked at it. Pulled the wires out. Red and green and blue and yellow dangling wires.

            He saw the ignition column and pulled his small red-handled screwdriver out of his pocket. Just in case. The screwdriver smelled like WD-40. That nasty, oily stink.

            Sam looked at the wires, thought back to Steve’s instruction, and, shaking hands, he slowly snatched the starter wire and the ignition wire and the battery wire; blue red and green wires. If this was wrong he could electrocute himself.

            Just as he touched the three wires together, their spindly copper antennas sticking out, he saw a light in a house across the street turn on. Holy shit. But the engine started. It rumbled, louder than he anticipated.

            It was a manual transmission. His father taught him on one. He put it into gear, swiveled, slowly backed out. The car shivered and almost died. He wasn’t used to it. He’d been used to his father’s Toyota pickup truck, much nicer and newer. The truck almost died. But it didn’t.

            The door of the house flew open. A large man tying the belt of a red bathrobe came outside. The guy must have been 6’3, 220. Huge. His eyes were deep cobalt blue and his neck was the size of a Redwood tree trunk. He pointed at Sam, jogging over.

            “What the FUCK are you doing? Get out of my truck, kid!”

            Sam panicked. He backed the truck up hard. It crashed into the car parked behind him. Shit. Then he arrowed too fast forward and crashed into the car in front. He pulled out and drove off, barely missing the man, not realizing until seconds later that he’d driven into a cul-de-sac; a dead-end. Fuck fuck fuck.

            Sam turned around, screeching tires. His adrenaline was through the roof. He saw the huge man standing, red bathrobe, arms out, in the middle of the road. He’d have to drive towards the man in order to get away. It was do or die.

            Another house’s lights turned on then. And another. He heard the faint, distant sound of a siren cutting through the quiet night.

            Sam put the truck into gear, said a quick Our Father prayer, and pumped his foot down on the gas.

            The man just stood there, screaming, hands out, palms facing Sam, his face redder than blood, trying to get him to stop but, at the very last instant, realizing Sam was not going to swerve, the man leapt away, off to the side.

            Sam blazed down the road, took a right, another right, a left, and just kept going. Soon he was on I-5 South. The road was dead and empty. He watched the white lines of the shoulder, the yellow lines in the middle. He felt relieved. Free. He felt already gone.

            A woman’s voice jagged him out of his reverie. She said, “Hi. Um. Excuse me?”

            Holding his pint of Gin, Sam looked up. It was her. Her. The woman.

19.

The homeless guy stared at her. Light from a street lamp glazed against the blue bottle he held. She saw it was Bombay Sapphire Gin. A pint. That blue glass. In the light she could see where it said, Distilled London Dry Gin. Nasty.

            Pulling at her sleeves nervously, Laura said, “Hey.”

            The guy continued to stare at her, right in the eyes. His eyes were so green. They lured her into some mystery. She was fascinated. But, as before, even from twenty feet away she smelled him. That nappy, ragged trash smell. Bad, rank body odor. Alcohol. Cigarettes. All of it. She felt a rush of shame. She turned, scanning around her. God, if anyone she knew saw her. If Dylan saw her.

            “I saw you last week,” the man said. His voice was pleasant, rather deep but not too deep. Masculine. Articulate. He uncapped the bottle, drank, wiped his bearded chin, re-capped the bottle. “What’s your name?”

            Laura hesitated. She was cold. She wanted to look around again but resisted. Her thoughts were manic; spinning out of control. She sighed, wrapping her coat round herself tighter.

            “Laura,” she said. She hesitated again. “What’s yours?”

            He smiled. His teeth were not bad. A little yellow, slightly chipped. But not terrible. “My name is Sam.”

            She glanced away. “Look. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. But…ever since I saw you last week…I can’t seem to…” she stopped, feeling the rush of red to her cheeks. Sighing once more she finished: “…I can’t seem to get you out of my mind.”

            Sam looked at her seriously. He uncapped the Gin and drank again. “I feel the same.”

            “You do?” She felt horrified, saved, relieved, all at once.

            “I do.”

            Silence for a moment.

            “Want a drink?” he said, holding up the Gin.

            She shook her head. “No. Thanks.”

            “Sit down?” He pointed to the bench, next to him.

            “Sorry. No.”

            “I smell, don’t I?”

            She laughed awkwardly. “Terribly.”

            He drank. “That’s what being homeless does to a man.”

            “Where’re you from?”

            She focused on his belly, the protruding gut. He wasn’t fat, for sure, but he wasn’t thin, either. Or toned. His arms were like small, thick barrels of muscle. His face had a worn-look to it. His hands looked tanned and tough. He wore the same yellow T-shirt, under a black leather motorcycle jacket. Jeans. Brown hiking boots. His messenger bag sat under him, on the bench. She wanted to explore that bag. What was inside of it?

            “Seattle, originally,” Sam said. “You?”

            Her anxiety was slowly lessening. Still, she scanned around them. “San Francisco.”

            Sam laughed. “You keep scanning round you. Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

            “Well…no…I mean..I don’t…I mean…hey…well…”

            Sam burst out in a roar of laughter. He gestured in front of him with his hand, as if buzzing a fly away. “Don’t worry. I’m just teasing you. Of course you’re worried and embarrassed. You’re a beautiful, model-level woman, with money, obviously, in the Upper East Side, and you’re talking to a stinky homeless guy on the street. I get it. I’m used to it. Actually, I’m more used to just being ignored.”

            “How’d you come to be on the streets?” she asked.

            “That’s a long story, Laura. A very long story. For another time, maybe. Let me ask you a question. Why’d you come here? Why’re you talking to me?”

            “I told you, I couldn’t stop thinking about—”

            “I know what you said. But why’d you really come? Why would someone like you want anything to do with a person like me? I’m subhuman trash. I’m a drunk. I’m homeless. I don’t have any money.” His hands had ceased shaking; she’d seen that when she first rolled up.

            She looked down at the uneven, lumpy stone sidewalk. A jogger ran by, panting. Some cars rushed along 5^th. She saw the light up on 67^th turn green, even heard the slight flick. She felt like running away. Walking off. Holding him. She was stuck.

            “I bet you have some big-wig, hot-shot boyfriend, huh?” Sam said. He pulled a pack of Marlboros out, extracted one, stuck it between his thin lips, and lit the end with a green Bic lighter. She smelled the tobacco.

            “Well. I dunno. Sort of. It’s….complicated.”

            Smiling, sliding the Bic back into his jeans pocket he said, “It always is, isn’t it?”

            “I guess.”

            He crossed his legs. His green eyes didn’t budge from hers. He didn’t blink. He said, “Now, Laura. Tell me. For real this time. Why’d you come here? Why’d you find me?”

            She looked away. She thought of Dylan, his body and his money and the outdoor restaurant and his Chelsea apartment with those floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River. Jersey, sparkling red and green and pink and orange in the dark night. The sex. Her orgasm. Christian Dior. Money. Everything opposite of this guy. Sam. He didn’t look like a Sam. He reminded her of a Jared or something; or maybe a Will or a Tommy.

            “Honestly,” she said. “I don’t know.” She paused. “I passed you a few times over the last week. And I just felt this…energy. I kept thinking about you. I kept going over your…gaze. Your green eyes. Just—”

            “What do you want?”

            “I don’t know. I’m sorry. You sound angry. Annoyed. Maybe I should just go…”

            He sucked on his cancer stick. She hated smoking. If he could ditch the Marlboros and take a shower and get some new clothes and stop drinking…she smiled internally. Yeah. Right. It’d be about as likely as Dylan becoming totally selfless. Near impossible.

            “So do you have a boyfriend or not?” Sam said, out of the blue.

            “That’s none of your business.”

            “Fair enough.”

            “Do you have a girlfriend?”

            He laughed. “What do you think?”

            She didn’t respond. She felt that motherly instinct to save this guy. But she knew how naïve and misdirected that was.

            “Do you come from a decent family?” She asked.

            “Sure. Asshole father who kicked my ass. Mom who let it happen.”

            She hung her head. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. Not your fault. No one’s fault, really. Just bad luck. It is what it is. That’s life.”

            “Neither of us are wearing our masks,” she said. Hers, like his, was now under her chin. They still stood a solid twenty feet away.

            “What does yours say?” Sam asked. “I can see it says something.”

            She lifted the black velvet mask up, covering her mouth with it.

            “‘Love is the answer,’ huh?”

            She shrugged. “My mom mailed it to me.”

            “Uh huh. And what does Mom do?”

            “She’s a doctor. San Francisco General.”

            “And Dad?”

            She blushed. She felt foolish. Maybe she should leave. This guy was mocking her. “My father’s a hedge fund manager.”

            Sam’s lips were trembling slightly with ironic sarcasm, it seemed. “Right. Of course he is. Rich girl.”

            “Hey, c’mon. Should I just leave? I didn’t come here to be abused.”

            Sam sat back against the stone wall. He smoked. His cigarette was nearly done. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be mean. It’s just that…I come from such shit. You’re lucky. Do you know that? How lucky you are?”

            “Of course I do. I am very lucky.”

            Silence descended again for a moment and then a gruff older man’s deep voice said, “Excuse me.”

            Laura turned around. A huge man with a pregnant belly wearing scuffed black boots, raggedy jeans, a tucked-in black shirt, a sheep-skin jean jacket, with a thick gray beard said, “Get the fuck out of the center of the sidewalk.”

            The guy wore a red hat. It said, Make America Great Again in thick white stitching.

            “Excuse me?” Laura said.

            “Excuse me,” the man mocked back, in her own high-pitched, feminine voice. “You heard me, bitch. And take that stupid mask off while you’re at it. You look like an idiot. We all know the Virus is a made-up CNN hoax. You really believe that bullshit?”

20.

Sam had been drinking his Bombay Sapphire Gin when she approached and spoke to him. She looked better than before, despite her layers of clothes. There was something about her thick lips, her long curly hair, her hazel eyes. She was a rich kid, he could tell—you could always tell—but there was more to her than that. This one, somehow, was different. Unique. Special. There was something about her.

            He liked her, as they talked. She kept a healthy distance from him. He didn’t mind that she thought he stank. He did stink. He didn’t mind that she scanned around, nervous someone might see them together. She had money, means, resources, a reputation, self-respect. Someone like her couldn’t aimlessly go around talking to homeless men on the streets of New York at night. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t normal. It didn’t make sense.

            Sam drank and lit up a Marlboro. He sensed her insecurity, her worry, her fear. She was scared of him. Scared of this. He was, too. Why had she come here? She said she’d become fascinated, infatuated somehow with him. He had, too, with her. It was inexplicable. He liked asking her questions. Something clicked inside of him. He could faintly smell her perfume. It smelled good. She seemed to see him. No one saw him anymore. No one saw homeless people. They were like trees: Just in the vague distant background. And yet, here she was. Seeing him. Speaking to him, even. It made him feel warm inside. Like the Gin. But deeper, inside of the core of this warmth, was terror. What could he do with this spectacular butterfly? Ruin it? Tear off its wings? Damage its soul and heart?

            Sam pictured her boyfriend: He imagined a tall, thin, muscular man. He probably went to Stanford or Princeton or Yale. Came from Big Money, like her. His father ran some corporation or something. He had a square jaw. Wore six-thousand-dollar suits. Fucked like a champ. Was intelligent to the point of near genius. But: What was she doing here? They’d connected that first time their eyes met last week. Nonverbal. Their eyes did all the communicating.

            As Laura talked he drifted momentarily back into his recollection of their escape from rehab.

            They’d gotten the ride in the blue truck. Nice old man in his sixties. Talked incessantly about being a trucker back in the 80s. Drove them about 45 miles east. Dropped them off. By then it was bright and sunny out. Morning. They thanked the man and he left, heading to work as a construction worker. Sam felt bad for the guy: Sixty-two and still doing physical labor. The working-class got fucked.

            It took them nearly two days to get to Missoula, Montana, what would have only taken them three-and-a-half hours in one direct drive, going east across I-90. Many car rides. Much walking. Camping at night. Neither had a cell phone. They had little money. At night they ate and then made love and it was glorious. He loved her. She loved him. They said it every night. He felt married, spiritually. Neither had the desire to drink or use. The whole future lay ahead of them like an open road.

            They settled in Missoula. He found them a little crappy motel room. It was cheap. Dingy. Gritty. The room was small and smelled like latex condoms, old sex, liquor, dirt and cigarettes. She hated it. He sort of liked it in a romantic way. When he remembered he was 35 he sometimes felt deeply ashamed and embarrassed, pathetic. His life was a disaster. He was a mess. These feelings began to make him want to drink. He could tell she was getting ansty, too.

            Sam found an under-the-table job doing side-plumbing for a local plumbing company. He’d learned the trade from his father’s business. It didn’t pay much but he didn’t have to pay taxes, so that helped. Zelda found a job under-the-table, too, serving tables at a nearby restaurant. Some diner for truckers. She hated it but together they could pay the weekly rent at the shitty motel. They both worked six days a week.

            They never went out together because her day off didn’t match with his. On each of their days off they mostly slept, and sometimes each went out solo on their own. At first the other would return early in the evening, they’d talk and eat and fuck and talk some more. But then she started coming home later and later. She seemed distracted. Her behavior started to change. A look in her eyes was different.

            And then he walked in on her.

            Laura was in the middle of saying something when a man’s voice boomed out, “Excuse me.”

            Laura flipped around. Sam saw the guy’s red MAGA hat. The dude was older, huge. He had a gray beard. There were some words exchanged. The man called Laura a bitch. Mocked her for wearing a mask.

            Sam stood up. He dropped the nub of his Marlboro onto the stone sidewalk. He crushed it out with his boot heel. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his red Swiss Army knife. He pulled the longest blade out.

            He stepped toward them.

21.

“There’s no need to get nasty,” Laura said to the man.

            The old man stood there, facing her, crossing his arms over his chest. She felt anxiety creeping down her spine, step by step. She wanted to scan around her, see if anyone was nearby who could help. Where was Sam?

            The old man spat onto the street. Some of the spittle had clearly landed on his thick gray beard. He looked vaguely like an overweight Abraham Lincoln.

            “What makes you think you have the right to just stand in the middle of the street like that?” the old man said. He adjusted his red MAGA hat. She tried not to glare at him.

            “Excuse me. But it’s late at night. Hardly anyone is around. You could have just walked around me.”

            The old man smiled, wide and angry. Sarcasm dripped from that smile. His teeth were deep yellow and nasty. His eyes were a sort of gray, the color of his beard. “I suppose I could have,” he said. “Say,” the old man said. “Not only do you have to wear a mask, but you have to wear a mask that says ‘Love is the Answer.’”

            She blushed. She felt Sam’s presence behind her. Why wasn’t he helping her?

            “It’s a free country,” Laura said.

            The old man threw his head back, hollering with laugher, his ragged beard pointing at her. He faced her once more. “You got that part right at least. It damn well is a free country. That means I don’t have to wear a fuckin mask if I don’t want to.”

            She shrugged. “That’s true.”

            “Goddamn right it’s true. And I don’t have to believe in the Far Left Woke bullshit. I don’t have to believe in the New York Fake Times. I don’t have to be politically correct. I don’t have to think and act as they say we should. I don’t have to respect anybody for any reason. I can vote the way I please.”

            Laura didn’t speak. She felt afraid.

            The old man grinned nastily again. He said, “You’re probably one of them Far Left Radicals, huh? Who tells people like me that I’m stupid, unrefined, uneducated, that I’m a disgrace to this nation?”

            Breathe, baby, breathe, she told herself. She wanted to respond, to say she identified as a moderate. But he kept talking.

            “I’m from Scranton, Pennsylvania. A swing state, honey. We voted for Obama but then we switched in 16 for Trump. We working class people were sick of you liberal bleeding-heart cunts telling us what to do, how to think. You don’t know what it’s like, to struggle your whole life. To have three people in your family die from the Opioid Epidemic. To see your livelihood being taken over by spics and Niggers…”

            “That’s enough,” Sam said. She saw him step forward, near her. He reeked so badly she nearly vomited. His breath stunk of Gin. He held a red Swiss Army knife by his side.

            The old man chuckled. He pointed at Sam. “Who’s this Cheese-Dick? He looks homeless.”

            “I am homeless, you racist fuck.”

            The old man eyed Sam with a lethal stare. The man was no longer smiling. Laura wanted to step away, sprint off, be safe. Why had she left her goddamn  apartment? What were the fucking odds of something like this happening?

            “You know what the saddest thing about you two is?” the old man said. They didn’t answer. All was despicably quiet around them. Not even cars rushed along 5^th. She realized she’d stupidly left her iPhone on her coffee table. Damn it. She doubted Sam had a phone. Fuck. “The saddest thing about you two is that you actually believe the Fake News Leftist bullshit they shove down your throat. You’re all programmed. Buncha Millennial morons.”

            “Look,” Sam said. “What do you want? Why don’t you just pass on by? We haven’t done anything to you. You’re making a whole lot of assumptions.”

            “As if your kind don’t make assumptions about us?”

            “ ‘Your kind’?” Laura said, almost despite herself.

            The old man looked at her. He smiled. “Yes. Your goddamn kind. You New Yorker types. Who read the New York Times. Who think black people are victims.”

            “They are victims,” Sam blurted out. “They’re 13% of the population and yet get arrested at 2.5 times that of white people.”

            The man smiled even wider. “You know why that is, kid?”

            “Why?” Sam said angrily.

            The old man’s eyes heated up, widened. Some sinister energy poured out of the man. “Those fucking monkeys are 13% of the U.S. population…and they commit 52% of the fucking crime. They are bound, therefore, to get fucked with more often by police. Not to mention each of those police videos are taken out of context. There’s always more to the story. The Far Left Media drives the narrative.”

            The old man reached into his jean jacket. Laura flinched. He pulled out a pint of Jack Daniels. It was about half finished. She understood it then: The old man was drunk.

            “Where’re you staying?” Laura said. “I mean…what hotel?”

            He smiled again. Sipped once more. Capped the bottle. “Wouldn’t you like to know, little lady.” He smirked. “Couple blocks away, over on Park and 73^rd.”

            “Just coming back from the bar?” Sam said.

            The old man nodded. “Yep. He patted his belly. Nice n drunk. Figured I’d talk with a few young liberals in New Yawk Citie…hahaha.”

            “Well you’ve had your talk,” Laura said. “Why don’t you move on, leave us alone.”

            “I like a feisty woman,” the old man said.

            “Leave her alone,” Sam said.

            That gaping, stupid grin again. “You know what I can’t get over about that nigger George Floyd?”

            Sam sighed. “Don’t use that word.”

            “What? Nigger?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Oh. I’m sorry. I forgot my manners.” He uncapped the bottle, drank again, deep, and burped loudly. He capped it. “Nigger Nigger Nigger Nigger Nigger…”

            “Fuck off and leave us alone!” Laura half-yelled. “You fucking…uneducated, racist creep.”

            “Like I said…George Floyd. The guy commits a crime by using a fake twenty dollar bill. Two Asians call the cops. Floyd has a record a mile long, including assault and battery against a pregnant black woman for which he did a five year stretch. He’s 6’7. One of those massive Orangutan Niggers. He has fentanyl and Meth in his system. He resists arrest. And then you’ve got Chauvin, trying to deal with this disaster of a half-human-being.”

            “What Chauvin did was fucking reprehensible,” Sam yelled. Laura glanced over at him. He looked heated now; enraged. Shit, she thought; stay cool Sam, stay cool. This guy might be dangerous. But she was glad Sam was there.

            “That Nigger put himself in the position he was in. He did it to himself. Had he not committed a crime in the first place the cops never would have come. Had he not resisted arrest Chauvin never would have kneeled on his neck. Had he not been high on drugs he’d not have acted the way he did. But Chauvin put that monkey in his place. Did the right thing. Another criminal in the ground, where he belong. And then they fucking create an Angel of this animal after he dies. They make him a fucking hero! What other population glorifies their low-rate criminals?”

            Sam stepped forward, exposing the Swiss Army knife. “Listen, you fucking bigot. It’s time for you to leave. Or for us to go. But we’re through with this.”

            That’s when the old man reached his other hand behind him and pulled out a black handgun.

22.

The old man pointed the gun at Sam. His hand was taut and solid and didn’t shake. He clearly knew how to handle a gun. Sam breathed fast. His pulse raced. His thoughts were slipping and sliding, uncontainable.

            “No one’s going anywhere,” the old man said.

            Sam didn’t speak. He looked to his left, at Laura. She looked terrified. Fuck. What had they gotten into? He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Even if he himself had to take a bullet. He desperately wanted a glug of Gin. But he’d left the bottle behind him on the bench. And it was too risky now.

            “You know what this is?” the old man said, shaking the gun.

            “A gun,” Sam said.

            The old man grinned. “It’s a G-43 Glock 9 Millimeter handgun, son. Made in Austria. Hollow-point bullets. I shoot you in the head and this bullet would blow your entire face off.” Then the old man laughed, and it morphed into a terrible, maniacal glob of terrifying chortling. The fucker was insane. Should have figured, with all his racist Floyd commentary.

            Sam glanced at Laura again. They caught eyes. Her gaze seemed to be saying, Please don’t let anything bad happen to me. She was scared. So was he. He understood the fear. This man—a racist Trumper—was capable of anything.

            “What do you want?” Sam said.

            “I’m glad you asked,” the old man responded. He adjusted his MAGA hat. He reached into his jacket and pulled the pint out again. He uncapped it carefully with his teeth and chugged. He slid the bottle back. “I want to see you two reenact George Floyd’s killing. You, what’s your name?”

            “Sam.”

            “Sam. Right. I figured it’d be some faggoty name like that. Well, Sam, I want you to get on the ground, pretend to be Floyd.” He chuckled. “We have to imagine you’re about a foot taller and about 100 pounds heavier.” The old man glared at Laura. “And you. What’s your name, honey?”

            “Don’t call me honey…”

            “Ohhhh,” the old man said, grinning once more. “I like a feisty bitch. What’s your name sweetheart?”

            “Answer him,” Sam said. “Give him what he wants.”

            Laura glared at Sam. She said, “Laura.”

            “Uh huh. Laura and Sam. You two seem like a strange fit. He seems like homeless trash and you seem like one a them stuck-up twats.”

            “Fuck you,” Laura said.

            Sam gaped at her. The old man tilted his head. “Man. You got guts, Little Miss Sweetheart. I’ll give you that.”

            “So as I was saying. Laura will be pretend to be Chauvin.” He addressed her. “You’ll climb onto Sam on the ground and lean your pretty little knee onto his neck. We’ll role-play. C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

            Sam stepped towards the old man. “Get out of here you fucking cretin.”

            The old man straightened his arm pointing the gun right at Sam. “You want to die, kid?” He pulled the hammer back, un-clicked the safety. “You know. Where I come from, if you challenge a man he don’t back down. I ain’t afraid to use my weapon. I can always claim self-defense. Like Kyle Rittenhouse.”

            “Rittenhouse was a fucking 17-year-old White Supremacist.”

            “Actually, no, he wasn’t,” the old man said. “But so what if he had been? This nation was founded by educated white men. The constitution, the Bill of Rights: It was created for white men. Not for Niggers. Not for women. Not for brown people or Chinese or anybody else. By 2035 this country ain’t even going to be majority white. Don’t that bother you?”

            Sam shook his head. “No. It doesn’t. Race is a construct.”

            The old man rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, you fucking Woke Hippie. Wake up! Race is as real as it gets. One group commits the majority of the crime. They kill their own kind seventy percent of the time. They’re subhuman apes. Don’t tell me race ain’t real. Spics are lazy and take white men’s jobs. Blacks sit on their asses and suck up Welfare and pop out a hundred Nigger babies. They get Diabetes and Congestive Heart Failure because they sit around on their lazy black asses. They don’t contribute shit to this country. We should do as Malcom X once wanted: Send em all back to Africa.”

            Sam stepped towards the old man and a second later someone—a male voice—yelled “Hey, what’s going on here?” from behind them, south of them on the sidewalk.

            When the old man briefly turned around to find the voice Sam didn’t even think; he leapt at the old man.

            There was a struggle. He heard Laura screaming. He heard the mysterious male voice yelling. The sound of boots along the stone sidewalk. The old man groaned. Sam was behind him, his arms reaching round, gripping the old man’s thick arms which held the gun.

            “Get off me you fucking shithead!” the old man yelled.

            “Give me the gun!” Sam said. “Give me the gun!”

            Laura screamed something which sounded like “fuck” and then “run, run!” Sam couldn’t be sure. He was focused. Concentrating.

            Then the mystery man was there; close. A runner. Sweaty. Shorts. A white T-shirt. He looked terrified. He tried to stay out of the way of the swinging gun.

            Sam yelled, “Get the gun from him!”

            “You get near me and I’ll shoot you dead,” the old man screamed at the runner.

            “Get the gun!” Sam repeated.

            The runner kept moving back and forth avoiding the old man’s shifting arms. Sam still held man’s arms from behind but the man was bigger and stronger than Sam and Sam’s grip was slipping.

            Sam knew that if he failed and the man got free they’d likely all be shot. Probably killed. He could even likely claim self-defense. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

            Sam saw the runner look beyond the two struggling men and the runner seemed to very slightly nod. A moment passed. Sam started to release his grip. The old man was just too strong.

            And then, from behind, Laura ran into his frame of view. She had taken off one of her boots. A big, heavy-looking thing. She came at the Trumper from the side, unforeseen by him. She rained several hard blows down on the Trumper’s head with the hard heel of her boot. It briefly dazed the old man.

            In that instant, just as Sam let go of the fat, thick, globular body, the runner leapt forward, twisted away at the last second, for his own safety, and grabbed at the gun. The Trumper struggled and both he and the runner squirmed and screamed and grimaced and groaned and cursed. Then BAM, the gun went off; a shot had been fired. Had the runner been hit? Laura? Even me, Sam worried frantically.

            But they all seemed okay. The runner tried again, swiping at the gun. He got a strong grip on the gun this time. Laura struck the Trumper once more on the head. He aimed the gun at her.

            “No!” Sam squealed.

            And then boom: In a flash the runner somehow held the gun in his trembling hands. He pointed it at the Trumper. Everyone was panting loudly. Sam’s heart was thudding so hard in his chest he worried it’d spurt out of his body.

            “Put your goddamn hands up,” the runner said. His eyes were round and wild.

            The Trumper slowly put his hands up in the air.

            “Stay where you are,” the runner said.

            The old man breathed heavy and slow. He glanced back at Sam and Laura. He spit at them.

            “Face ahead, motherfucker, or I’ll shoot you,” the runner said.

            “I doubt you have the balls, kid.”

            The runner ignored this. He pulled his iPhone out. Dialed 911. Told the cops what had happened. Where they were.

            The runner looked at Sam and Laura. “Why don’t you two take off. Let me handle this.”

            “Are you sure?” Sam said. “We were the ones dealing with this guy.”

            The runner ogled Sam. “Homeless guy with a beautiful woman. It doesn’t look good for you. Cops aren’t kind to bums.”

            “Alright. Thank you.” Sam strutted over to the bench, snatched the Gin and his messenger bag.

            Sam stared at Laura. “Well…I guess this is goodbye…”

            “No,” she said. She lunged forward, gripped his wrist. “You’re coming to my place.”

            He didn’t fight her. He liked the feel of her cold palm on his wrist. They moved away from the scene.

23.

Then they were through Laura’s apartment building door and twisting up the stairs, three floors, the echoing sound of their footsteps. At 3K she pulled her keys out and they entered.

            The second the door to her apartment was shut behind them Sam said, “Are you alright? That was pretty intense. Insane, really.”

            She sighed, blowing air out her mouth in exhaustion. “I don’t know, honestly. I’m glad we’re alive.”

            “Yeah,” he said. “It could have gone very differently.”

            It was strange having this homeless man in her apartment. Sam. She saw everything now through his eyes. The small kitchen with the hanging copper pans and the dark-wood cabinets and the tiny azure-tiled bathroom and then the living room with her maple coffee table and her flat-screen TV. Lastly, her bedroom. She stared at Matisse’s Large Reclining Nude. She must seem hopelessly wealthy and sophisticated to Sam. This made her feel ashamed, which both made and didn’t make sense.

            “Water?”

            Sam nodded. “Please.”

            Laura brought down two clean pint glasses and filled them with tap water. When she returned to the living room he’d dropped his messenger bag onto the floor. His Gin bottle sat on the coffee table.

            “Here,” she said, handing him the glass.

            “Thanks.” They both drank greedily.

            A silence fell and it seemed awkward. She didn’t know what to say.

            “Can I sit down on the couch?” Sam said.

            “No offense but…can you shower first?”

            “Of course.”

            She showed him the shower, started it for him, and gave him a crisp, unused gray towel. He thanked her and she nodded and shut the bathroom door.

            Back in the living room she poured herself a glass of Whitehaven. She drank it unusually fast and poured another one. God, that fucking old man. Trumper. What a psychopath. What a creep. The Trumpers should all be rounded up and deported. Would serve them right. They weren’t patriots. She saw the man’s fiery gray eyes. His beard. His gut. His MAGA hat. The gun. The gun. Her stomach churned. Her hands trembled. She heard his ruthless insults. What was with his sick George Floyd obsession?  

She sat on the couch, took her boots off, placed her socked feet onto the coffee table. Then she grabbed her iPhone and looked at the screen. Two text messages. One from her mother and one from Dylan. She felt annoyed by both. She didn’t want to deal with either right now. She just wanted to be left alone. Well…alone with Sam.

            The sound of the shower was mesmerizing. Steam rose slowly from under the closed white door. There was a mirror in there; would Sam gaze at himself? Then a thought struck her: Covid. They hadn’t social-distanced. They hadn’t worn their masks. Neither, of course, had the racist Trumper. Everything had happened so fast. Laura had Cystic Fibrosis. It was genetic. Her father had it. Her paternal grandfather, too. It had the potential to complicate Covid. She’d been tested for Covid—rapid test and the PCR—about a month ago. But that might as well be a decade ago. She’d been careful up until very recently. Then…Dylan. Now Sam. The Trumper. Fuck.

            The shower still ran. Good. Let him clean himself. She had a big white bar of Dove soap in there, which she rarely used. Next to the soap was her L’Occitane Citrus Verbena, the shower gel she most often spread all over her body. Maybe she wouldn’t use the soap again. Maybe after he left she’d throw it in the trash. Disgusting after him. She felt bad thinking that but…it was true.

            She checked her phone. It was 8:15. Still early. But she was exhausted. Long day. Bad sleep last night. Her mother’s text said, How was your day, sweetie? And Dylan’s text, My cock yearns for you, baby. I love you. She flipped her phone over. Rolled her eyes. Dylan always talked dirty to her. It was his thing. She half liked it, half detested it. What could you do? He was a man. A flash arrived then, in her mind: I love you, they’d both said to each other. I love you. Why had she said that to him? Had she meant it?

            The shower water ceased. She was glad. He must have been in there for twenty minutes. She didn’t mind. She couldn’t blame him. When was the last time he’d taken a shower? She’d ask. She drank more wine. She listened to him mumbling to himself in there, then humming some tune. She realized it was Singing in the Rain. Odd. Laura heard the water draining in the shower. The drain needed more Drano. It always backed-up. Her hair did it.

            Laura leaned back against the couch. The wine sat well in her stomach. What was she doing?

            Then the door of the bathroom opened, casually, and he stepped out. Steam rose off him. He had the gray towel wrapped around his waist. No shirt on. His gut protruded a little. No tattoos. He had flabby breasts. Water dripped from his curly beard. Then his eyes once more. That horrid, perfect green, like a Central American jungle. So thick and deep. She saw wisdom, experience, and pain in that green.

            “Thanks for letting me shower,” he said.

            She looked away, despite herself. She drank wine. “When was the last time?”

            He thought about it, rubbing his chin. She noticed water pooling round his feet on the white kitchen tile. It didn’t matter. She wanted to say something about it but an internal voice said, Let it go.

            “I dunno,” he said. “Four, five months. Maybe longer.”

            “My God. You poor man.”

            He smiled. “Can I sit?”

            “Yes. You may. Did you use the Dove soap?”

            “All over. I feel clean. God I feel clean.” His voice sounded slightly emotional.

            He stepped over to his capped bottle of Gin. Grabbed it. Sat a few feet away on the couch. Opened it. Drank.

24.

Sam sat on the couch, several feet away from Laura, drinking from the Gin bottle. He’d taken a twenty-two minute scalding hot shower. It felt Heavenly. It felt better than cumming. Better than a satisfying shit. He used the soap fiercely. He didn’t want to stink around her anymore. He wanted to feel some slight amount of dignity. He realized he hadn’t felt honest dignity in over a year. Maybe longer. When was the last time?

            In the shower he’d thought about the Trumper. Crazy old fuck. Racist prick. He shouldn’t have been surprised about the Glock. They all carried guns. How had he gotten it across state lines? Maybe he’d bought it here. Maybe he had a friend or family member in Manhattan with the gun and he’d borrowed it. Either way: He’d have certainly used it. They were lucky to be alive and unscathed. Had it been the right thing to flee? Should they have stuck around and talked to the police? He wasn’t sure. That runner had sure been a savior. Without him they’d have been Up Shit Creek.

            He liked being clean. It felt warm and safe and good. It made him think of his early childhood, before everything changed, his mother reading Dr. Seuss to him while he lay in a hot bath, steam rising off the surface, curling in slow waves. He wished he could stay here forever. But he knew he couldn’t. She must know it, too. What could they possibly do together? How realistic was any of this? Not at all, he knew. Not at all.

            “Thank you for your extreme kindness and hospitality,” Sam said. He avoided her eyes.

            “You’re welcome. I’m happy to help.” She paused. “Do you have anyone in your life?”

            Sam shrugged. “My parents. My little sister. She’s in Portland. Married. Two kids. We’re not close. Neither am I close with my parents. But they’d be happy to know where I was. And if I’ve been safe during the Pandemic.”

            She looked at him seriously. “You haven’t talked to them since it started?”

            “Since well before that. December of last year.”

            “How do you know they aren’t sick?”

            “I don’t.” He glugged Gin.

            There was silence for a moment and then she said, “We should both get Covid tested.”

            “Maybe.”

            “Have you been tested before?”

            He shook his head. “No. You?”

            “Several times. Last one was a month ago. Nasal swab and blood. I have to be careful. I have Cystic Fibrosis. It’s genetic.”

            “What’s Cystic Fibrosis?”

            “It makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Prevents proteins needed for digestion from reaching the intestines. Can lead to people getting Diabetes, Cirrhosis, Osteoporosis, etc. It isn’t usually too bad…but sometimes it can be nasty.”

            He faced her, seeing her hazel eyes. They looked at each as if for the first time. His throat felt thick and mucus-filled. “How old are you, Laura?”

            “Twenty-seven.”

            He chuckled. “God you’re just a kid.”

            “You?”

            “Thirty-nine.”

            Her eyes widened. “You look fifty.”

            “I know.”

            “Sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was rude.”

            “It was true,” he corrected. He drank a hit of Gin. “Well. You’re young. You look very fit and healthy. I’m sure you’re fine.”

            “Not you, though. Get tested. I will, too. It’s free. Just to be safe. We can go together.”
            “Now?”

            She smiled. “Of course not. It’s nearly nine at night. Sometime next week. There’s a City M.D. a few blocks from me.”

            “Ok,” he said. A beat passed and then he said, “Let me change.”

            She rose up fast. “Don’t put your old stinky clothes back on.”

            “What else is there?”

            “Let me think.” She tapped her forehead and then remembered. She walked into her bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. In the far back left corner she still had a pair of old torn expensive blue jeans which Dylan had left five months ago. And one of his preppy Harvard collared shirts. No boxers but he’d survive. She pulled two women’s socks out. She went back into the living room and tossed the pile to him.

            “Thank you.”

            He went into the bathroom again and stepped out five minutes later. He looked a little absurd. The pants were too long so he’d rolled the bottoms a few times. The shirt was both too tight and too long. But he didn’t stink. That was the main thing.

            He came back and sat on the couch. He snatched his Gin and drank.

            “So,” he said. “What do you want?”

            She cringed at this. “You keep asking me that, as if I’m using you.”

            He grinned sarcastically. “Well. Aren’t you?”

            She squinted, tilting her face. “For what exactly? You don’t have anything I need, remember?”

            He drank. Suppressed a burp. “I guess that’s true. It just feels…bizarre. I mean: What is a woman like you doing with a guy like me?”

            “We’re not ‘doing’ anything. We’re talking.”

            “You stopped and talked to me on the street. We had an experience together. You told me to come with you. I’m in your apartment. I showered. Now I’m wearing your boyfriend’s clothes.”

            “Ex-boyfriend’s clothes.”

            Sam raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

            Her cheeks flushed. She sighed, flipping some hair off her shoulder. She looked down at her carpet. “Well. That’s a bit more…”

            “Complicated?”

            She tapped her fingers against her thigh. “Yes. That’s right.”

            “Everything is complicated,” Sam said. She detected a tone she didn’t like.

            “Is there something you’d like to say to me?”

            He leaned back against the couch. He stared at the flat-screen TV. He saw the reflection in the blank screen of the two of them sitting on her couch. They looked strange together. Three feet apart. Like uncomfortable new friends.

            He faced her. “You’re beautiful.”

            “Thank you. You’re handsome.”

            He swigged. Wiped his beard. “I’m homeless.”

            “Stop saying that. I know you’re homeless. We’ve covered this.”

            “What do you want?”

            “Anyone ever tell you you’re exhausting?”

            “My father. All the time.”

            She sipped wine. “He beat you up?”

            “All through my childhood.”

            She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

            “It was a long time ago.”

            “And…this helps,” she said, eyeing the bottle of Gin.

            “It numbs it.”

            “The pain?”

            “Yes.”

            “I understand.”

            “What about you?” Sam said.

            “What about me?”

            “Parents were good to you?”

            “Always. Spoiled me rotten.”

            “Good. You deserve it.”

            She smiled but said nothing.

            “What about him?” Sam said.

            “Who?”

            “The boyfriend.”

            “Ex…”

            “Right. Sure. Fine. Ex.”

            “What about him?”

            Sam aimed his dark green eyes right at her. “Do you love him?”

            She looked nervous. He felt bad but he wanted to know. Not that he had any real right to ask. But this was all new to him. It was surreal. Paranormal. Bizarre. All highly unlikely. Like some twisting, fading dream. He assumed he’d wake up at any moment, realizing the whole thing had been a dream/nightmare.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Fair enough.”

            Silence again. They looked away from each other. Both drank. She tapped her knee with anxious fingers. The Gin was helping him relax but he still felt tight as a bow-and-arrow string, pulled taut. He wasn’t angry about the Trumper anymore. He was calm. In a sincere mood. A relaxed mood.

            “You’ll stay here tonight,” Laura said.

            “What? No. I’ll leave in a half hour. Just let me sit and finish my Gin.”

            “No. Stay. Not in my bed. On this couch. I want you to. I get up very early but you can sleep in. Just make sure you lock the door behind you.”

            “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Laura.”

            “Why? Are you going to hurt me?”

            He ogled her, those green forests. “No. Of course not.”

            “Then what?”

            “Just doesn’t feel right.”

            “I don’t care. It’s what I want. Don’t disrespect me.”

            The bottle was almost empty. He thought about it. What could he say? If she wanted him to stay, then, By God, he’d stay.

            “Ok. Alright, Laura. I’ll stay.”

            “Good. That pleases me. I better get to bed now. I wake early for work. You can watch TV on low volume if you want?”

            “Naw. I don’t like TV. I’ll read.”

            She smiled. “Tolstoy.”

            “How’d you know?”

            “I saw you reading it on the bench that first time.”

            “You pay attention to details.”

            She stood up. Yawned. Finished her wine goblet. “Always.”

            “What do you do?”

            “I work at Chase. I’m an accountant.”

            “Ah. One of them.”

            “What does that mean?”

            He gestured with his hand, waving an invisible fly away. “Nevermind. I’m just teasing.”

            She walked into the kitchen and put the wine away. She did a few quick dishes. Cleaned her hands on the white rag. Brushed her teeth.

            “Goodnight, Sam. Sleep well. Tonight you are safe.”

            “Goodnight, Laura.”

            She stepped to her bedroom door.

25.

Laura woke in a cold-sweat, bolting upright in her bed. She sensed the nebulous remnants of a drifting, misty nightmare. Something about Dylan and Greg Torino and…the Trumper. It all came back: Last night. The homeless man. Sam. The asshole racist Trumper. The runner. She and Sam fleeing the scene. Him in her apartment. Him showering. Their conversation. How he kept asking what she wanted from him.

            Laura ripped her gray bed sheet and the duvet bed cover off her warm, sweaty body and jumped out of her bed. She yawned deeply, stretching, her eyes closed. Walking to her window, she turned the A/C on low—it was vaguely stuffy in her room—and pulled the beige curtains back. It was still dark out. She glanced at her alarm clock: 5:21. She usually got up at six.

            Then, like a spear to the heart, she remembered he was here. Now. On her couch. Sam. She was still waking up. Her heart thumped in her chest. She breathed slow and deep.

            Throwing her bathrobe on she unlocked her bedroom door and opened it slowly. He was there, a sleeping blob on the couch, under the blue wool blanket she’d given him, his breaths coming in slow and easy, his stomach rising and falling gently. One arm had fallen out of the blanket and the tips of his fingers touched the floor. All was gray-dark and quiet.

            Laura tiptoed past him. It was strange having a man in her apartment again after five months without Dylan. God. Dylan. A shiver of shame and fear and confusion tingled down her spine like electricity. What was to be done about Dylan? What was to be done about Sam? What about Greg Torino? Ugh. Men.

            She made a pot of coffee and listened as the grounds gurgled and she heard the water filtering into the white mug and smelled the Sumatra beans roasting. Mmmm, lovely. Perfection. Morning joy. This was her favorite time of the morning. The best part of waking up, is Folgers in your cup, she jokingly sang to herself.

            Pouring herself a mug of straight black joe, she stood there for a moment just watching his unmoving body. His thick beard. There was a hint of auburn in it. His sharp, Germanic nose. What to do with this guy? With Sam. What if he had Covid? He hadn’t been tested. He lived on the streets. She hadn’t made him wear a mask. What if she had Covid? She wanted to know more about him. About his violent father. His absent mother. His childhood in Seattle. All of it. Why did he read Tolstoy? Dylan didn’t even read Tolstoy. Dylan read financial books about the stock market.

            She dumped a small sugar cube into her coffee and stirred with a tiny metal spoon. She added some milk. Then she sipped. It was still very hot. But good. After drinking half the cup she went into the bathroom. There was still a feint stink of trash-body-odor. Nasty. She opened the little square window. Cold September air rushed in. She shivered against it. But it was necessary. She got into the shower, the scalding water feeling good on her soft pale flesh. She didn’t wet her hair. It took too long to dry. Men never understood why it took women so long to prepare. Hair. Makeup. Nails. Clothes. It was so easy for guys. Everything was easy for guys. They had all the outs; all the excuses; all the power. Strange how that ironically turned her on, despite angering her. Life, with all its complexity.

            After her shower she dried off and put her robe back on, tying the belt tight. She entered the kitchen. The microwave said it was 5:52 AM in bright green digital numbers. Still eight minutes before she usually even woke up. Might as well go in a tad early today.

            She glanced at the couch; he was still there, unmoving, in the same position. She finished the mug of coffee. She remembered being a child, at the home she grew up in, in Pacific Heights. It was palatial, four thousand square feet. It had high domed ceilings. Marble finish. Red Spanish-tiles. The park and tennis court were across the street which she could see each day out the tall kitchen windows. Her father would always play tennis there with a neighbor before going to work at seven each morning. Laura, would wake up leisurely, and her parents would be gone. Dad playing, Mom already at the hospital. Their maid, Doreen, a French Au Pair, would wake her and make her breakfast and pour her coffee when she was old enough.

            She finished her second cup of coffee. It was a little after six now. The sun was rising outside. She saw blotches of yellow sunshine against the tall wall outside the window next door. She walked slowly into the living room. When she saw him, his unmoving body, that stomach rising and falling softly, she paused. Then she felt the most profound feeling of desire. She wanted to lay down with him. Touch him. Hold him. Even kiss him. It seemed to pull her, draw her to him like a cosmic magnet with a force, an energy stronger than she could humanly resist.

            But then he stirred, lightly. Moved more. Lazily pulled down the blanket a bit. Opened his eyes.

            “Huh!” he said. He sat up. He gaped at her. A look of raw fear percolated in his eyes. Then he seemed to remember. “Oh. Hi. What time is it?”

            She smiled. “About ten after six.”

            He yawned. He was sitting fully upright now. “I’m used to waking early.”

            She nodded. “Me too. Sleep well?”

            “Yes. Thank you.”

            “There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

            “I smell it.” He glanced at his Gin bottle. It was bone-dry.

            “Well. I got to get ready for work. Help yourself.”

            She walked past him, trying to avoid his heavy green eyes, more intense now first thing in the morning. She gently closed her door. She stared at the white wood. Laura felt scared, trapped, needy, desperate even. Work, she told herself. Work. Don’t be late. She thought of Greg Torino. She heard Sam out there, moving, yawning again, stepping into the kitchen. She pressed her ear against the white wood of her door, listening. She felt foolish. She heard the creak of the kitchen floor. Sam sighed. He poured coffee into a mug. Alright, c’mon, girl. Get with it.

            She unwrapped her robe. She was naked. She looked at herself in her full-length mirror. She looked good, but tired. Worried. That wrinkle on her face was there. She hated that fucking wrinkle. Laura gathered her work clothes and got dressed. She put her makeup on, blush and red lipstick, brushing her cheeks lightly. She mashed her lips together. Put on her black eyeliner. Then her blue heels. God, the last thing on Earth she wanted to do right now was go to work. But that was life. That was responsibility. That was adulthood. You had to do stuff you often didn’t want to do.

            She breathed long and slow. Ok. Just walk out fast and say you have to go because you’re late. Tell him to lock the door when he leaves. Say you’ll find him again soon at his spot along 5^th.

            And then, just before she turned the knob, she was startled by his light knock.

            “Laura?” he said, from the other side of the door.

26.

Sam heard the noise through his dream. Or, rather, it was part of his dream. Nightmare, to be more precise. He saw several armed cops standing around lazily while one cop kneeled on a large black man’s neck. The black man was on the side of the street. The black man kept yelling, Please stop, I can’t breathe. Then he said, Mama, mama, while tears zigzagged down his cheeks. The cop kneeling on the black man’s neck was not a cop. It was the Trumper. Red MAGA hat. Gray shaggy beard. Tucked-in black shirt. Sheepskin jacket. Boots. Raggedy jeans. The Trumper kneeled harder and said, What was that, you gargantuan fucking Nigger Monkey? Huh?

            Then the sound was louder and he woke up. Coffee grounds being throttled in the filter. He smelled the roasting Sumatra. He moved a little. Yawned. Opened his eyes. Felt the hang-over, that ache in his dome. He hated hangovers. Then it all came back: The woman. What was her name? Laura. Right. Then the Trumper. The runner. The Glock. Sprinting off with her. The shower. The couch.

            Sam sat up. He saw Laura standing a few feet away. They caught eyes. She told him there was coffee, that she needed to get dressed for work, that it was a little after six AM. He stared at her, deep into her hazel orbs, and he said internally, I want you. But he just said alright, and she walked past him into her bedroom.

            He sat up on his elbows and yawned a third time. He sniffled. He craved alcohol and a cigarette. He had cigarettes but he couldn’t smoke in here. He saw that the Gin was empty. Damn. From his back pocket he pulled his rumpled bills. He had $31 left. Plenty. Still from working for James Langton. In that moment he realized he wanted to see Langton again. He’d go there. Soon. Maybe later today.

            Sam tore the blanket off and stepped into the bathroom. He peed, bright yellow, in an arc. He gazed at his face in the medicine cabinet mirror. He looked haggard. He held his eyes for a half minute, those hard green glinting things in his face. A part of him wanted to punch the glass, crush it. Feel the shards cutting his skin. He turned the sink faucet on and cupped his hands, drinking ravenously. Then he palmed cold water onto his face and hair. It felt good. It made him think of doing the same in the creek in the mountains while camping as a kid with his father, that achingly cold creek water, the smell of the Ponderosas and Pines.

            He walked into the kitchen. Poured a cup of coffee. Sipped it black. Delicious. It must have been the first time in half a year or longer that he’d had coffee first thing in the morning instead of alcohol. It was nice.

            Sam stepped back into the living room. He sat on the couch. He snatched the collared Harvard shirt she’d given him—the “ex’s”—and threw it on. It smelled like male cologne. Too tight. The guy, as he supposed, must have been fit. Of course he was. A woman like Laura would seek only the best.

            He slammed more coffee. It warmed his belly. Helped his hang-over. He leaned back against the couch. Then he recalled Zelda again. Missoula. Four months went by. They both worked their shitty, under-the-table jobs. She served tables, he did side plumbing gigs. Word went round town and soon he had a lot of work. But he was gone too often. He’d seen the slight shift in her behavior—being irritable, coming home late, not being interested in sex. Warning signs, all of them.

            One night he’d worked all day. Twelve hours. He’d been installing some new toilet piping in a house a few miles away, for a guy he’d met in a grocery store a few weeks back. It had been a big job. It took two weeks. He had a few grand in his pocket. He’d finished and just been paid. He felt happy and drained. He wanted a drink. But he was still sober. She was still clean. This evening, despite his fatigue, he figured he’d take her out to dinner downtown to celebrate their windfall. Just a hot, good meal. No alcohol.

            He jumped off the bus and walked the half mile back to the dingy motel. He hated the neon sign which said, The Missoula Motel, with the “l” in Missoula out black. The “Missoua” Motel. What a crappy place, with the jade-green chipped, peeling paint, the brown stained doors, the twisting side staircases, the rancid stink inside of cigarettes and liquor and latex. They needed to move. He had almost four grand in his pocket. They could do it. Now. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Just up and fucking go. Take a Greyhound bus out of this terrible town.

            When he walked down the narrow hallway on the second floor, along the banister, he sensed something grim. It wasn’t real, just an intuition. A bleep of fear. Insecurity. Paranoia. No, all was fine. C’mon, Sam, he told himself. He grinned again. Lord he was lucky. He had sobriety. He had some cash. He had her. That was the main thing. Her.

            He stopped in front of their brown door. In gold it said, 2F. He heard slight whispering but knew it came from the room next door. Old Lady Whitney, the old woman in her seventies who always talked to herself. She was nice but certifiable.

            Inserting his key he twisted it and opened the door.

            There was Zelda, naked, on the floor, her skinny body, ribs poking, her short cropped dark hair. A hypodermic needle hung from her arm just below her right elbow. A beige band was loosened round her arm. A vein throbbed. A tiny trickle of blood trailed down her skin. Her eyes were marble and glassy.

            He heard a cough from the bathroom. The toilet flushed. A man’s voice said, “Hey, baby, when we get out of this shithole are we going to…”

            But the man stopped talking when he stepped out of the bathroom and caught eyes with Sam. The man wiped his hands on his pants. Fear jutted in his eyes. The man wore a white collared shirt, dirty jeans, Chuck Taylor low-tops. He looked about Sam’s age. He looked sketchy.

            “Who’re you, mate?” the guy said. He had an Australian accent.

            “Who am I? I’m Zelda’s man. This is our room. Who the fuck are you?”

            The man looked at Zelda but she was nodding off. He faced Sam again. “Listen.” The man smiled. “There must be a mix-up. Zelda and I are…together.”

            “Since when, Amigo?”

            “My name’s Ralph.”

            “I don’t give a fuck what your name is, Friend. Since when?”

            He shrugged. “I don’t know. A few months?”

            “Bullshit.”

            Ralph smirked. He wiped his hands once more, quickly, against his jeans. “I know all about you, Sam. A drunk. Taking advantage of a 24-year-old girl.”

            “Taking advantage? What’re you talking about? We left the rehab together.”

            “Whatever,” Ralph said.

            “Get out.”

            That’s when Ralph pulled out a switchblade from his back pocket. The handle was black and thin. The blade was long and sharp and silver. “Make me, motherfucker.”

            Sam balled his hands into fists.

            He shook the memory away and sipped his coffee. He killed it. He went into the kitchen and poured another. He heard her making noise in her bedroom. He came back into the living room and stared at himself in the reflection of the turned-off flat-screen TV. He saw himself in the awkward, unfitting clothes of her ex-boyfriend (if he really was an ex) holding the mug of coffee. He looked strange. Surreal. He didn’t fit in this apartment, in this world. He felt like a feral cat which had somehow snuck into a wealthy human’s space.

            Glancing over at her closed door he felt overwhelmed with desire. Lust. Need. Affection. Curiosity. Passion. It was like a raging freight train in his soul headed towards a cliff that wouldn’t stop. Fuck it. There was nothing else to do.

            He drank the rest of the coffee. He put his nappy boots on. He snatched his old clothes in a little pile. He threw his Gin bottle away in her white plastic recycling bin in the kitchen. He breathed slow. Alright, he said to himself. Alright, c’mon. Be brave. She likes you, man. She said it half a damn dozen times. Believe her. Trust it. Trust it.

            He walked across the living room. He stood at her white door. He felt the little rivers of blood rushing in his veins. He was worried, all tangled up inside. But driven to his goal. Zelda’s face flashed again in his eyes.

            He knocked. He heard her on the other side of the door. He imagined her fear. Was she afraid like he was? What were they doing? This was so…bizarre. And yet: The heart wants what it wants.

            She twisted the knob, opened the door.

            He stepped inside.

27.

Laura backed up a few feet until the backs of her knees touched her cold metal bed-frame. She half-grinned, anxiously. He was not tall, not like Dylan, but he still seemed to tower over her. Maybe two inches taller than her. But he had broad shoulders, a thick neck with one throbbing vein, and those intense green eyes which made him seem like a giant of Biblical proportions. She felt a mix of disgust and desire.

            Sam closed the bedroom door behind him. He locked it. This made her nervous. He stared at her with such depth and raw, vulnerable emotion that she felt frozen.

            “Laura,” he said, softly.

            “Listen, Sam, I’ve got to get to work. Let’s talk tonight.”

            “You really want me?” he said.

            She tried to smile, but it came out as a smirk and cough sort of thing. Messy. Her thoughts raced uncontrollably.

            She looked away from him. Saw her alarm clock by her bead. Heard some cars down on Third Avenue. Some honking. Construction workers hammering and drilling somewhere nearby. Always something in Manhattan.

            “I want you,” Laura said.

            Sam stepped closer to her, just a few inches. He did not smile. His lips were taut, straight. Closer to a frown than a smile.

            “Why?” he said.

            She moved a bit along her bed. “Listen. Sam. We can talk later. I really have to go.”

            “Tell me why.”

            She looked away and then, emotionally, said, “I don’t know why. I don’t. It’s just this…gut feeling. That’s all I know.”

            Sam came closer. She smelled the Gin off his breath. The Dove soap he’d showered with. A whiff of Marlboro cigarettes. And even a speck of old trash body odor, even after the shower. It must take a while to fully excise that smell.

            “I feel it, too,” Sam said.

            She came forward then, touched his bicep, said, “We both feel it. It’s a conundrum. A puzzle. Sometimes life is…confusing. Mysterious.”

            Sam, without warning, leaned down and kissed her, first on the cheek, and then on the lips. She tasted his wet tongue, the coffee and Gin and cigarettes from last night. She liked it. Even as a part of her felt repelled. He clutched her close. They kissed. Then he hugged her.

            She looked up into his green eyes. They held each other’s stony gaze.

            “Sam,” she whispered.

            “Yes?” he said, slowly, rhythmically pushing his fingers through her hair, tugging the hair over her ears.

            She placed her palm against his chest. She kissed his neck. “I’ve got to go.”

            He gripped her palm. Squeezed. “Yes. Go.”

            Work was slow. She finished the profit and loss report and the annual report and that got Greg Torino momentarily off her back. All day she’d been texting with Dylan and simultaneously thinking about Sam. About that kiss. It had been good. Really good. She twirled her hair, grinning dumbly when she thought of it. She daydreamed. She recalled his mouth, how he tasted, of Gin and coffee and tobacco. But then the fear: How would they be together? Was that even actually what she wanted? Was it anywhere near realistic or even possible? What about her parents? What about Dylan? What about her reputation?

            After work she met Dylan—he pressured her to absurdity—at a bar called Gallow Green near his place on West 27^th between 10^th and 11^th. It sat right near the McKittrick Hotel. The outside seating was full. Dylan was already there when she arrived, at a small two-seater in the back corner. He always preferred isolated back corner tables. He didn’t wear a mask. She weaved her way round the other tables, the place buzzing with chatter and gesturing and laughing, and sat down across from him. He was finishing a text which seemed important judging by his grimace.

            Laura tugged her black velvet mask down under her chin. She saw in her mind Sam knocking on her door, him entering, their dialogue, the desire and fear and excitement, his green eyes, and then the kiss, the hug, all of it.

            “What’re you grinning about?” Dylan said, jarring her out of the reverie.

            “Oh, nothing. Just something my mom said a few days ago.”

            Dylan smiled, but the smile seemed unbelievable; shallow; superficial. He tinked the black iron table lightly with his iPhone 10. “And what did she say?”

            Shit. What did she say? C’mon, Laura…think.

            Too much time passed. Too much silence. Dylan leaned forward and said, “What’s going on, Lore? Are you alright?”

            “I’m fine. Sure. Of course. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

            The waiter interjected. She ordered a dry Vermouth Martini. He got a beer.

            “You just seem a little…distracted,” Dylan said.

            He wore his usual: Three-piece black suit. The tie was maroon-colored. His hair was combed. That square, Christopher Reeves jaw. His perfect, Ken-Doll-like features. Angular cheeks. Muscular arms under the suit. Flat, hard stomach underneath the shirt and jacket.  

            She tried to smile. “Says the man who’s on his iPhone when I show up. Doesn’t say a word for several minutes when I sit down.”

            “Sorry about that.” He tinked the table with his phone again, then realized he was doing one of his nervous ticks and set the phone on the table, screen-down. He leaned back in his metal chair, steepled his hands. Immediately she saw Mr. Rollins at Joe’s Crab Shack. She’d never told Dylan that story. She never would. “It’s just John. This latest AI project we’re investing in. It’s nutty. The stock market is going up and down like an elevator on crack. Trump and all his madness.”

            She didn’t respond, only looked across the table at him. In that moment she knew she didn’t love him. Really, she’d always known that. She’d allowed his charm and godly looks and her loneliness push her into a bad place. It was strange how sometimes, in one single flash, powerful revelations came to you like this. One second, denial; the next, truth.

            The waiter came back with their drinks. They cheers’d. They drank. She looked at him with pity. Poor shallow, skin-deep man. He had nothing she wanted. Except for his body. That specimen of perfection. She wanted to use him for that. But not for anything else. Then she thought: Was she that shallow? Was she shallow just for being with him?

            “Are you guys ready to order?” the waiter said, at their table again, black uniform, black face mask over his mouth.

            She hadn’t even glanced at the menu. But just as she reached for one sitting near her Dylan said, “We’ll just have the drinks. Bring the check.”

            “But…” she started.

            The waiter left.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Dylan said.

            “What are you doing?”

            “We. What are we doing?”

            “Ok. What are we doing?”

            He chugged his beer. “We are going back to my place.”

            “Dylan…”

            He wagged his finger at her. “No no no. I don’t want to hear it. My place. We’ll walk. It’s very close.” He leaned closer towards her and whispered conspiratorially. “I’m going to make you cum again. Even harder.”

            Before she could fight him any further the waiter returned with the check. Dylan extracted crisp cash and dropped it in the black narrow bill-book.

            They stood up, shoving their chairs back, the screech of the metal chair legs loud against the asphalt.

            He extended his elbow. She linked her arm through it.

            “I’m hungry,” Laura said, as he lead her twisting round the tables.

            He smiled. “So am I. But we’ll have a different kind of feast.”

            “Dylan, I…”

            “Shhhhhh,” he reprimanded her jokingly. “Don’t ruin it.”

            They stood near the curb on West 27^th. Sirens cut the night. A manhole cover clinked. Steam rose near them from a sewer. Cars bleated horns. And then Dylan successfully hailed a taxi.

            “I thought we were going to walk,” Laura said.

            “I can’t wait that long,” Dylan said.

            They got into the taxi.

28.

After Sam had kissed her Laura walked past him and left. He stood there in that same place in her bedroom for a few long, stunned minutes. A woman. A beautiful woman. He hadn’t kissed anyone in over a year. And even then it’d been a down-on-her-luck alcoholic he knew, nearly fifty, who’d been sober a while and then relapsed and was living in her truck.

            Sam wiped his lips and laughed out loud. He smelled her clean, fragrant bed-sheets, like lavender. Everything in her apartment was so ordered and precise and clean. It was the opposite of Greek myth: Feminine chaos and masculine order. In this case it was feminine order and male chaos. His life was chaotic. Absurd. Wild. For the first time in several years he thought, Could his life be different? Was it possible? Maybe. He didn’t know. Too early to tell. But that kiss. That kiss. That kiss. He felt his lips, still slightly wet from where her lips had touched. He tasted her tongue still, the coffee and Colgate toothpaste, the vague touch of peppermint.

            He walked into her kitchen again. He poured a final cup of black coffee. He sat on the couch. He stared at the blank flat-screen TV. He watched his reflection in the TV screen, his tangled black oily hair, his wrinkled, hard face, his green eyes. He sipped the coffee. God it tasted good. A sudden, foreign thought wedged into his mind: Could he perhaps ever get sober? Good God. No. Probably not. How? When? Why? The thought of facing his parents again. Of really looking at his life. Of facing the wreckage. It was simply too painful. Too hard. The shadow of his past cast a long line.

            He scanned around him. Lord Almighty: To live in his own apartment. God! Could you imagine? The last time he’d had his own space—a roof over his head—had been in rehab the last time, a little over three years ago. The last time he had his own apartment had been when he was twenty-eight. In Capitol Hill, Seattle. It had been very brief. Mostly he’d lived in a room along with many others so he didn’t have to pay much rent. He couldn’t ever hold a job for long.

            Sam decided he’d go see James Langton. Why not? He felt like seeing the old man. He finished the coffee, looked around one more time. He entered her room. He opened a few drawers. He extracted one of her blouses and held it against his face and breathed her scent in. Lavender. Lemon. Peppermint. Perfume. God he yearned for her. She was feminine and beautiful and warm and safe. Somehow he already felt he could trust her. Which was rare.

            He placed the blouse back in the drawer and closed the drawer. He used the bathroom one more time, considered taking a second shower, decided against it. He wanted to brush his teeth. He used a tiny bit of her toothpaste and his index finger. He felt the smooth, mossy teeth. He’d gotten so accustomed to street life that he’d forgotten what normal life was even like anymore.

            Sam washed his coffee mug. Then he washed the rest of her dishes. A little surprise for her. He yanked his empty Gin bottle. Turned all the lights off. Opened her front door. Locked it from the inside. Stepped out. Closed the door. He feared he might never see her again, might never enter this apartment again. He looked at the door: 2F. Two-F, he said out loud. Two-F.

            Fifteen minutes later he was on a cross-town bus heading to the west side. He’d connect to a bus on the west side to go uptown. To James’s. It was a little after seven. The old man would surely be up.

            The seats were half empty. A plastic, transparent wall protected the driver. Covid. Sam wore his blue hospital mask. It was a mystery as to who wore masks and who didn’t and why. Some people in Harlem often didn’t follow the social distancing rules or didn’t wear masks. But same for rich white people in the Upper West Side. Yet he wore a mask. But he hadn’t worn a mask last night. He and Laura hadn’t social-distanced. They’d kissed. Then again: if he didn’t have Covid by now…he stopped himself. Most people were asymptomatic. Laura was right. He needed to get tested. Fear gripped him. He did his best to distance.

            He switched to the uptown bus and, as it slowly rumbled along, heading north along Amsterdam, Sam closed his eyes and leaned against the hard plastic seat and he remembered being sixteen, running away, after he hot-wired the 80s blue Chevy truck with the United States-shaped rust stain on the door. After he nearly plowed down the red-robe-wearing, angry owner.

            He’d driven south for hours along Interstate-5. The car rattled and made weird noises. No one was on the road until around 4:45 AM. And then just a few scattered big-rigs, lugging slowly along. He turned the truck’s heater on full blast. He worried about police. The man had gotten a good look at his face. By now his folks would surely be up. They usually didn’t try to wake him up until seven, seven-fifteen. So he had some time. Just keep driving, he told himself. He listened to the sound of the wheels rolling along the endless road. Road, road and more road.

            He stopped once more gas. Filled her up. In Southern Washington. The man who filled the truck seemed to look suspiciously at Sam…but maybe he imagined it. He bought a few snacks from the little market, and a large cup of coffee to-go. He took off again. He smelled the rich, musty scent of old leather in the truck. He wanted to roll the windows down but it was still too cold. May was still cool in the Pacific Northwest.

            He got to Portland, Oregon. It was around nine. It’d taken close to seven hours because he stopped for food at a diner and took his time. Plus he hit work traffic around six-thirty. But he was there. He’d heard all about “weird” Portland but he’d never seen it. He felt thrilled to be young and independent and alive and he realized, as if just now, he’d run away. He’d been so focused on driving and surviving and not getting caught that he’d sort of forgotten why he was here, what he was doing.

            Sam knew he needed to ditch the truck. Too risky. Surely the cops were going to be informed if they weren’t already. The red-robed man must have called them. Portland was an obvious place to potentially go to. Play it safe.

            He crossed over the Columbia River on the I-5 bridge. The sun was out, bright and shiny. Some boats were in the water. Sam smiled. Sixteen. Sixteen and here, on his own. What a thing it was! He passed a green dented sign reading Hayden Island and then he was back on land and passing a big park which said, Delta Park. He stopped at a gas station and asked for directions to downtown. The man told him, pointing. Sam got back on I-5 and then crossed the Willamette River this time, on the Fremont Bridge. They called Portland “Bridge City,” the man had told him. He’d told the man he was a tourist. He didn’t ask Sam any questions. Just told him where to go. He was grateful.

            Then he was in the Pearl District, a sign said, driving along NW Johnson Street, passing Jamison Square Park. He found a parking spot at the corner of NW 10^th and Johnson. Across from the park. Many other cars were parked. No one seemed to be around. He sat there in the truck for a few minutes. He closed his eyes. He grinned. He’d made it.

            Sam had heard of the famous bookstore in Portland, Powell’s Books. It was supposed to be massive. Like five floors or something. Color-coded. There were stories of it. Myths. He’d go there. Buy a book. Some paperback he’d carry around with him. Wherever he went. How long would he stay here? Where would he go next? Who knew. It didn’t matter.

            He grabbed his little black pack. He unzipped it and made sure, as he did obsessively, that the cash was there in the double-sock. It was. He felt it, papery and thin. Freedom. He looked around again. No one. He expected sirens at any second, the police to descend. But that was paranoid.

            Sam shuffled out of the truck. He locked the doors. He had the key with him. He stuffed it into his pocket. He slung his pack over his shoulders. He started walking. He didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. Powell’s Books, he said over and over in his head.

29.

Laura had her back against the wall in Dylan’s West 24^th Street apartment. He kissed her aggressively. His lips wet her neck, his chin scratching her skin. His hands were all over her, feeling, exploring. Like always with him, she liked it and wanted it…and yet she didn’t. His mechanical motions always felt slightly predatory. Pushy. That was his style. He made her think of the Trump sons. It was as if Dylan thought she owed him something simply by dint of being a woman.

            “Baby,” Dylan breathed into her neck, tickling her. She felt his erection against her hip, bumping. It turned her on and yet she was distracted. He pulled his suit jacket off, then started unbuttoning his white undershirt.

            Her mind turned to a memory. She was fifteen. Her parents had taken her to Paris for a month. This was between freshman and sophomore year at the prestigious all-girls Catholic school she attended, St. Monica’s, in Russian Hill. An elite, college-prep institution. The best, her father always said. They traveled to Paris. Just the three of them. She missed her friends but she was glad to go. They stayed in a fancy hotel in the Latin Quarter, near the Seine, the river which flowed through the heart of Paris like a vein. She remembered the cobblestone streets, the narrow, twisting alleyways, the constant French chatter, the flowing, sun-drenched river, the little bridges. She walked around with her parents, but also explored on her own. They didn’t mind. She just couldn’t stay out too late at night.

            One day she went to the famous Shakespeare & Company Bookstore on Rue de la Bucherie, near the Square Rene Viviani Park. Where Hemingway and Fitzgerald had been in the twenties. She entered and looked at the high ceiling and the tall shelves of books. It was dusty and hot in there. Tourists were everywhere. When she saw the fiction section she approached. She looked for something to buy for her father. He liked action/adventure and Westerns and murder mysteries. As she looked at a few potential books, the sunlight beaming through the high windows onto the spines, she felt a presence.

            Laura glanced behind her. An older man, in his forties, stood there, staring at her uncomfortably. The man was thin, tall, wearing prescription glasses with small frames. He had a dark mustache. A green baseball cap perched on his head. The stitching on the cap was in a language she did not comprehend. The man wore black slacks and a white T-shirt. He had white Nike shoes on.

            “Can I help you?” Laura said, eyeing him.

            He smiled. He made her think of a man from the twenties. She half expected him to be wearing a top hat and to pull out a monacle or a pocket watch.

            “Just observing,” the man said, strangely.

            She remembered a wave of red hot heat rushing through her in that moment. Her face tingled. She wanted to leave. Who was this creep?

            She focused, and walked out of the store, avoiding his eyes. As she passed the front counter she considered telling the woman behind it. But she didn’t.

            Outside she walked to nearby Rue du Petit Pont and headed south. She had no idea where she was going. She passed cafes and supermarkets and bus stops. Tourists and locals were everywhere. It was loud on the street, the noise of yelling and talking and laughing and shouts and motors and wheels bumping along the streets.

            After a few minutes she calmed down. She turned, expecting nothing but strangers. But, to her horror, she saw the man. He was clearly following her.

            Laura panicked. She felt her heart thudding in her chest. Ok, she told herself. Ok. Just get back to the hotel. Hotel Henri IV. It was close. A quarter of a mile at most. Five minutes if she went fast. But then she couldn’t handle it—he was gaining on her—and she decided to step onto a side street. She moved west along it. It narrowed more and more and more. Surely, there must be a connection to other streets. But there wasn’t. It dead-ended.

            She turned around, her veins rushing, her pulse loud in her ears. She felt hot in her jeans; she knew she looked damn good. Men of all ages always noticed her. Even men in their thirties and forties. Older, even. But the older ones usually tried to hide it. Pretend. But she knew. How could she not? She felt it. Girls knew. Girls had radar. Everyone at school was desperate for her. The girls for her friendship and the boys for her body. She could move mountains.

            Just as she closed in on the exit, back onto Rue du Petit Pont, the man stood there, panting a little. He saw her and smiled. A yellow beat-up taxi rumbled past him, a few feet away on the wide road. Shit. Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t panic. He just wants to talk. He just wants to look at you. What was wrong with men?

            The man stepped towards her. He said, “Let’s go. Walk with me back to the dead-end. Be a good girl.”

            “What do you want?”

            He chuckled, glancing briefly behind him. He wiggled his dark mustache. “You know damn well what I want, you little cunt.”

            She was shocked. She knew she had an effect on men. But she didn’t know a man his age could say something like this. Do something like this.

            “Leave me alone,” she gasped. “I’ll scream.”

            “No you won’t.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a small handgun. He smiled. “Will you?”

            She shook her head.

            “Back,” he said.

            They walked together along the street as it narrowed and narrowed. He held her hand. She felt dirty and terrified. She felt like a pig heading to slaughter. She’d soon be pork. Why were men such heathens? Such disrespectful children? Such assholes? Biology? Her father was such a good man. All the men in her family. But every other man was awful.

            At the dead-end he told her to be quiet. He kissed her. He roughly felt her chest with his palms. He kissed her neck. His mustache scratched her skin. She squirmed but let it happen. She had no other choice. The silent tears zigzagged down her cheeks.

            Then she saw the handle of the gun poking out of his pocket. Her thoughts were manic. She glanced over his shoulder as he kissed her and saw no one around. No one would rescue her. She felt herself starting to numb out. It was a survival technique, she understood. The man started unbuttoned her jeans fly. Then zipped the fly down. He kissed her neck again.

            In a sudden move she snatched the gun from his pocket and aimed it at him. She stood back against the wall. Her jeans started to slide down her hips. She didn’t care. Her arms were out straight, her hands trembling, the gun aimed right at the man.

            “Now, sweetheart, be careful with that. Don’t shoot me.”

            “Fuck you,” she said, half blinded by her tears. “Stay here. Don’t move. Put your hands up.”

            He put his hands up. She zipped and buttoned her fly. She walked a wide berth around him. She walked backwards, away, toward the main road, pointing the gun at him. He still stood there with his hands up. She watched him and then stuffed the gun into her jeans pocket. She ran off, crying. Before she got to the hotel she dropped the gun into a trash can. She wept for a few minutes and then used the bathroom. She splashed water on her face. Calmed down. Drank from the faucet. Composed herself. And went into the room.

            She never told her parents about it. And she never bought a book.

            And now, Dylan reminded her of that man in Paris. And then, conversely, she thought of Sam. His softness. His inherent masculinity. His powerful vulnerability and fragility. Maybe that’s what she connected to. He was vulnerable and she understood vulnerability. How could she not: She was an attractive woman in a sexist, male-dominated society. Just walking around each day she encountered hungry men who wanted something from her and thought she owed it to them. And yet she didn’t hate men. Quite the opposite. But she also didn’t often trust them. And she picked the wrong ones. Like Dylan.

            They were naked now. On his bed. When had that happened? It was as if she’d blacked out for a few minutes. She glanced back, saw her beige bra on the floor, her pants and blouse. Funny. And then the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkling below, the Highline, the Hudson River and the glimmering yellow lights of New Jersey.

            Dylan pushed her, gently, flat onto her back. He kissed her mouth and cheeks and nose and then her shoulders and arms and slowly moved south, to her collarbone and breasts, sucking on her nipples, and then her stomach and her hips—which tickled ferociously—and her thighs and her vagina. He was eating her out! He’d never done this. Most men didn’t. Most men just wanted to get off and then sleep. Lazy fucks. Dylan had been one of the worst offenders.

            “Oh, ohhhh, ohhhhhhhhh,” Laura moaned, eyes clamped closed, mouth ajar, her palm on Dylan’s head. He bobbed back and forth. She felt his long, warm tongue lapping in and out against her labia. The deeper he went, and the slower, the better. She felt it rising within her. More. And more. Higher. And higher. The sea was rising. The waves were gaining in speed and size. A tsunami was approaching. Good God. Oh. Ohh. Ohh.

            “Ohhhhhhhh, God!” she yelled out, panting, half out of breath.

            He sat up, his chin wet. He grinned like an idiot.

            “Did you cum?”

            She propped herself up onto her elbows. “Yes sir.” She couldn’t help it; she smiled.

            They laid together up against the pillows. He breathed heavily. She felt like the man. His head lay on her stomach. She watched out the windows, seeing the city lights and the black river.

            “Don’t you want to cum, too?” she said.

            “No. I’m fine.”

            There was silence. She breathed slow. In that moment she sensed happiness. But it couldn’t last…could it? Dylan was Dylan. He must be desperate, trying to prove himself to her. Maybe he’d talked to a few friends. Maybe another woman had told him to be less male…less selfish. To make her cum and that was it. Who knows. She slowly, rhythmically ran her fingernails through his dark hair. He was so handsome. So perfect.

            “Babe?” he said, his head still on her stomach.

            “Mm-hm?”

            “You sure you’re ok?”

            Her fingers halted in his hair. Paused. And then started again, like a machine being re-plugged. “Yeah. I’m fine. Why?”

            He shrugged, and she felt his shoulder dig into her chest. “You just seem a little…distracted.”

            She laughed softly. “I came. What else do you need?”

            He sat up. He looked at her. She realized his eyes were edged with water. He said, “Do you love me?”

            She wanted to avoid the question, avoid his eyes.

            “Yes,” she finally said. “Yes, Dylan. Yes, baby. I love you.”

            And he grinned.

30.

It was a little before eight when Sam stood in front of James Langton’s front door on West 114^th Street. Cars drove by. He saw Columbia University across the road. He liked this area; Morningside Heights. He knocked.

            He heard rustling and a male voice and then the door opened and there stood James. He looked the same. White hair poking out of a blank red baseball cap. Blue eyes. Wrinkled, seasoned skin. Jean coveralls. His large body. He smelled like coffee grounds and feint body odor.

            “Sam. Surprise surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.” The old man scanned Sam up and down. “Where’d you get those clothes? They don’t quite fit do they?”

            Sam laughed. “Can I come in?”

            James opened the door wide. “C’mon in, son.”

            He entered and James shut the door behind him. It was semi dark in the place. Music played low-volume from somewhere; John Coltrane. He knew the song. Kind of Blue. His mom played it when he was a kid. She liked jazz. His father hadn’t liked music, which had shocked him. Still did. Who didn’t like music?

            “Coffee?” James said.

            “Thanks.”

            “Take a seat, kid.”

            Sam sat at the table, just like last time. He felt a little anxious. A little awkward. A little uncomfortable. But it was okay. He could trust this guy.

            A few minutes later James sat across from him and pushed the green mug towards him, filled with black coffee. The green mug said, Columbia University in white across it. Sam smelled the rich Sumatra, closed his eyes and drank.

            “How you doin?” James said, eyeing him across the table.

            “Where’s your wife?” Sam countered.

            James smiled. He sipped. “Tell you what, son. If you tell me the truth, I’ll do the same.”

            “Alright.” He waited. C’mon. You can trust James. Go ahead. He can help you. “Well. I met someone.”

            “You mean a woman?”

            That statement hung in the air for a while.

            Sam nodded. “Yes.”

            “Tell me about her.”

            Sam did.

            James slurped coffee and then looked away and finally said, “So you met this attractive, well-off twenties woman in the Upper East Side. She’s got a man. Probably some rich, resentful guy. And then the Trumper comes into the story. The racism. The scuffle. The gun. You and he go at it. A runner shows up and saves the day. You and her take off.”

            Sam drank. “That’s right.”

            “A-huh,” James said. He wiped his chin. “And now…what? You’re in love?”

            Sam shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But we’re drawn to each other. Some wild connection which seems unexplainable.”

            “Inexplicable.”

            “Huh?”

            James waved it away. “Nevermind. What happened after you got to her apartment?”

            He explained.

            “So she let you shower. Gave you her man’s clothes…”

            “Her ex’s clothes.”

            “Yeah. Right. Ex. Sure.” He swigged coffee. “And then what?”

            “We stayed up and talked a bit. About her. Me. The connection between us. The energy. The confusion of it. Me being homeless and her the opposite.”

            “And?”

            “She made me stay the night. On the couch.”

            “What happened in the morning?”

            “I woke as she prepped for work. She’s an accountant at Chase. I walked into her room. I kissed her.”

            Sam and James stared at each other intensely for a full minute it seemed.

            “Kissed her?” James said.

            “That’s right.”

            “So you guys didn’t social distance. Didn’t wear masks.”

            Sam felt his cheeks flush. A wave ran down his head and spine. He felt foolish.

            “No.”

            “You better get Covid-tested. Her, too.”

            “She said that also.”

            “Well it’s the truth, son. Be more careful. It was stupid, kissing her. You’ve got to think.” He paused. “Fact, you should be wearing a mask right now. So should I.”

            “Why aren’t we?”

            James shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m healthy. No underlying conditions. But I’m damned near seventy. We’re indoors. You live in the elements. On the streets. No offense.”

            A silence fell. For some reason he thought again of Zelda. The motel that day, seeing her on the floor, needle in her arm, the little stream of blood trailing. Ralph, that Aussie prick.

            Ralph stood there across the room from him with his switchblade gripped in his hand. Both his arms were out wide.

            “What are you going to do with that?” Sam said.

            Ralph grinned. “What do you think, Cowboy? Cut your fucking testicles off.”

            A wave of fear pulsated through Sam’s body but he approached Ralph nonetheless. Show no fear; that’s what his father had always said. Fake it until you make it. Pretend. Act as if. All that Boomer bullshit. Men can’t feel or show emotion. That was his father’s generation. And his grandfather’s. But Sam wanted to feel emotion. To show it. Rage, mostly, towards his alcoholic, abusive father, the violence and running away. The feeling unsafe. The resentment and utter confusion.

            They danced around each other, separated by the king-sized bed. All his stuff was in this room. Not that it was much. One bag, really. A few books. Some extra clothes. A knife. A journal. Some food.

            Sam glanced at Zelda but she was not home; her eyes were black dead marbles. Like a Great White Shark’s. It scared him. He’d never seen anyone high on Heroin. He was a straight drunk. He didn’t dabble in drugs. Not like Heroin, at least. And thank God. Jesus H. Christ. But he’d known what he was getting into when they first met. Junkie. Victim of domestic violence and sexual assault. A broken girl. Chronic relapse. Only four months clean. It shouldn’t have shocked him.

            Ralph leapt over a corner of the bed and came at Sam. Sam backed up and then, at the last second, seeing Ralph’s red, beady eyes, he ducked and avoided the swing of the blade. He dove onto the bed. Ralph turned, a murderous grimace on his face, teeth clenched, a rope of his black hair falling onto his forehead.

            “C’mon, Seattle Boy,” Ralph said. “She told me everything. A regular loser-drunk. Daddy used to beat your ass. A pussy-ass drinker. A punk. C’mon, did you really think a woman like Zelda would stay with a chump like you? Take a look in the mirror, buddy. You look pathetic. You look like trash. You look two notches from homeless.”

            Sam didn’t reply. He stood on the bed. Ralph came at him again from the other side of the room now, jumping up onto the bed also. The moment he jumped onto the bed, Sam leapt off again.

            They stood a few feet away. Arms out. Sam had screwed himself. He was on the bad side of the room; against the bathroom door, not the door to the outside. Fuck.

            “Babe?” a female, strained voice said.

            Ralph turned around. It was Zelda, sounding barely alive. Like a ghost.

            Before he turned round again Sam leapt at the bastard. Ralph tried to stab Sam but Sam held Ralph’s arm. They scuffled, half-dancing it seemed, moving back, now forward, now sideways, the knife in Ralph’s palm but his arm held by Sam.

            Sam knocked Ralph hard against the bathroom wall. Again. And again. Ralph gritted his teeth and groaned; he spit at Sam’s face.

            Sam knocked Ralph’s hand hard several times against the wall. The knife plummeted to the floor. Sam charged down and snatched the knife. He held it at Ralph.

            Ralph put his hands out wide. “Alright. Alright. We’re cool. What do you want?”

            “My turn,” Sam said, addressing James across the table. “For truth.”

            James grabbed both mugs, walked to the kitchen, refilled their coffee, and returned. They both drank.

            “Where’s your wife?” Sam repeated.

            James rubbed his index finger roughly under his nose. He looked off into the distance. “Alright. I’ll tell you the truth, kid.” He sat silent. He sighed loudly. He sat there, tapping his large fingers against his mug. He faced Sam, looking deep into his eyes. “I don’t have a wife.”

            “What?” Sam said. He must have misunderstood. “What do you mean?”

            “I lied. I’m not married. I don’t have a wife. I mean. I did, once. A Vietnamese woman. We met the last few months I was in Southeast Asia, back in ’71. She came to the States with me. We got married. Had kids.” He twirled his mug slowly. Water edged in his eyes. “She died a decade ago. Pancreatic cancer.”

            “I’m sorry,” Sam said. He considered how to say what he needed to say next. “Why’d you lie to me about it?”

            James looked at him. He pushed his chair back. Behind him was a shelf of books. He looked at the spines, found a blue hardback book, and pulled it out. He shoved it across the table. Sam picked it up. The title—hardly noticeable—said, Alcoholics Anonymous.

            “What is this?”

            “It’s the Big Book of AA.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            James leaned back against his chair. “Son, I’ve seen you around. I live uptown but I frequently like to walk around Central Park in the low seventies. Cause I once lived in that neighborhood. Near the Frick. My wife and I, for many years.” He paused. “She—my wife—had a drinking problem. All the way until the end. Until the day she died. She had me sneak pints of Vodka into the hospital. I guess it’s pretty sick that I brought them to her. But she was desperate. She was dying. She wanted it. What was I supposed to say; no?”

            “God…James..I don’t know what to…”

            “Anyway, when I started seeing you on the streets I just knew you came from an okay family. I mean from some resources. I saw it in your face. It was obvious. And then I saw you drinking all the time. Saw you panhandling. So I talked to you that day. Offered you a job. When you came that morning I knew I’d been right. You’re a good kid.”

            “But…so wait…you tricked me because you want me to be sober…?”

            “Sam,” James said, wiping his eyes. “My wife drank her whole life. I’m sober myself. I stopped drinking in 1986, when I was thirty-four, barely younger than you are. I’m telling you, son, it’s a better way to live. You can still change your life. You can still love yourself. It’s not too late for you, if you give yourself a chance…”

            Sam stood up almost without wanting to. He grabbed the Big Book. He wasn’t sure if he’d hurl it at James or at a window. But instead he held it, like a baby. He said, “I’ve got to go.”

            “Sam. Son. Did I insult you? I just want to help you. Give recovery a chance. Don’t you want to live?”

            “Everybody wants to help me. My father said he wanted to help me. I didn’t need his help and I sure as Hell don’t need yours.”

            Sam walked fast across the living room. He wanted to stay. He wanted to keep talking with James. He wanted to finish his coffee. He wanted to cry and be hugged and held by the old man. But he couldn’t do any of that. His ego, his pride had been poked. He had to run. It was his way.

            “Sam. Can I give you some money? Anything? Please. Sam. Come back soon. Anytime, night or day. Ok son?”

            Sam didn’t answer. He swung the door open and walked into the bright shiny morning sun. A new day of struggle. Suffering. Disgust. Desire.

            As he walked off, he felt James’s eyes on his back. He didn’t turn around. It was minutes later that he even realized he held the AA Big Book cradled in his arms.

31.

The next morning after seeing Dylan, before work, Laura went to her primary care physician and got the nasal swab for the Covid test. She realized—with sudden horror—that she’d been in close proximity with Sam and then had been sexually involved with Dylan. If she had it—God forbid—she’d never forgive herself if she gave it to Dylan, Sam, or anyone else. It was a three to four day wait for the results. She wondered if Sam had gotten his test, too.

            After work—Greg Torino hadn’t been in so she’d not been harassed for once—she decided to walk home, as she often did, along 1^st Ave. Two impulses surged within her: One, to go look for Sam, and Two, to call her mother. Where was Sam now? Part of her wished she’d told him to stay at her apartment so she could find him when she returned. She shook her head, smiling internally. C’mon. Really? What’re you going to do: Have this guy live with you? In what universe are we in here? And yet…she felt that profound pull towards him, as before. It was a force to be reckoned with. Magnetic. Even stronger than before.

            But, she thought, passing 63^rd and 1^st, seeing the traffic heading south and the Roosevelt Tram, deep in thought, letting people pass her by quickly. Everyone in Manhattan was in a rush to get somewhere, even when they were griddled by a global Pandemic. The destination didn’t seem to matter as much as the speed with which one got “there.” Fast: that was New York City. If you were old, or slow, or kind: Better move to California or the Pacific Northwest.

Dylan. She laughed out loud, gingerly, recalling their drinks at the restaurant outside, the brief taxi ride, him kissing her hard in the rising elevator, and then his bed, him eating her out, the surging pleasure, her explosion of feeling. She did care for Dylan. She did.  

            Laura pulled her iPhone out. This would be an uncomfortable conversation. She breathed slow, tried to be positive, and dialed her mother.

            Five rings in her mom answered the phone. She sounded groggy, as if just waking up.

            “Mom?”

            “Honey. It’s good to hear from you. What’s going on?”

            “Are you just waking up? It’s nearly 6:30.”

            Her mother yawned loudly into the phone; Laura heard her disjoined breath rush into the line. “Yeah. Late shift last night. I got home around seven AM. I’ll be back on again tonight round eight-thirty, nine.”

            “They’re really working you like a dog.”

            She pictured her mother shrugging. She saw her mom, tall, thin, her blond curly tumbling hair, like hers, some Nordic goddess, her starched white doctor’s uniform, a silver stethoscope around her neck, her bronze-colored coat badge: Grace R. DiLane, M.D.

            “Well, you know,” her mom said casually. “Not enough staff.”

            A silence ensued. An eighteen-wheeler pounded south along 1^st Ave near her. A siren cut the evening roughly.

            “God it’s so damn loud over there,” her mom complained. “Don’t you ever get sick of that constant noise?”

            “Yes. I do. Everyone here does. It’s part of the package of Manhattan.”

            “Just getting off work?”

            “Yeah. Listen. Mom. I’ve got to tell you something.”

            “Hold on, honey. Keep it light for a moment. Let me get caffeinated.”

            Her mom sniffled and yawned again. She heard her mom rising from her bed—the creak of the mattress—and trudging slowly down the stairs of their home in Pacific Heights and into the kitchen. She brewed a cup of coffee quickly as they chatted. Laura pictured all of it; her childhood home. Her room was still the same; her folks hadn’t changed or moved a thing. She loved visiting that house. It’d been almost nine months since her last visit, Christmas in December of last year. Three months after she got back to New York the virus hit.

            Mom took a few sips of coffee. “Ahhhh. That’s better. Ok. I’m starting to wake up. What did you want to tell me, honey?”

            “Well,” Laura said. “It’s awkward to bring up.”

            “You don’t have Covid do you?”

            “No, mom.”

            “Cancer?”

            “Jesus, NO, mom!”

            “What then?”

            “I’m fine. Healthy as ever.” She thought of her Covid test that morning before work. “It’s about…Dylan.”

            “Dylan? Are you being honest with yourself about how incredible he is? Honey, the man is going nowhere but UP. Follow him and you’ll never have to work another day in your life.”

            This statement surprised Laura, seeing as her mom was a second-wave feminist and highly successful doctor. The idea of leaning on a man seemed…weird, coming from her independent, self-supporting mother. Then Laura wondered, with terror: Did her mom think she was weak? Was that why? Did her mom think Laura needed a man because she couldn’t survive long-term on her own?

            “No. I mean. Well. Dylan is…amazing…in his way. We’ve been going on dates again, as I said last time we talked. But…”

            “Honey. Did he propose?”

            She blushed, feeling her cheeks brighten. “Mom. No. Please. Let me finish a damn sentence.”

            “Sorry.” She heard her mom greedily sip coffee, slurping. “Continue.”

            She sighed, breathing deep. She was passing 67^th. “Thank you. I like Dylan. Even…love him in a way. We’ve been on a few dates. Dinner, etc…”
            “Are you sleeping with him again?”

            “Mom!!!”

            “Apologies. Sorry. Keep going.” She pictured her mom smiling silently to herself. She loved interrupting her only daughter; she thought it kept her on her toes. Really, it just angered her. Already Laura felt like getting off the phone. This was draining. God: Parents were so tiring. They demanded so much.

            “Let’s try this one more time,” Laura said, an edge in her tone.

            “Alright, sweetheart. Go ahead. I won’t interrupt, I promise.”

            A beat of silence. “I met someone else.”

            She walked half a block with no response from mom.

            “Can I speak now?” Her mom sipped coffee and sighed. “I thought you’re dating Dylan.”

            Laura smirked. “I am. Kind of.”

            “But you met someone else.”

            She nodded, as if Mom could see this gesture. “That’s right.”

            Mom sighed. “Oh, boy. Ok. Tell me about this new guy.”

            Her throat was tight and thick. “You’re not going to like it. Dad especially will not like it.”

            “Dare I even ask?”

            Her tongue was positively glued to the roof of her mouth. She felt supremely foolish. What was she doing? Maybe this was all a bad idea. Sam. The kiss. Everything.

            She had to say it. Just blurt the damn thing out. It was like ripping a band-aid off a healing scab; the best way to go was to just do it in one hard, fast tear.

            She said a prayer in her mind, breathed deep, and said, “Mom. He’s homeless.”

            There was a long, deep pause. Silence. All she heard were the cars rushing along 1^st Ave. She reached 69^th now, having passed Sloan Kettering Cancer Hospital. A gigantic, two-piece bus drove by, the engine loud and billowing smoke behind it. A slew of yellow taxis burst by. It was dark out. The streets were half-deserted. Most wore their masks. Some didn’t. Her black velvet one was warm against her mouth.

            Her mom laughed. “This is a joke, right? Some prank you’re playing? I mean, certainly you’re kidding.”

            “No,” she said.

            She told her mom everything. The first time she saw Sam, on 5^th Ave. Their brief initial conversation. How much she thought of him. Desired him. Felt pulled towards him. Like a magnet. Like the strongest magnet on Earth. His green eyes, like a Central American jungle. How she fell into those eyes. How they made her feel safe, protected. And then the second time, that night, after Dylan, and the conversation. Sam at her apartment. Showering. His drinking. The kiss. She edited out the Trumper fiasco. Too much info all at once.  

            After, there was another strained, wide silence, as if a canyon had been separated, cut in half, by a twenty-mile gulf. There was a chasm which stretched beyond eternity. It seemed her mom was now unreachable.

            Finally her mom said, very softly, “Honey, I’m…stunned. Shocked, frankly. I don’t know what to say.”

            “Say you love me. You trust me. You believe in me.”

            “I…Laura…I don’t…I mean…Oh Christ…” She heard her mom quietly crying. It seemed a bit melodramatic. She got like this sometimes. “Was it me? Your father? Did we do something wrong?”

            She thought of Paris. Shakespeare & Co. The man that day. The dead-end alley. The assault.

            “No, mom. It’s not about you. Or dad. Or Dylan. It just…is.”

            Her mom sipped coffee. She brewed more, the sounds of the gurgling coffee grounds and then the water filtering into the glass coffeemaker.

            “Have you been Covid tested?” her mom said. “I mean Jesus, Laura, the guy lives on the streets.”

            “Got tested today. This morning. Takes 3-4 days.”

            “Tell this guy…”

            “Sam…”

            “Tell Sam to get tested, too. And Dylan. Good Lord, honey.”

            “What?”

            “This guy is a homeless alcoholic, twelve years your senior. He lives on the streets of New York City. Who knows what diseases he might have, baby. Who knows where he’s been, what he’s done.”

            “I thought you’d be more compassionate, being a fucking Doctor.”

            “Don’t cuss at me, young lady. And I do have compassion. But not when it’s a guy trying to date my only daughter. Jesus.”
            “Stop saying Jesus.”

            Her mom sighed, didn’t say anything for a minute. Laura arrived in front of her building on East 69^th and 3^rd. She stood there, not entering yet.

            “Alright,” her mom said, sounding exasperated. “Alright.” Long, high sigh. “So. What are you going to do then? You can’t see them both simultaneously.”

            “I don’t know. I feel lost. Confused. Unsure.”

            “And there’s no way for me to talk you out of this? Out of seeing a homeless street urchin?”

            “Don’t say it that way.”

            “Fine. But can I?”

            “I don’t think so. No. You can’t.”

            “God…”

            “Mom. You’ve got to promise me to talk to Dad. I know he won’t understand.”

            “Jesus. Sorry. I don’t understand. I’m flummoxed, sweety. You’re twenty-seven. Gorgeous. You went to an ivy league college. You graduated in the top of your class. You’re a successful accountant at a major bank. You have Dylan, a stud Venture Capitalist with everything in front of him…I just don’t understand…I just don’t…”

            “And what if I don’t want…any of that? What if the whole time I’ve been doing all of this for you and Dad? What if I was just doing what I thought I was supposed to be doing, and now I’m following my True Path?”

            “And your True Path is…what…dating a homeless man who lives on the streets of New York?”

            “Mom. You don’t get it.”

            “No,” her mom said, chuckling in a sinister way. “You’re right. I don’t. I really don’t.”

            A black Escalade pulsed by on 69^th, blasting gangster rap out of open, rolled-down windows. An Uber pulled up and dropped someone off. Next door to her building was a bar. A dozen people sat at small round tables outside, chattering loudly. She hated that place. Dumb working-class sports guys, all of them. Dumber than rocks.

            “Listen. Mom. I love you. I gotta go. I’m home. I’m exhausted. Long day. I need some wine. Kick my shoes off.”

            Her mom breathed wildly, letting it out dramatically. “I love you, Laura. I always have. Always will. Your father, too. Just…please…I urge you to reconsider this madness. I don’t understand it. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And I mean that on multiple levels.”

            “He’s a human being, too, mom.”

            “Honey. Of course he is. But he’s homeless.”

            “I gotta go. Love you.”

            “Honey, wait, let me say one last—

            Laura hung up. She felt angry. She jammed her iPhone into her bra. Stuffed her key into the apartment building. Entered. Climbed the twisting stairs.

32.

That day, after fleeing James’s apartment, Sam got Covid tested. It was free at City MD, the one Laura had mentioned, on East 67^th and 3^rd. He filled out the digital paperwork, signed everything, declared that he was indigent and had no health insurance, signed in, and sat down to wait. It wasn’t a long wait. They called him in fifteen minutes later. He followed the nurse into the room. She weighed him, checked his blood pressure, asked him a series of questions. He answered. She left. Ten minutes later the young Indian doctor came in.

            The doctor explained how the tests worked. He was going to do both the blood test, for detection of Covid antibodies, and the nasal swab, which tested for current Covid. It was a brief visit. The nasal swab had felt bizarre, the tiny, thin wire going all the way back to his brain, through his right nostril. Surreal. It made him sneeze. He hadn’t been in a doctor’s office in eighteen months. Three to four days for results, they said. He could check the results via the portal online or call the clinic, or come in and get the results. He thanked the doctor and left.

            He felt the urge to drink. It was around 10:30 AM. He had $28 left. A fortune, really. He stopped at a liquor store and bought a pint of Southern Comfort. The man bagged it in a brown lunch bag. Sam thanked the man and walked out.

            He trudged back to where he’d hidden his pack behind some bushes in Central Park near the Billy Johnson Playground, by 5^th and 67^th. He sat down behind the bushes. It was fairly quiet out. A few mothers walking strollers. A baby crying somewhere. Some joggers. It was tolerable in the morning and late at night. It was everything in-between that pissed him off. And yet it was also the swath of life that made Manhattan Manhattan. Funny, how people were contradictory beings. How they felt one thing which contradicted another. How they had such complex and disturbing thoughts, ideas, desires, fears. Human beings were infinitely fascinating. And fucked-up. And good. And terrible. And confusing. Life was confusing.

            He pulled the blue hardback Alcoholics Anonymous book out. He’d read some of it before, of course, in rehab. But none of it had actually been mentally or emotionally absorbed. It was just some book written by Bill Wilson and Doctor Bob and a few others from the Oxford Group back in the late 1930s. Bill, as everyone knew, had been a bad womanizer, he did acid on and off for five years, experimenting during “sobriety,” and, at the very end, on his deathbed, and begged for a drink. Didn’t that make the man a fraud? How had he become so famous? They said AA “worked,” that it “was the solution,” but the best statistics they had showed it failed most of the time.

            Sam propped open the Big Book. He unscrewed his pint of SoCo. He took a hit. Sunshine was arrowing down on his face now. It felt warm and good. He laughed at the irony: Reading the AA Big Book while morning-drinking. Hey: Why the fuck not? Ain’t no “rules” in AA, right? That’s what they always said. In the book he did remember it said, “We realize we know only a little,” and “these are but suggestions.” The founders who wrote the book each had only a few years sober anyway; what did they know?

            The sun continued to rise in the sky. Sam read “The Doctor’s Opinion,” about the “phenomenon of craving,” and then chapter one, “Bill’s Story,” which was all about Bill’s time in the War and then as an alcoholic stock-broker and seeing his old buddy Dr. Bob, and how Bob had stopped drinking and had “got religion,” and then about how the stock market crashed on Black Tuesday, 1929, men leaping from the windows of high rises because they’d lost so much money. And then Bill got sober and, slowly, he changed. He talked about the steps. About a spiritual experience.

            Sam stopped reading. He slammed more SoCo. It burned sweetly. He felt good and alive. The sun was hot, a lovely September afternoon.

            He screwed the cap back on. About half was left. He prepped the pack under his head. He wanted to take a nap. He closed his eyes. Immediately he thought back to age sixteen, running away. Portland. Leaving the truck by that park. Walking away. Heading to Powell’s Books.

            He’d wandered round aimlessly for an hour before asking someone where the bookstore was. They scanned him up and down. Everyone seemed to do that. He didn’t seem that young or that shady or that suspicious…did he? They told him how to walk there. At the corner of the wide, busy, famous Burnside Ave, at 10^th, there it was. Powell’s Book. It was five stories. Massive. A whole city block. He craned his neck looking up at it. A literary monstrosity.

            He spent hours in the store. He looked at the orange room and the blue room and the purple room and the rose room. He checked out fiction and memoir and biography and history. Museum guides. Books on antiquity. Ancient Greece. How-to books. How-to books for dummies. Comedy books. They had it all. People were jammed everywhere. There were a lot of employees. They all looked tall and attractive and nerdy and young, in their late teens, early twenties. Sam loved this place. He liked the smell of books. He recalled his mother reading him the classics as a kid. He remembered his mom telling him, before her nursing shift once, There are no rules in writing; you can do whatever you want.

            In General Nonfiction, he found a book he wanted. Henry David Thoreau’s Walden. He started reading. The introduction talked about how Thoreau was a 19^th century “transcendentalist” and a free-thinker. Walden, apparently, was about living in a cabin Thoreau built himself, off the grid, in the woods by a lake in Concord, Massachusetts. He was a slave abolitionist. He believed in freedom. He criticized capitalism. He loved the notion of solitude. Sam felt attracted to this. He bought the book.

            Outside again, with his pack slung over his shoulders, he wandered around. He had lunch at some small diner on Burnside, near the Burnside Bridge, and then found a sketchy, rundown pink-colored motel for $25/night. He got a room. They didn’t ask his age or even for ID. He handed over the crumpled bills. They did not ask questions. Nearby there was a strip-club called Mary’s.

            Sam woke up, totally alert, eyes wide open. He scanned around him. He was still behind the bush. Orange and red and gray were streaked across the sky. It was dusk. He heard some children’s frantic voices a ways off. The wheels of strollers. A yell from somebody somewhere. Cars softly rushed along 5^th.

            He sat up. He saw the blue Big Book. He remembered his dozing dream: Portland; sixteen; Powell’s; the Pink Flamingo Motel. Mary’s Strip Club, with the blinking red neon bulbs flashing outside near the blood-red door: Mary’s, Beer, Boobs and Broads.

            Sam spotted the pint of bagged SoCo. He grabbed it and drank. He had a powerful desire to go see her. Laura. He had to. He thought of her apartment. East 69^th and 3^rd. Apartment 2F. Yes. Yes. He smelled his arm pits. Not terrible. Not great, either, but not terrible. He still wore her ex’s clothes. Too tight; absurd looking on his thick, bulbous body. He needed to lose weight.

            He rose, stumbled a moment. He wasn’t drunk. He just needed some cold water on his face, Maybe some coffee. Some mints for his mouth. Liquor store. Gas station. Something like that.

            Sam yanked his pack and started off. Her place was only a few blocks away. He thought of the racist, insane Trumper. The gun. The struggle. The George Floyd comments. How the man had wanted he and Laura to reenact the Floyd killing. What a psychopath. What happened to that guy, anyway, Sam wondered. He must have been arrested. What about the runner?

            He walked into a Duane Reade. Bought mint mouth wash and peppermints, a Rockstar energy drink, and used the bathroom. Some places didn’t let you use the bathroom, due to Covid; some did. Cases were so low at this point it didn’t seem to matter much, really. Then again: Sam wasn’t an expert on Covid. He didn’t really understand exactly how it spread. No one did. Not even the doctors, it seemed. At least not completely.

            In the bathroom he splashed freezing cold water all over his hair and face. From his pack he pulled out an old, bent comb and used it on his sopping hair. He felt better. He used the mouth wash, swigged for thirty seconds, spit. Then he threw a few of the mints into his mouth. Ok. Not bad. Decent. Respectable.

            Back outside, he popped open the energy drink. He heard the half-empty pint of SoCo swirling round in his pack. He slugged the Rockstar. It tasted like nuclear horse piss. But he needed it. He felt rejuvinated. Alive again.  

            He arrived at her building. He scanned for her name. There was only one Laura. Laura DiLane. Must be her last name. Italian. He buzzed number 2F. Her voice came on: Yes? Who is it?

            But he wanted to surprise her. He didn’t respond. He buzzed her again. Yes? Who is it? C’mon, speak up! Dylan, is that you?!

            Again he didn’t speak. As he hoped, she buzzed the door open. He pushed inside. He climbed the stairs.

33.

Laura sat on her couch, a goblet of white wine in hand, her legs underneath her. She was watching CNN. The pundit was yapping about Donald Trump and his attempt at convincing his base that the 2020 general election on November 3 was at a high risk for voter fraud since it would contain the highest level of mail-in ballots in recorded American history due to the Pandemic. Then it cut to a video of Trump talking to reporters the day before about it. As usual, reporters clamored for the president’s attention, asking him hard, complex questions which he deflected with ease. She barely heard Trump’s grating voice say, “See that’s fake news…”

            Sipping her wine, she thought about the talk she’d had with her mother. She’d calmed a little, but it still pissed her off. What was her mom’s problem? The irony of her mom being a doctor, a woman you’d expect to have some compassion. Sighing, Laura shook her head. There was such a sharp generational chasm between Millennials and Baby Boomers, of which her mother was one. They didn’t understand. They never had. Everything had seemed encased in money when Laura was growing up. Class. She’d had that anxious class awareness which she hadn’t put a name to until she was older.

            This brought back a memory, rising up from her consciousness like billowing smoke. About three years after the Paris trip. She was eighteen. A senior at St. Monica’s. A month before graduation. Then it’d be holy summer, with European vacations, and car camping, and fun with the girls. And, after that, she’d work for a while before going away to Columbia in Manhattan, where she’d already been conditionally accepted. When she thought of college—and of New York City—she felt thrilled and scared. It seemed so far away, literally and figuratively. So…dangerous and massive and overwhelming. It made her feel like such a tiny microorganism in an endlessly huge human ocean. A speck of water in the River of Life.

            But, something unexpected happened. Four weeks before graduation she went to a house party with some girlfriends from St. Monica’s. They could feel the approaching warm summer air. (Though many days in San Francisco in summer were cool and foggy.) The party was up on Russian Hill. The house was palatial. Like her house. Bigger, even. There was a balcony and you could see all the sparkling San Francisco city lights below, as well as Telegraph Hill, the San Francisco Bay, and the steep streets leading down to the Marina. You could smell the salty sea, and the scent, barely, of fish.

            After she drank several beers and talked with her friends for a while they all slowly dissolved as a group and drifted off to do their own thing. She had always been a little socially insecure. A born loner in some ways. That night she wore tight jeans, Stuart Weitzman knee-high black suede boots, and a low-cut V-neck gray silk blouse. As always, she looked fantastic. Her blond curls rolled around her face like a lioness.

            Bored after an hour, not interested in talking anymore, she stepped out to the balcony. It was around ten at night. It was cool out now. She shivered. She’d left her jacket inside. She stepped to the edge of the balcony. Shuddered, hugging herself in the cold. She watched the city lights below, pulsing and sparkling like jewels in the night. The lights looked so bright.

            “Hey,” a male voice said behind her, pulling the sliding-glass doors leading to the balcony apart. “It’s cold out here.”

            She turned, expecting to see one of the collar-popped preppies from St. Monica’s. The shallow, smart, superficial guys she secretly loathed. She wouldn’t describe herself as incredibly deep, exactly, but she also wasn’t totally shallow. She yearned for something authentic; something real; something true; maybe, even, something mildly dangerous.

            “Mind if I join you?” the guy said. His voice was raw and edgy, slightly husky. He wore jeans and badly scuffed motorcycle boots. A white Motley Cru T-shirt covered his hard, flat torso underneath a black unzipped motorcycle jacket so beat up that it looked like he’d found it on the street. His face was pale and square and he had jet-black hair pulled back with grease. She smelled the pomade. He also smelled like Old Spice and trouble.

            “Sure,” she said, soft, timid. She laughed out of the blue, for seemingly no reason.

            The guy reached into his jacket and pulled out an unopened pack of Camel 100s. He smiled at her. He jammed the pack against his wrist five or six times, peeled the plastic off, jutted the pack, and took one. He offered her one. She didn’t smoke often, but she did now.

            They jammed their Camels between their lips. He lit them both with his red Bic lighter. She inhaled, taking the rough tobacco into her lungs. God it was good. And terrible. Her mother would murder her if she knew she was smoking. Drinking was one thing. In moderation. But smoking? Mom was a doctor.

            The guy slightly twisted towards her, after he gaped at the city lights below. She realized in that moment that he looked like Matt Dylan in Drugstore Cowboy. “Gorgeous out there, huh?”

            She inhaled, hearing a car rushing down below on the steep street. “Yes.”

            The guy smiled sheepishly at her again. He ashed over the railing. “What’s your name?”

            She stared at him for what seemed like a minute but was probably a few seconds. “Um. It’s…uh…Laura.”

            He sucked on his smoke, his pale cheeks arrowing inward. It made his face look like a skull for a moment. “Laura what?”

            Why did he want to know her last name?

            “Laura DiLane.”

            He blew smoke out his mouth casually. Now it seemed like he was acting on stage somehow. Yet so much drew her to him.

            “Italian, huh?”

            She smoked. She saw her half-finished red party cup, picked it up, and drank. “What about you?”

            He grinned, pulled a pint of Maker’s Mark from his inside jacket pocket, uncapped it, and swigged. He aimed it at her.

            She took it in her trembling hand. She uncapped it. Drank a small sip.

            She handed it back to him.

            “Laura,” he said. “Do I make you nervous?”

            She laughed. “Nervous? No, no of course not. Why?”

            “No reason.” He drank again, wiped his shaved chin. Then he said, “My name’s Todd. Todd Miller.”

            They shook hands. His palm was big and rough and calloused. She liked it. She knew her parents would disapprove. She liked that, too.

            “Where are you from?” she asked. “I mean. Sorry. It’s just that…you don’t seem to fit in here. It’s all rich kids like me from St. Monica’s.”

            “I know.” He sipped from his pint. “I’m the upstairs neighbor. Sometimes I fix Leo’s plumbing and toilet problems. He pays me cash under the table. Over the years we’ve gotten to know each other a little.” Leo was her classmate whose house this was.

            Laura ashed her cigarette over the banister railing. She gazed briefly at the city lights. Then she faced Todd. “How old are you?”

            “Too old for you.”

            “Yeah but how old?”

            He drank. “I’m twenty-nine, darling.”

            She liked that he called her darling…and yet another part of her felt angry by it. She had equal parts of her father and her mother in her.

            “I’m eighteen,” she said.

            His eyes seemed to sparkle like the city lights below. “That’s legal ain’t it?”

            The comment seemed sort of low-class and crude. But technically he was accurate.

            “What kind of work do you do?” she said.

            He faced away from her. He smoked. “I’m a freelance plumber. I help my older brother Bill around the city. I struggle but I get by. What about you?”

            She giggled absurdly. “I’m a senior in high school. Like most of the people here. I graduate in a month.”

            “Sorry,” he said, a flirty grin. “I guess you just seem so…mature. More like early twenties.” He paused. “What comes after high school?”

            “Find some work. Save money. Then Columbia University come the fall. I’m going to study Business Administration.”

            “Sounds like you got a solid future, little lady.”

            She blushed. “Yeah. I guess so.”

            A silence fell between them for a moment. Voices rose in the house. The sliding-glass doors rolled open, that metal-sliding-on-metal sound grinding in her ears, and three drunk St. Monica’s boys came out, stumbling, laughing, gesturing and cursing like sailors.

            “You got a cell phone?” Todd said to her then. He sucked his Camel brutally, his cheeks angling inward like paper being suctioned, and tossed the cig over the railing into the darkness.

            “Yeah.”

            He gestured with his palm. She reached into her jeans, handed it over. “What’s the passcode?”

            She felt confused; insecure; worried. He shouldn’t be asking her that. Her mother’s stern voice poked her mind. But she gave him the numbers. He added his name, Todd Miller, into her contacts list, and his phone number. He handed her phone back.

            They shook hands again. “Gimme a call tomorrow, Laura DiLane.”

            She liked holding his rough warm palm. He was tough and rugged and manly. A real man. Her heart leapt at the idea of a real man. And at the notion of pissing off her parents. Especially her mother. But she was also afraid. Todd seemed to symbolize mystery; adulthood; the unknown. That both scared her off and attracted her. A real conundrum. But either way it was exciting.

            “Ok,” she said, timid like before. “I will.”

            “Take care,” he said. And he walked off, just like that. As if she’d imagined the whole thing.

            Then her iPhone was ringing. She looked at the TV screen—Trump talking again, spewing lies—and then checked her phone. Dad. Shit. Mom surely told him about what was going on. She let it ring. And ring. And ring.

            Just as she was about to answer the call, she heard the buzzer for her apartment building door explode. Who was that? It must be Dylan. God, couldn’t he just calm down, be patient, wait for one goddamn second?

            It buzzed again. She spoke into the receiver. Nothing. Only the very soft sound of light breathing. Finally she just buzzed him in. Might as well get this over with.

            She’d let the phone ring into deadness. She’d call her father back.

            Then the knock on the door came.

34.

Standing in front of her door Sam recalled Zelda. The motel in Missoula. The knife struggle with Ralph. How he got the switchblade from Ralph’s hand. Zelda still lay there on the ground, high on dope. Ralph stood with hands up in defense across the room, on the other side of the king bed. Sam held the blade ominously at Ralph.

            “Listen,” Sam said. “I don’t care. You can have her, ok? She’s a deadbeat junkie.”

This statement hurt him to say and he remembered meeting her in the rehab, all the nights together on the boulders under the moonlight off in the forest, the night they had glorious, meaningful sex, the night they escaped to I-90, then hitching east until they got to Missoula and got this crappy motel room. He cared for her. He worried about her. But. She was fucked-up again. He was still sober. He didn’t need this drama; this bullshit. He had enough to deal with.

Sam gathered his things in the room, eyeing Zelda’s dead shark eyes and keeping the knife in the air, gripped in his palm, and his eyes on Ralph. He struggled into the straps of the backpack. He scanned the room once more. He wouldn’t miss the reek of latex condoms and piss and vomit and grease. Fuck this motel. Fuck Missoula. Fuck Zelda.

He walked to the front door. Opened it. Darkness came in from outside. He looked at Ralph. “She’s all yours.”

“I get my knife back?”

Sam laughed. “How stupid you think I am, Hoss?”

“My older brother gave me that knife. He O.D.’d two years ago. It means something.”

“Sorry to hear that…but so does my life,” Sam said.

He walked away, kicking the paint-peeling blue door behind him. He held the knife. He moved along the hallway. Down the stairs. He hid the knife in his jeans. He walked and walked and walked. To downtown. He found the shitty Missoula Diner. He ate breakfast at night. Pancakes covered in butter and maple syrup. Four sausage patties. Potatoes. Toast. Then he thought for a while, about the motel, about Zelda, about Ralph, he and Zelda’s love and plans. Life. Life was fucked. She was high. She’d relapsed. Fuck her. No, fuck the disease. Fuck addiction. He’d stay sober. Yes. He would. She was weaker than him.

He knew what to do. He paid his tab. He had the almost four grand, cash, from his work, in his pocket. He wore a warm wool jean coat. He buttoned it up to the top, re-tied his boot’s laces, and left. He walked another mile to where the freight trains pulled in. He knew where they stopped and headed east. He wanted to go east. Near the spot where he’d wait he spotted a liquor store. He felt like going in. Not for alcohol. For snacks.

Sam entered the store, opening the glass door. A bell jangled. An Indian man with a black turban and a black bushy beard stood behind the counter. Sam looked around for chips, candy bars. He felt the Indian man’s eyes following him. He was used to this.

Sam dropped the candy bars and Sun chips onto the counter. Behind the Indian man were liquor bottles, pints, handles. Without his own permission Sam mechanically said, “Gimme two pints of Sapphire Gin.”

Sam paid the man and carried his bag out with him.

He sat there and waited for a train. Several came but none were safe for riding. Either they didn’t stop or slow enough or they didn’t have box-cars or they had loading containers with no bottoms.

At last, round 4:30 AM, one arrived. It slowed considerably. Box car. Red cars that said Burlington Northern Santa Fe. He waited and waited, anxious, and then walked to the car and got in. He sat and leaned his back against the wall. The train slowly started up again, the tug of the couplings, gaining speed, heading east. He closed his eyes. He pulled one of the pints out. No chaser. Fuck. Was he really going to do this? Relapse? Right now?

He looked at the bottle.

Laura’s door opened and as it did she started saying, “Listen, Dylan, next time, can you please let me know before just coming—”

She froze, seeing Sam. He grinned at her. She stared at his eyes for a long moment and then scanned him up and down as if seeing him for the very first time.

“Oh. Sam. Hi. Please. Come in.”

He nodded and entered. She closed and locked the door behind him.

They stood looking at each other in her kitchen.

He tried to speak but she did too at the same time and their words awkwardly clashed.

“Sorry,” she said. “You speak first.”

“I dunno what to say. I just wanted to see you.”

She started to smile. “Put your pack down. Sit on the couch. Want some wine? Coffee?”

“No, I have Southern Comfort, thanks.”

He sat his pack down near her door. Unzipped it, grabbed his half finished pint. He stepped over to the crunchy leather couch. Sat. He saw CNN on low volume. Trump was talking. She came over, sat on the couch a few feet away from him, turning the TV off with the remote.

All was silent. She sipped some wine. He uncapped his bottle and drank.

“I got Covid tested,” she said. “This morning.”

“I did, too. The place near you, on 67^th, like you said.”

“Good,” she said. “We shouldn’t have touched. Or kissed. We should have…social distanced.”

He leaned back slowly against her couch cushion. “You’re right.”

More silence. Awkward.

“I called my mom and told her about you.”

He was mid-swallow of SoCo and he nearly spit it out, nearly choked on it. He finished and then wiped his chin. “My God. Really? Why? Jesus. What’d she say?”

Laura seemed to wince when he said Jesus. Was she religious?

“Well,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “She wasn’t very thrilled. I mean. You know. It’s hard. It’s weird…”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, Laura. I know. I get it. You’re a good person, smart, educated, driven, from a well-off family. I’m trash.”

She leaned forward, towards him, her brows furrowed. “You are not trash. Why do you say that about yourself?”

He shrugged, as if he didn’t honestly know. “I’m nothing, Laura. I’m a wastoid-drunk-loser. Why would you even let me into your apartment? I’m nothing compared to Dylan.”

Silence. “How do you know his name is Dylan?”

“You said when I buzzed you.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

“So. Let’s have it. You love Dylan. Right? Are you engaged? Married, even?”

The idea was so preposterous to her that she laughed, in fact howled with laugher. “No. Good GOD, no. Neither. He’s my boyfriend. Was my boyfriend. I dunno. We started going on dates recently again. But it mostly seems sexual and superficial. I mean Dylan himself is very superficial.”

Sam smiled. “I figured due to the insignia on the shirt…which I’m still wearing.”

He caught their reflection in the empty flat-screen TV. So odd, sitting near each other on the couch like that. From different worlds; different universes.

“Anyway,” she said, gesturing with her hands as if she were swatting a fly away from her face. “Enough about Dylan.”

“What do you want to talk about?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you still feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“The energy. Between you and me.”

“Stronger than ever. You?”

“Same.”

“What are we going to do about it?” Sam said.

She shook her head, biting her lip. “I truly, honestly do not know. I’m lost here.”

“So am I.”

He drank.

“Have you always been such a big drinker?” Laura said.

He glanced at her. She was looking right into his eyes. He didn’t sense any judgment, only curiosity and compassion.

He scratched his neck, felt the burning desire for more alcohol. Another sip. Didn’t she understand how much he needed it? No. Nobody understood that. Only other alcoholics.

He thought for a minute and then said, “I started when I was eleven. On a backpacking trip in Eastern Washington with my father. My dad had been sober when I was a child but relapsed and was a mean drunk until I left home at 17 to go to university.”

Her lips were taut and serious. She averted her gaze, seeming nervous, and then said, “Was your father...a bad guy?”

Sam breathed in slow, holding the air, and then let it out softly. He rubbed his nose. “Yeah. He was violent. Beat the shit out of me and my mom. I ran away three times as a kid. Left young. I was smart but I couldn’t focus. I got booted from college halfway through. Struggled. Worked dead-end jobs. Went to four rehabs. Fell in love with a junkie. Ended up homeless in New York. Here I am. I just couldn’t cope with life. Still can’t.” He gazed at her and frowned. “I bet your whole life has been smooth and easy. Perfect. Right?”

Their eyes caught. He desired her, but not like alcohol. More like that distant concept he never fully grasped: Hope. Something he could imagine but never tangibly feel.

“My life hasn’t been perfect,” she said.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It’s not binary. Everyone thinks in binary terms nowadays. Like you’re labeled either this or that and then it’s case closed.”

He placed the pint, nearly empty, on the coffee table. It rattled for a moment before finding purchase. He leaned back against the couch. He reached his arm across the divide between them and, rebelliously, held her warm, sweaty palm. So much for Covid testing. Chemistry was chemistry. “Tell me, Laura. Your story.”

And so she did. She told him. All of it. The palatial house in Pacific Heights. The wealth. The privilege. Her French nanny. Her parents being gone a lot, busy all the time. The creepy man in Paris who followed her. The sexual assault by her asshole boss at Joe’s Crab Shack. Todd Miller. Leaving for Columbia. Manhattan as a twenty-year-old. Becoming an accountant at Chase. Greg Torino. Dating Dylan for nine-plus months. Leaving him. The five month gap. Current times.

Sam looked off into the distance. He played with his fingernails. He stared at the flat-screen TV’s reflection. A habit of his, he realized. His left hand still clutched her palm. They felt bound. He faced her.

“So we’ve both been through bad shit.”

He rubbed her palm gently.

“Hasn’t everyone?”

“I guess,” he said. “Some more than others.”

“It was hard. All of it. But I’m not a victim. Not now. Not anymore. Not in 2020. I’m an adult. I make my own choices. I learn from my mistakes.”

Sam reached for his pint. He slammed the remainder. “I dunno,” he said, pulling his hand away from hers. He rubbed his palms along his face, burying his head. Then he straightened out and said, “I dunno. Sometimes I still feel like a victim. Ya know? Like my father: Fuck him. For beating me up. For turning me into a drunk. Fuck my mom for never being around. Fuck college for booting me. Fuck rehab for not helping. Fuck Zelda for…”

He started—shockingly—crying. Not loud. Not wildly. But gently. She shuffled over next to him and rubbed his back.

She spoke in relaxed, low tones into his ear. “Sam. That stuff you went through, as a kid: It wasn’t your fault. It happened to you. Everything happens for a reason. I believe that. But sometimes the reason is mysterious. Have you ever thought that maybe it’s time to let go of that pain, let go of the past?”

He laughed through his tears, shaking his head. “You say that like it’s easy. Like it’s no big deal. You’re a rich girl. From privilege. What would you know about letting go of the past?”

She detached from him and slid away on the couch. He felt her coldness.

“I’m sorry, Laura. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay. What do I know? You’re right. We come from different backgrounds.”

“We do,” he said, breathing, drying his tears. “But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong. I have made myself a victim. I just don’t know how to change. I don’t know if I’m worth it, Laura.”

She shuffled back to him again. Held his hand tightly. “Sam. Look at me.”

He stared at the coffee table.

“Sam.”

Still, he didn’t face her.

Gingerly, she placed her fingers under his chin and moved his head to make him look at her. “Sam. You are a good man. I know you are. I feel that. Trust me. You are way worth it. I wouldn’t be here with you right now if you weren’t. There’s something inside of you that is profound. You’ve got so much love to give. I see that. I sense it.”

He nodded, gripping both her hands now. “Thanks for saying that, Laura. I don’t know why…but I trust you. I believe you. I think you’re telling me the truth.”

“Sometimes people can see in us what we can’t see in ourselves.”

“You’re right.”

“Have you ever tried AA? I have a distant 3^rd cousin who does it. Worked for him.”

Sam laughed. He stood up, walked into the kitchen, grabbed his pack, returned with it. He unzipped it in an arc and pulled the Big Book out. He tossed it to her. She caught it and read a bit for a moment.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Old man named James gave it to me. Long story.”

“Think you could ever get sober?”

“I have before. I’ve gone to four rehabs. It never sticks.”

“That sounds hard. But could you do it again? For good?”

“I dunno. An alcoholic never knows. It would be incredibly difficult. I’d have to face everything I live every day trying to avoid.”

He sensed what she was really saying was: Could you stop for me?

She nodded her head slowly, placed the book down on the couch between them, and said, “I understand denial. Pain. Not wanting to look. Who wants to look?”

He gazed at her carpet, avoiding her eyes. “But we have to, right? We have to look. We have to open that door.”

“I think so. Don’t you? Someone’s got to look. Someone’s got to have courage. We can’t all pretend everything’s fine. We’re human. Flawed and weak and broken. All of us. Some are just better at pretending. Wearing a mask. Lying.”

“You’re smart, Laura. Wise.” He turned and looked at her. Her hazel eyes. That thick, curly blond hair. Her small, adorable nose and her thin lips. Her saw her swelling breasts pushing against her top. Her thighs and legs.

Like the alcohol he couldn’t seem to help himself.

He slid across the couch slowly, inch by inch. She didn’t stop him. He leaned down, kissed her. Her mouth tasted like peppermint and coffee and white wine and her tongue was soft and warm. He felt her cheek with his palm, then her neck. Then he was kissing her neck.

She took his hand, they stood up, and he followed her towards the bedroom.

35.

Laura led Sam by his thick wrist across her apartment to her bedroom. She didn’t feel nervous, strangely. They were being foolish as far as Covid. They’d both just been tested. Couldn’t they wait? But something inside of her pushed her harder than she could resist. Something beyond rational thinking, beyond reason, beyond common sense.

            They entered her bedroom. She was conscious of everything smelling so pure and clean, of lavender and lemon. Her bed so perfectly made, spotless. Almost military-like in its precision. She was so clean and ordered; he was such a mess. Part of her knew she wanted to “save him.” Wasn’t that a classic red flag when it came to dating? (As if homelessness wasn’t!) And yet: These feelings were not based on science or basic math. They were deeper than that. Primordial. Existing since the dawn of time itself. Something man carried in himself spiritually.

            She stopped at her bed and he kissed her. His mouth tasted like mints—too many—and mouthwash, and his tongue was loose and big and hot. He still stunk a little bit, especially from his pits. But he was much better than the first time. Anything was better than that.

            Then he was kissing her neck, biting it gingerly. She crossed her arms and pulled her blouse off. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. He looked at her for a moment, into her eyes, not even gazing at her chest, which surprised her. She unzipped her jeans and slowly pulled them down. Laura stood in front of him, vulnerable; naked. He took his shirt off. His belly bulged just a bit. His skin was weathered and tan. But she found him attractive. Less physically than emotionally, which altered the physical somehow.

            He unzipped his jeans, and slid them down. And his dirty underwear. White. She saw the ancient shit-stain and tried to avoid thinking about it. It didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered right now.

            They fell onto the bed, gently. He was on top. They kissed and he rubbed her clit. After a few minutes she was wet and he slid a finger inside of her. All the while kissing her mouth, her neck, her collarbone, her shoulders, her breasts.

            “I want you inside of me,” she half-whispered, panting.

            He sat upright, and then he slid his hard dick inside of her. He was big. Serious girth. Bigger than Dylan. Dylan was long but skinny. Sam was long and thick.

            Sam pumped but not too hard. They gazed into each other’s eyes. It felt incredible but, even more than the sex itself, she felt a deeper connection. The fact that she felt a connection at all was miraculous. That’d never happened before during sex. Not with Todd. Not with Dylan. Sam fucked like he loved her. It was making love versus fucking. This was a new experience for her. It was like discovering some new, profound truth about oneself, or trying a new drug you’d never heard of, and suddenly all the cognitive puzzle pieces fit together.

            She came, hard. He kept going. He never averted his eyes from hers for a second. It scared her, in a certain way. And yet she was pulled in; impressed. Sam was so intense. Not consciously, but just in the way he moved, the way his eyes were green and serious, how he struggled, how he fucked.

            Sam closed his eyes, panting hard, and thrust a little harder. He groaned and, twisting his lips into a sneer of pleasure, he leaned into her neck and came. They hadn’t used a condom. She had birth control. But, she knew, she needed to be careful with Sam. STDs. Not to mention Covid. Shit. Maybe she needed to get STD tested now, too. But she didn’t want to ruin the moment. Don’t think about it, she told herself. Just be present. Be here now.

            Twenty minutes later, lying on her bed, her head resting on his chest, silent, listening to the light rain outside dinking against the external portion of her built-in A/C, her hands lightly rubbing his stomach, she said, “That was incredible, Sam.”

            He slowly brushed her hair with his fingernails. His fingernails were dirty and too long. But what did it matter? It felt good. She wanted him to stay here with her forever. To never leave.

            “It was very good,” he said, in his deep-ish, steady voice.

            She saw his sprouting black hair. His tiny pink nipples. His now limp, flaccid penis.

            She flashed back to Todd Miller. She’d called him the next day after they met at Leo’s house party in Russian Hill. She thought of his scuffed motorcycle boots, his tight ragged jeans, his leather jacket, his Motley Cru T-shirt, his slicked-back greaser hair which made him look like Matt Dillon. The way he drank and smoked and talked. Twenty-nine. Jesus. She was barely legal. What did she see in this guy? He was working-class. Kind of crude. He seemed dangerous. And that…yes that attracted her.

            When she called he flirted with her in his deep, manly voice and told her he liked her. He said he’d pick her up down the block from her house. He lived in the Mission District. They were going to go to a movie, he said. She no longer recalled what film.

            He pulled up a block away later that night. She jogged to his car. It was a 90s Lincoln Continental; black and huge. The windows were tinted. The tires were white-walled. The engine was very loud. It had a flow-master. The whole body of the car jiggled from the roar of the engine.

            When she got in it smelled like pot. The seat was thick black leather and it crunched when she sat. She wore a short, tight skirt, low heels, and a gray suede jacket. A Saint Peter’s medallion hung from a golden chain round the rearview mirror.

            “Hey,” she said, timidly.

            “Hey darlin,” he said, and it somehow sounded edgy, almost aggressive.

            She turned, looking at him.

            He eyed her short skirt. “Yum.” He smiled.

            He slammed the gas pedal down. They lurched forward. Her head bashed against her seat’s head rest.

            “Where are we going?” she said, afraid now.

            Todd laughed. “Don’t you worry about that, honey.”

            “Can you slow down, please?”

            He was racing the Continental along the narrow, twisting roads around Pacific Heights.

            He grinned. “No can do, darlin.” He slapped the steering wheel. “This baby only goes fast.”

            She strapped her seatbelt across her torso. Well: She was in for an adventure. That was for sure.

            Her iPhone buzzing in her jeans—slung on the floor next to the bed—broke her free of the reverie. She had an impulse to ignore it…but something pushed her to reject that plan.

            “Sorry,” she said, lifting her body off of Sam. She felt cold all the sudden.

            She reached down, fiddled in the pocket of her jeans, found her phone, extracted it. Dad. Fuck.

            She stood up next to the bed. She stepped to her door. Opened it. She accepted the call.

            “Hey dad,” she said, trying to sound sweet and innocent.

            She shut her bedroom door.

            “Honey? What are you doing?”

            “Me? Oh. Nothing.” She stepped quickly across her apartment, seeing herself in the TV flat screen. She tripped on accident, grunting.

            “Are you okay, Laura?”

            Goddamn it. Ok. C’mon, Laura. Composure. Get yourself together.

            She stood in her kitchen. She pulled a pint glass down and filled it with tap water. She chugged. She wiped her chin. God that was good. Cool water after sex. Yes, please.

            “I’m fine, dad. What’s up?”

            “You sound agitated, honey.”

            She rolled her eyes. Breathed. Took a moment to collect herself. Leaned her back against the kitchen counter.

            “I’m fine, dad. What’s going on?”

            “Well.” His voice, that deep, thoughtful, banker-like flat tone. But it was a tone she loved; cherished, in fact. A tone, a voice, which had read books to her at night before bed when she was young. Who’d taken her and her girlfriends hundreds of times to Ocean Beach and the Embarcadero, to Alcatraz once, who’d watched films with her—their mutual favorite was Contact, from the 90s, with Jodie Foster and Matthew McConaughey—who’d been there for her when she was scared, when life had become too overbearing, even when her mother was pissing her off. He was a friend. An ally. Her father. “Your mother talked to me.”

            She didn’t say anything. She bizarrely craved a cigarette. Badly. Or ice cream. Sugar. Something. Anything to numb out. Maybe she could just hang-up and turn her phone off and claim later that her battery died. No. Her father wouldn’t buy it. It’d just make things worse. You have to face this, she told herself. You have to look. Someone’s got to have courage. Isn’t that what she’d told Sam? Stop running. Stop avoiding it. Face this.

            “Yeah,” she said. “Well. It’s true.”

            “You met another man?”

            “Yes.”

            “Who is not Dylan?”

            Lol. No shit, Sherlock. “Correct.”

            “And…this man is…homeless?”

            She breathed slow and deep. She turned around, seeing her closed white bedroom door. He was behind that door, on her bed, lying there. Was he hearing any of this? She hoped not. She tried to lower her voice.

            “That’s right, dad.”

            A long silence and then he said, “Laura. Help me out here. I don’t understand.”

            “What do you not understand?”

            Her father coughed loudly over the phone. “You’ve got everything, baby: Looks; smarts; an education; family wealth. I just don’t understand, is all. I mean: Why?”

            The problem was: She didn’t fully understand it either. And if she didn’t then how on Earth could she explain it to him. Or her mother.

            “I don’t know, Dad. I don’t love Dylan.”

            “Ok. Fine. I never thought you did. I mean, your mother thinks you do…or should…but I get what it’s like. Love is love. The heart yearns for what the heart yearns for. Period. Sometimes it’s a weird or bad fit. Just because Dylan is wildly successful and well-off doesn’t mean he’s the perfect fit for you. You’re a Queen, honey. A royal princess.”

            Again she rolled her eyes. Her father could be a little eccentric. He’d always seen Laura as some perfect, unflawed being, almost supernatural. No man, really, was truly worthy of her love.

            “Well then what, Laura? What is this? What’s happening? Tell me. Help me understand.”

            She waited. She walked across the room. She carefully twisted the knob of her bedroom door and opened it. There he was, eyes closed, chest slowly rising and falling. She smiled. He looked beautiful. A fire raged inside of her soul, deep down, and a wave of warmth rolled through her whole body.

            She closed the door, quietly. She walked back to the kitchen. She poured herself another glass of water.

            “Dad?”

            “Yeah, sweetheart?”

            Her heart pounded in her ears. Everything seemed to move in slow-motion. She felt all the blood in her veins around her whole body moving like little rivers.

            “Dad, I think I love him.”

            “This…homeless man?”

            “Sam.”

            “Right. Sam.”

            “Yes.” She started to cry. Very softly. Tears fell down her cheeks.

            “Are you crying, dear?”

            “Yes,” she said, her lips trembling. Goddamn it. Stop.

            A beat of silence and then her father said, “Laura. My only daughter. I love you. More than the stars and the moon and the sea. You are flesh of my flesh. Heart of my heart. I support you. Whatever you do. I just don’t want to see you get into something you can’t handle. Something dangerous. Something violent. Risky. What about Covid? STDs?”

            “I got Covid tested. I’ll get STD-tested.”

            Then, “Does that mean you and Sam have already…”

            She laughed through her tears. “Yes, dad. We have. We did.”

            “My God.” He sighed. “Honey. Just be careful. Homeless on the streets. Alcoholic. Your uncle Raymond was a drunk. Remember him?”

            She wiped her tears. “Barely.”

            “He died from stage four cirrhosis in the late 90s. It’s incredibly dangerous, alcoholism. Your mother knows all about it.”

            “Mom is going to try to stop me. I know she will.”

            “I’ll talk to her. But…just promise me you’ll be safe. That’s the most important thing. Maybe we can meet Sam via Zoom or something?”

            “Maybe. I dunno. It’s so new. God. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

            “Honey…maybe you need a break from Manhattan. I’d be happy to fly you out here. Stay with your mother and I for a few weeks, in your old bedroom.”

            “I can’t, dad. Not now.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “I can’t.”

            “Alright. Well I love you, Laura. Consider my offer. To come home.”

            “I’ll consider it. I love you dad.”

            “I love you, Lady bug. I’ll call you in a day or two to check in. Need anything? Money?”

            “I’m fine, dad.”

            He sighed. “Alright. Watch your step. Hide your wallet from him.”

            “Dad…”

            “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just…”

            “I know I know. He’s poor so he must be a thief, right?”

            “I’m just looking out for you, honey.”

            She gazed back at the bedroom door again. “I gotta go, Dad. I’ll call you soon.”

            “Don’t forget to ask Sam if he—”

            But she pressed “end” before her dad finished.

36.

Sam had never had sex like that before. With anyone. It hadn’t so much been about the physical part—though that was very good—so much as the emotional intimacy. He’d gazed into her eyes the whole time. He never looked away. He never wanted to. And in her eyes he’d found something so carnal, so sacred, so warm and forgiving that he’d almost wept.

            Now he lay on his back in her bed, propped by three pillows, her head on his chest, her hands playing with his stomach, gently tracing her nails along his skin. It tickled a bit. The sheets smelled strongly of lavender and lemon. He felt alive again. He hadn’t had sex in ages. And good sex. But this. This was something else entirely. He grinned, eyeing her sealed popcorn ceiling. He slowly brushed his nails through her blond curly hair. He loved how her hair smelled: Like the rich, clean lather of Pantene Pro-V. She was so good and he was so…tarnished. And yet: She had been through the wringer. She had good reason not to trust men.

            What would it be like to be a woman? Your beauty constantly praised and noticed and desired. The needy gaze of men every single day. Opportunities galore…but also resentment and abuse from bitter, angry men. Physically, men had the clear upper-hand. That must be terrifying. Knowing that each time a man came onto you he could, if he had the chance and he really wanted to, force himself on you. It was a man’s world, isn’t that what the song said. Wasn’t it true?

            Laura’s iPhone buzzed in her jeans on the floor by the bed. She seemed annoyed but she sat up, leaned down, grabbed the phone, glared at the screen, and answered it.

            “Hi Dad.”

            Here we go, Sam thought. She looked at him and shrugged, mouthing the silent words, S-O-R-R-Y.

            She stood up and, naked, walked across her room, opened the door, and walked out. She closed the door behind her. He heard her steps across the room into her kitchen. She talked to her father. The walls were thin and he could hear much of it. Not all but much of it. It was what he expected: Her parents were worried about her. Why was she getting involved with a homeless man? Sam was surprised she’d even told them. She must be very close with her folks. Lucky. Envy raced through him. He thought of his asshole old man. And his absent, codependent, distant mother who let it all happen. He thought about his cold, bitter younger sister, Amanda, in Portland.

            He also felt shame. What was he doing with this woman? She was a positive angel. An angel. He didn’t deserve her. And yet: He wanted her. Really wanted her. The sex had been devastatingly good. It felt more like soul-hugging. A warm, safe womb. That’s how Zelda had always described Heroin, like being in a womb…or returning to one. So: That was the conundrum; Sam couldn’t be with Laura…and yet he couldn’t not be with her. It was like alcohol.

            Maybe you love her, man.  

            The revelation hit him like a fist to the face. Wait. C’mon. Really?

            Yes. Really, an internal voice responded, with authority and ease. All your life you’ve been running. All your life you’ve avoided true intimacy. All your life you’ve only wanted to be seen and heard, loved and understood. Well, motherfucker, here it is. Are you going to throw that away?

            He breathed slowly and deep.

            Then he heard her say, low, “Dad. I think I love him.”

            She kept talking but he tuned everything else out. He smiled, wide, but he was terrified. What could he do with love? What could love do with him? For him? He was a wasted, fucked-up alcoholic. Doomed. Hopeless. A wreck.

            James Langton’s old, wise voice pierced that bubble: Are you sure about that, son?

37.

Two days passed since they’d had sex. She hadn’t talked to Sam in that time. But she wanted to. She’d received her Covid results via the online portal. No antibodies; negative for Covid. Thank God. A huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Of course they’d touched after the tests so it didn’t mean much. But it calmed her anyway. She wanted to know his results. This morning she’d gone back to City MD—it was easier than going to her doctor—and had gotten a full STD panel. Everything, including the HIV rapid test (negative). It was a 7-10 day wait for Chlamydia and Gonorrhea results. She felt better. Next time she and Sam had sex—if they did—she’d insist on a condom. Just to be safe.

            Now she sat at her desk, on her leather swivel chair, behind her little fake cubicle walls, at Chase, hearing the buzzing of phones around her, smelling sanitizer in the air from co-workers near her cleaning their hands obsessively. She wore her black velvet mask. She had her own little bottle of sanitizer.

            She’d agreed to meet Dylan at a café round the corner from her work, after she got off, on 45^th/2^nd. It was called Café Olympia. Outdoor seating, open until nine PM. He’d sounded desperate in his audio text message. She didn’t know what to do. But then again: Deeper down inside, she knew exactly what she had to do. And she wasn’t looking forward to it. At all.

            She opened her gmail account and started browsing. She was off in less than an hour. She’d finished all her major work for the day. Thank God. Just as she was starting to read her New York Times newsletter summary of major news bullet points, she felt Greg’s devious, predatory eyes on her. She glanced up.

            Greg stood there gaping at her like a lion seeing a gazelle. His eyes said everything. Fucking creep.

            He jerked his chin at her, his yellow eyes like a feral cat. His dark blue suit was tight round his big frame. “How’s everything going, Lore?”

            She smiled fakely. “Don’t call me ‘Lore.’ My name is Laura.”

            He chuckled. He stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “Testy testy. Someone’s in a bad mood.”

            “What do you want, Greg? I’m trying to work here.”

            His expression changed; his lips clamped down hard. “Can I get those contract loan documents ASAP?”

            She tapped her pen against her keyboard. “The ones for Con Edison?”

            “Who else?”

            “I’ll get on it right away. Not until tomorrow though.”

            “We need that transaction activity list, also, for this past month, to present our financial variance explanations to the Audit Committee.”

            She grinned, puffing her cheeks. “I know, Greg.” She sat back, leaning against her chair. She swiveled slightly in the leather seat. “Greg, why did you really come here to talk to me?”

            His eyes glared at her and then slowly scanned her up and down. He focused on her short skirt and her leggings.

            “That’s what I thought,” she said.

            She stood up. Walked fast to Greg. Shoved him hard with both palms. He stumbled backward and almost fell. He regained his balance and composure, adjusted his suit jacket, eyed her with lust and rage and desperation, and walked away.

            “Fucking asshole,” Laura mumbled loudly under her breath.

            An hour later she walked to Café Olympia. Half a dozen seats outside, simple gray metal tables and chairs. It was cold out. She wore her jacket. She saw Dylan, one of only two people total. He sat in his favorite: Back left corner. He wore his black suit as usual. He yapped on his cell phone. She watched his thin lips and mouth open and close continually, from across the block. The other guy out there sat at a table across the way, ear buds plugged into his open laptop, face staring into the screen, typing something on his keyboard.

            As she walked across 2^nd towards the café, her mind drifted back to age 18, jumping into Todd Miller’s Lincoln Continental that night. When he picked her up to go to that movie. Only they didn’t go to a movie. She should have known. The second she was in the car he sped off. Tinted windows. The black leather seats. Todd drove fast, like a madman. No one was on the road. Fog hung low in the air. San Francisco. He wore the same outfit as when they met: Leather motorcycle jacket; tight ragged jeans; scuffed black motorcycle boots.

            “So, what movie are we going to see?” she said, scared.

            Todd laughed. He glanced over at her and she thought of the film Buffalo Bill. He pushed in the cigarette lighter on the console. Waited. Pulled a Camel 100 out of the pack in his jeans. Grabbed the lighter, the orange coils bright and pulsing, and lit the end. He lowered his window down an inch. Fast rushing air came in. He smoked. He was silent a long time.

            “We’re going to Ocean Beach,” he said, nonchalantly. He dragged on his cigarette.

            “What? Ocean Beach? Why? It’s nighttime. It’s foggy and freezing.”

            He looked at her, showing jagged teeth, blowing smoke from his nostrils. He placed his big rough palm on her bare knee. “Don’t worry, darling. I brought some booze. It’ll be fun. Trust me, baby.”

            She didn’t trust him. The thrill of it all was still there, but the flame of desire and intensity was sputtering. She was afraid.

            They jumped onto California Street and headed west. They drove and drove and drove. Just past 41^st Street they bumped into Sea Cliff, Land’s End, where the caves were carved into the stone cliffs. They rumbled onto Clement Street and wound round Land’s End and then at 47^th Street he headed south at Sutro Heights, to Balboa Street and then finally went west one block to good ole Great Highway. Great Highway. It ran along the Pacific Ocean. Ocean Beach.

He pulled into a big empty lot. A van was parked a ways down, all the lights off. A couple slowly walked along the abandoned boardwalk. Other than that: Empty.

Todd cut the engine. She listened to it cool and click. Then he pulled out a pint of Old Crow, uncapped it, drank, and handed it to her. He wiped his chin. Rolled his window down a bit more. Cold air rushed in. She shivered. She drank. He snagged another Camel.

“Todd?” she said.

He looked at her, smiling. “Yes, my dear?”

She tried to not look terrified. “What’re we doing here?”

He laughed. He snatched the pint from her palm. “You’ll see, Darlin.”

Dylan got off his iPhone right as she sat down across from him at the small metal uneven table. The last thing he said into the phone was, Just get it the fuck done, John. Then he looked at her.

“Hey,” he said. He had a to-go cup of coffee steaming in front of him. “Want anything to drink?”

“Herbal tea?”

Dylan—like a true rich asshole—snapped his fingers and yelled, Hey, buddy!, to the waiter. The guy came over.

“Uhhh, can I just get some peppermint tea?” Laura said.

“So,” Dylan said, staring at her with his heavy blue eyes. She wanted to crawl into the fetal position.

She tried not to sigh. “So.”

He smiled superficially. She saw his perfect suit and his angular face and jaw and his eyes and his lips—eminently kissable—and his flat gut and his musculature under his suit arms. Ok, fine, as always, she admitted it: The man was hot. But: So what? What did he actually bring to the table? What value did he offer her? What depth did he possess?

“So…” he repeated. “What the fuck is going on?”

The waiter came over and sat her tea mug and little kettle down on a white plate. He nodded and walked off.

“What are you talking about?”

He sat forward. He scanned around them, making sure, it seemed, that they were alone. They were. He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t bullshit me, Laura. I see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes before. You’re not responding to my texts as fast. Last time when I said I love you you didn’t react.”

She felt her cheeks flush with fear. Her adrenaline rose. Calm down, she told herself. Relax.

She sipped her tea. It burned her tongue. Too damn hot.

She wavered, hesitated, avoided his eyes. “I…I don’t…I can’t…I’m not…I don’t…”

“Jesus,” Dylan broke in. “Just fucking say it.”

She looked into his eyes. Something inside of her clicked right then; something fundamental shifted.

“Alright, um…well…Dylan…here it is. The truth…I…” but she stopped again. She felt unable to fully pull the figurative trigger. C’mon, girl, just say it: Put the man out of his misery! She gasped for air. Sighed.

“You’re nervous,” he said. “Extremely nervous.”

She closed her eyes. Felt her palms shaking. She wrapped her hands round her hot mug of tea, feeling the heat. “I met someone else.”

Boom: She’d said it. At last. A huge weight seemed to be lifted off her shoulders.

She opened her eyes. Dylan sat back against his gray metal chair. He looked down, at the table. He almost seemed like he might be quietly crying. She couldn’t be certain. He traced mysterious designs with his finger. She knew she’d wounded him profoundly.

A full minute or so later, after total silence, he said, “Who is it?”

She breathed slow and deep. “You don’t know him.”

“How do you know?” Now he was looking at her in the eyes again. Rage burned in those blue orbs. She saw him as a scared, angry child.

“Trust me. You don’t.”

“Who is it? Give me a name?”

“Dylan. Let it go. I’m not going to tell you.”

“Who is it?” he said, more angrily, forcefully.

“I’m not going to tell you.”

He sat there, his lips clamped hard, trembling with rage. She worried he’d do something crazy. Then he stood up, shoving the metal chair behind him. He adjusted his suit coat. He pulled a twenty from his wallet, slammed it onto the table, and, hands shaking, buttoning the bottom of his jacket, he said, “This is bullshit.”

38.

Sam walked into the City MD on 3^rd and 67^th. It’d been nearly three days since he last saw Laura. He yearned for her like nothing else in his life; comparable only to his craving for alcohol.

            At the front desk he gave them his name and info and they said the results were in. The woman printed him a copy. No antibodies. Negative for Covid. He was in the clear. At least technically. Good. Now he could relax. Sort of.  

            Carrying his pack he walked to a liquor store on 3^rd—it was just before noon—and bought a pint of Jim Beam. He was down to $17. Still a lot for him, all things considered. He walked out of the store and headed to Central Park. He’d drink on a bench along the mall near Bethesda Fountain. Why not? The cops didn’t bother him there. Tourists didn’t mind. Locals pretended he didn’t exist. It was fine.

            Sam sat on one of the many empty green benches. He dropped his bag next to him. The trees were high and leaning over the mall. He saw the green hills across the way; Sheep Meadow. Young people sat around on the grass. Some tourists walked by, Boomers wearing blue hospital face masks. The sounds of children yelling somewhere and Jamaican guys playing Rasta music, some teens cursing and yelling while skateboarding. He imagined the cool green water down by the fountain. The statue of the woman and the angels. The floating boats in the pond, pre-Pandemic. The stairs and the tunnel where that lady always sang opera. He yearned for old times. Before the virus.

            Pulling out the pint he uncapped it and drank. It was wrapped in a brown lunch bag. He knew his hair was tangled and jungle-like. The sunlight felt good on his prickly skin. Last night had been cold. He’d slept on the ground behind some brush near The Great Lawn. He missed her bed. Laura. Laura. She loved him. Loved! And he loved her. Was that possible? Could he love someone if he didn’t even love himself? He didn’t know. But he knew the feelings he felt for her were real. Totally real. Too real, maybe. So real that he felt insecure, afraid. What could one do with that type of reality? Run? Drink? Ruin it? He remembered AA meetings in rehab when they said: Let us love you until you learn to love yourself.

            Could Sam embrace this?

            Sam slugged from his pint again. He thought of James Langton. He’d go see the old man. Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow. But not drunk. He wouldn’t go there drunk. James was sober. Sober for a long damn time. Why’d he pick Sam? Why help someone like him? A loser, a lost-soul, a degenerate? He knew that was the point in 12-step programs; to help people get sober. But still. James must have known that Sam was a lost cause. But was he? Surely. He must be. And yet. And yet there was that tiny little voice inside of him that said, LIVE, LIVE, LIVE. He drank. Wiped his chin. Goddamn it. He didn’t know. What were the chances of Laura staying with him? What were the chances of his getting sober? What were the chances of his reconnecting with his parents? Thinking of his father made him sick with rage. Violent prick. He could never forgive his father. Never.

            But that voice arose: You could. You could.

            An hour later he’d killed the pint. He leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes. He felt the sun burning his eyelids. He drifted off.

            He thought back to Missoula. Zelda. Ralph. He’d fled the motel and jumped the freight train at 4:30 AM. He’d had the bottle of Gin but he just stared at it and as the train picked up speed and it got really cold he put the bottle back in his pack. He rode for hours. He kept the train door propped open—he’d heard stories of people getting trapped inside and dying—with his steel-framed pack. He listened to the train wheels, that insanely loud metal on metal screech, and he burrowed against his wool jacket, tugging his beanie down and throwing his hoodie over that. He was still freezing. Cold air rushed into the train car. The maroon-colored steel floor was like sitting on ice. The train moved way too fast for him to leap off. He’d die if he tried. So he just sat there, shivering, his arms crossed, trying to stay warm enough to survive.

            A few hours in, though, he was so cold he needed to take action. First he stood up, unsteadily, as the train was barreling somewhere near I-90, passing golden fields and distant jagged eastern Montana mountains. He did jumping jacks for a half hour. It barely did anything. Unable to take it much longer, he snatched one of the Gin pints. He held it in front of him. He said the Serenity Prayer and then yelled, FUCK IT! He uncapped it and drank. God it was good. Magical. It warmed his belly.

            Sam sat down in the corner again, watching the outside pass. The sun was up. It must have been seven-thirty, eight in the morning. The yellow sun burned down above the fields. He drank, taking nips every few minutes. They passed a big green sign which said, NORTH DAKOTA. He felt like Jack Kerouac in On the Road, or like Chris McCandless in Into the Wild, or like some Depression-era train hopper. He sensed a meta-notion of himself. He saw himself from outside of himself.

            It was slowly getting warmer outside. The sun was getting brighter and higher and hotter. He was grateful. He tossed the empty pint out through the open door. He heard it clank for a second and then the noise dissipated. The train was really going. Must have been doing sixty-five miles per. Felt like it at least. Where the Hell would it stop? What if it kept going for days? He didn’t have any food except those few snacks he bought.

            He ate a candy bar and started the second pint. Now it went down easy, like water on a hot day.

            Hours and hours passed. At last, the train began to slow, a little bit, then a little more. Rumbling, trembling, the train came to a halting, jolting stop. He heard the creaking of the steel, the tugging of the couplings between cars. All he could see were long golden fields. A highway cut through it all. A few cars rushed past.

            He slung his pack on. Jutted his head out. Looked both ways. It was a very long train. He didn’t see anybody. Good. He jumped off onto the gray and white pebbles by the tracks. He turned and saluted the train. Thanks, buddy.

            Then he walked to the road. He picked a direction. East. Of course. East. Forty-five minutes later a red Chevy truck pulled over and picked him up. An old white-haired, bearded man. He got in. It smelled like gasoline and fast-food and cigars inside.

            “Where are we?” Sam said, first thing.

            The man smiled. “Don’t know where you are, son?”

            Sam shook his head. “Caught a freight back in Missoula.”

            The man laughed loudly, his pregnant belly jiggling. His gray faded T-shirt said Johnston and Douglas Tractors: We Got what You Need. “Well you ain’t in Montana no more, son. You’re in Jamestown, in Southeastern North Dakota.”

            “Damn. I knew I rode a while. Didn’t realize I’d gone that far.”

            “Well. Son. Where you want to go?”

            Sam considered it for a moment and then said, “Know anywhere I can camp?” It was summer. Why not? He didn’t have a tent but it didn’t matter. It was warm.

            “Sure thing, son.”

            The man swiveled the manual gear shift and they gurgled back onto the road. He saw a sign saying they were on Interstate-94.

            Sam woke with a start. Eyes open wide. Alert. He saw his black bag next to him. His almost finished pint of Jim Beam still clutched in his palm. It was nearly dusk. He checked his watch. It was 5:13. He yawned, arms outstretched. Some tourists were wandering lazily. He heard the noise of skateboard wheels still rushing along asphalt. Once, when he was in his teens, he gotten into skateboarding. He and a few buddies. But he faded out of it.

            The image of his father flashed in his mind, the black mustache and piercing gray eyes, the man’s knobby fists punching Sam in the stomach, the thigh, the back, the head. Prick. He uncapped the bottle and glugged down the rest.

            Laura. He wanted to see Laura. He yearned for her so bad it was almost unstoppable.

            He strapped his pack on. Walked to the recycling. Dropped the empty pint in. He walked east across the park. He figured she got off work around 5:30, 6. Not too long. He’d get something to eat real quick, get another pint, and then head to her place. He’d be broke after this. Fine. He’d go see James.

            At nearly seven he walked down East 69^th. He felt full. He’d eaten a burger and fries. He had a fresh pint of SoCo 100-proof in his pack and he heard it clinking against something. He stopped at her apartment building door. He hadn’t noticed the bar next to her place. He had no money left; he’d spent it all now. To eat and drink. To live. Survive. He did what he had to do. Just like everyone else. Yet he felt pulled to the bar.

            He scrolled down the names and found Laura DiLane. He felt buzzed. His whole body beamed with radiant energy.

            Right before he buzzed her apartment—2F—a male voice behind him said, “Who the fuck are YOU?”

            He turned around. It was a tall, thin man in a dark black suit. Hands stuffed into his pants pockets. A square jaw, beaming blue eyes. Flat stomach. Muscular arms defined under the suit jacket. His gaze looked nearly murderous.

            “Me?” Sam said, pointing to himself. The guy couldn’t possibly have meant him.

            “No, the other guy next to you,” the man said. “Yes, you, asshole.”

            Sam stood up as erect as he could. Still the man was three, four inches taller. Sam felt he could take the guy. Rich boy. Then it hit him like a ton of bricks to the head.

            “I’m Sam,” he said. “Sam Bouchard.”

            The man unstuffed his hands from his pockets, balled fists at his side. “Yeah? Well I’m Dylan Lansky and I’m Laura’s fucking man. You got that, punk?”

39.

Laura lay on her bed, her window open letting in the cool air and the noises of East 69^th and Third Ave. Honking. Big-rig trucks’ engines down-shifting. Distant yells. Clips of random chattering from passersby. Some vague construction. A siren cutting through the evening air.

            God, she couldn’t handle men anymore. Her father was good. But that was about it. And Sam, of course. Definitely, most importantly, Sam. But then there was fucking Greg Torino. And Dylan. The men from her past. She would never forget Todd Miller. Todd. Freaking. Miller.

            That night after he parked his Lincoln Continental at Ocean Beach in the deserted lot they jumped out and walked along the boardwalk. When they bumped into Lincoln Ave, she followed him west into the sand dunes towards the sea. The waves were small that night, she recalled. The sound of lazy, gentle white wash crashed, thundering up onto shore. The tide was rising. She smelled the fishy, salty air. Felt the cold on-shore breeze. She didn’t speak. She was worried. She wrapped her jacket tightly around her torso. What were they doing?

            Todd crawled up a big sand dune. She followed, scrambling. She was panting. At the top there was green grass. She gazed behind them seeing the sparkling lights of the Sunset neighborhood, and, in the far distance, Coit Tower and North Beach and downtown. San Francisco in all its glory. She looked up Lincoln Ave; it stretched on and on and on. They were sitting now.

            They faced the rough sea. Ocean Beach was known to drown people. The waves often became large and intense, and the undertow was legendary. Yet it seemed relatively manageable now. As strands of her hair blew in the wind, and she shivered more, Laura stared at that ocean and thought, Life is like the sea; you get pulled in and you drown. Eventually we all experience this. Sometimes she could be morbid. She could think about death. Who didn’t?

            Todd pulled the pint of Old Crow out. His leather jacket crunched. He watched the ocean, uncapped the bottle, and swigged deeply. He handed it to her. She took it. She sipped. He gave her a Camel. He poked one between his own lips. He lit them with a silver Zippo, his thumb clanking the metal roller.

            “So,” he said, in his deep, scratchy, working-class voice. “Columbia University soon, huh?”

            She nodded in the semi-darkness. A half moon, pale and glowing, beamed down on them from above. The moon sliced a pale knife image on the calm outer sea.

            “Yeah,” she said.

            He looked at her. He glugged, suppressing a wild burp. He looked like a hot young biker, without the beard or fat body. One day, she thought, he probably would look like that.

            He eyed his cigarette, then sucked on it. She watched the orange dot in the darkness. “Are you scared of me, Laura?”

            She felt herself blush and was glad he couldn’t fully see her face.

            She inhaled her tobacco and considered how to respond.

            Before she could speak he said, “It’s ok. Tell the truth, darlin’. Truth is always better.”

            She hesitated and then said, “I think you’re…exciting. Dangerous, maybe.”

            He wiped his nose with his leather jacketed arm. “Yeah?” He drank and passed the pint. “I am dangerous. If I want to be.”

            She wasn’t sure what to say. The attraction she felt for him played hard against her fear. God, her mother would be devastated if she saw all this. Lower-class semi-criminal type guy. Drinking. Smoking. Alone with this man eleven years older than her at Ocean Beach. Her folks had been told she was meeting up with her best friend Rachel.

            Out of the blue Todd said, “I went to prison. Soledad, couple hours south of here. Two years, four months and five days.”

            She was scared. But it was kind of…hot too. “What did you do?”

            The crash of white water seemed to get louder in that moment. She wanted to leave. Run off. Have sex with this guy. Could she do all of it at the same time? Why was life always about choices? Why were there always so many inherent contradictions in life? Why couldn’t things be simpler? Some things were just irresistible.

            He sucked hard on his Camel. His cheeks angled inward. He looked at her. “I stabbed a guy. Fourteen times. In a bar brawl near Bakersfield. Fucking guy was hitting on my girl. Gloria. I told him to leave her alone. He wouldn’t. I kept warning him. I had a small hunting knife sheathed in my boot. I took that knife everywhere. Never used it until that night. Anyway when he did it yet again I pulled the blade out and got him.”

            Laura was stunned. She felt totally calm somehow, but the fear was rising from her solar plexus slowly up to her eyes.

            “Did he…”

            Todd drank. He flicked the Camel away with his fingers—just a nub now—and lit a new one. “Naw. If he’d of died I’d of done life. Miraculously, cause a bunch of the cuts were to his thighs and shoulders and arms…he survived. He had to do serious surgery…but he lived. Thank God. I say that only for my sake. Part of me wished he’d died. Piece of shit. I got five years for third-degree murder. I did two years and four months and five days.”

            A long silence began. The clouds were big and billowy and gray above. The moon shone down brightly. She watched the sea.

            “What happened to Gloria?”

            Todd faced her. “She came and saw me a couple times. She cried. Then she stopped coming. I let her go. I couldn’t blame her. When I got out I resolved to start my life over. Hell, I was only twenty-two when it happened. Seven years ago now.”

            She looked at Todd. His eyes were fierce and manic. He was so…absurd and hot and messed-up. Why did that turn her on? Bad boys. Her mom had warned her about that type of man. The rebel. The lower-class ruffian. It never works out, her mother had said.

            “And…did you?”

            “Did I what?” Todd said.

            “Change your life? When you got out?”

            He laughed. His white teeth gleamed against the moonlight. The pint was in his right hand near her. He said, “I was twenty-four-and-a-half when I got out. Shit. Still a kid. No offense.”

            “None taken.”

            He drank. “I dunno. I did some short stints in jail after that for minor things but I ain’t been to prison since. I drank too much. Still do. But. You know. That’s how it goes. Could be worse.”

            Todd stared at her. His hands trembled. He scooted near her, leaned over, kissed her lips. His mouth reeked of Old Crow and tobacco. But she had to admit: She liked it.

            When they detached Todd said, “Laura?”

            “Yeah?”

            “Will you be my woman?”

            She laughed uncomfortably. “I’m leaving in six months. For New York.”

            “Well. Until then.”

            He leaned in once more and they kissed for a solid minute, deep and warm and wet.

            “Alright,” she said, not really knowing what she was saying. “Alright.”

            And then, Laura thought, still lying on her bed, there was now. Sam. He was so different from any man she’d known. Todd, certainly. But also Dylan. Her past had always been either bad boys, assholes or rich men who treated her like an object. Here, for the first time, was a kind man. A deep man. An intelligent man. A man who actually had morals and cared about life. About her. Ironic, huh? Although clearly Sam lacked self-love. Could he transcend that? Could he get sober? Could she help him? Should she?

            Then she started coughing. Her throat felt thick and tight and she felt phlegm and mucus rising up. She jumped off her bed. Walked to her kitchen. Spat gobs of thick mucus into her sink. Ugh. Nasty. She felt a wave of heat rising in her body. Her breath became short. She was struggling suddenly to breathe.

            She felt her throat. Ok, ok, calm down Laura. It’s just your Cystic Fibrosis. Or a panic attack. Or both.

40.

Sam stood there looking at Dylan. “What do you want?”

“I want you to stay the fuck away from my girl, that’s what I want.”

Sam stared at the guy for a moment without speaking. The people at the bar next door were loud and chattering, a constant languid buzz of noise. He turned around, as if he were just going to ignore the guy and buzz her anyway. Go into her apartment. See her. God he yearned for her. All of her. Her body, yes. But more so her wise voice. Her eyes. Her smell. He loved the way he thought and felt about life when he was with her. They didn’t even have to talk. They could just be together. It was a miracle. It felt like his whole life had led him to this place, to this woman.

Flipping back round again, eyeing Dylan, who still stood there in the same pose, hands balled, Sam said, “I can’t do that.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard what I said.”

They ogled each other for a whole minute, neither saying a word. And then Dylan said, “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Just follow me. I have a proposition for you.”

Sam hesitated. But then he walked behind Dylan, who strutted west along East 69^th, towards third. Dylan waved a yellow taxi down; he pulled a blue hospital face mask from his back pocket and slung it over his mouth and nose. Reaching into his front pocket Sam did the same. They slid into the back of the taxi. It smelled like musty, beat-up, torn leather.

Dylan adjusted his suit jacket. “I had a guy follow you. He waited all day. You’re homeless. Thirty-nine. From Seattle. Sleep around Central Park on the Upper East Side. Father owns a heating and plumbing business. Mom is a retired nurse.”

“How the fuck do you know all this stuff?”

Dylan grinned, crossing his black-suited legs. “I have money, Sam. Resources.”

Sam wondered if this taxi worked for Dylan, too. How powerful was this guy? What could he do? Run him out of town? Have him killed? No. C’mon. Calm down.

“See these shoes?” Dylan said.

Sam nodded.

“These are Santonis. Italian. They cost $3,600.”

“Congratulations.”

Dylan said, “How much will it cost you?”

“What do you mean?”

The taxi slowed, stopping at a red light at 3^rd and 74^th. Dylan rolled his window down an inch. Sam did the same. The cool September air rushed in.

“How much can I pay you to leave her alone?”

“What?”

“Oh c’mon. Cut the shit, Sam. You’re pathetic. Almost forty. Living on the streets. You reek like trash. You’re a failure, man. Laura’s a good girl. She’s smart. Successful. From a good, wealthy family. Don’t ruin her life just because yours ain’t worth a damn.”

            Sam stared deeply into Dylan’s blank, dead eyes, those blue clear crystal orbs. It was like looking into an abyss which never ended. There wasn’t anything there.

            “You may be right,” Sam said. The taxi rumbled as it drove over a pothole. “Then again. You may be wrong.”

            Dylan chuckled ominously. “Let’s end this bullshit. C’mon. What do you want? Five hundred? A thousand?”

            Dylan pulled a green-rubber-banded half brick of crisp bills out of his inner suit jacket pocket. He set it down between them on the black leather seat. Sam gazed ahead and caught eyes with the driver in the rearview mirror. The driver held his gaze momentarily and then quickly looked away. The man’s eyes seemed to say, Take the money you idiot.

            “That’s five grand,” Dylan said. “More money than you’ve probably ever seen before.” He leaned closer to Sam and, the creased vertical line down Dylan’s mask tightening and widening as he spoke, he said, “It’s all yours, buddy, if you just walk away and get lost. Pretend you never met her. Go back to your shitty life sleeping on benches and drinking like the bum you are.”

            Dylan retreated to his seat. He sat back. A smirk appeared on his lips. Then a minor smile.

            “I don’t want your fucking money, Dylan.”

            Dylan faced him again. His eyes squinted. “Then…what? You want me to buy you a fucking car? Rent you an apartment? What? What do you want?”

            “My God. You are so desperate. Now who’s the pathetic one? You can buy your way into or out of anything. Can’t you? Probably have done that your whole spoiled, rich-kid life. Daddy did it for you before you could do it for yourself. Like Donald Trump. And now there’s this. Laura. Your ‘woman,’ as you say. And you can’t buy her love. You can’t buy your way into her life. You can’t get rid of her real man. You and I speak different languages, that’s all. I speak morality. Ethics. You speak money. Well, fuck your money. Money isn’t real. Money is a delusion. You’re a delusion. Your whole goddamn life is a delusion.”

            Dylan glared at him with so much anger, rage and heat that Sam felt scared for a moment. Again that thought: What was this man capable of?

            “You’re her real man you say?” Now it seemed as if Dylan was on the verge of crying.

            “That’s right.”

            “Have you…”

            “Yep. A few days ago. On her bed.”

            Dylan went pale in the cheeks. “You slept…with…my…woman?”

            Sam unexpectedly felt sorry for the guy. He could imagine being in his shoes right now and it couldn’t be nice. But he didn’t feel that bad.

“She doesn’t love you,” Sam said. “She told me that. She called you her ex. She thinks you’re a fucking creep.”

Dylan gaped at Sam with pure wrath. Again Sam worried. This guy seemed capable of bad things. From now on Sam would have to watch his back. Dylan snatched his half brick of money. Placed it back into his inner suit jacket pocket.

“Stay away from Laura,” Dylan said.

“No fucking way.”

Dylan glared at Sam again. He looked threatening. “I said, stay the FUCK away from her, asshole.” That’s when the tears came, arrowing down Dylan’s cheeks.

“Drop me off,” Sam yelled to the taxi driver.

The taxi slowed and pulled over onto the shoulder at 89^th and Third Ave. Sam jumped out. Before he shut the door he glanced back one last time at Dylan and said, “Look, man. I’m sorry. But she doesn’t love you anymore. She loves me. Let her go.”

Dylan inhaled a big batch of air, held it, and slowly released, sighing. He shook his head. Pointing a finger at Sam he said, “You better be careful, man. I know people.”

Dylan shut Sam’s door from inside and the taxi lurched back onto 3^rd.

41.

Laura leaned against her kitchen counter, struggling to breathe fully. She could still breathe but it was a fight. She tried to slow her breathing down, to take in big, wide gulps of air, hold it, and then slowly breathe out. It was the Cystic Fibrosis. Fucking genetics. She walked into her bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the prescribed bottle of Penicillin. She pressed down on the cap, twisted it open, and lifted. Dropping two into her palm she swallowed them and drank greedily like a cat from the water faucet.

            A few minutes went by. She was still struggling to get enough air but the fear was very gradually dissipating. Then her apartment ringer buzzed. Maybe it was Sam.

            She stepped to the intercom. Pressed the button. “Yes?”

            “It’s Dylan. Let me in.”

            “Listen the time is bad. What do you need?”

            “Let. Me. In. Now.”

            “Dylan, why don’t you just—”

            “Laura, I swear to Christ. If you don’t let me in right this second I swear I’ll—”

            Rolling her eyes, already exhausted, she buzzed him in.

            Dylan knocked hard on her door. She opened it. She was still getting short breaths, trying to gulp down air. She coughed.

            As if he didn’t seem to notice, Dylan barreled into her apartment. She shut the door behind him.

            Before she had a chance to speak he stepped into her kitchen, turned, leaned against the sink, and said, anger dripping from his tone, “I want you to stop seeing Sam. Right this second.”

            She stood by her door. She scrunched her brows. “How do you know his name?”

            “I had him followed. After you told me. I paid a guy to sit around and wait. I know everything.”

            Her breath came in short bursts and she again slowly inhaled air. “You had him followed?”

            “I told him to fuck off. That you’re my girl.”

            “You spoke to him?”

            His eyes edged with water. “I can’t believe you fucked him. And behind my back. You fucking…” he stared at her and couldn’t seem to finish the statement. It was as if he were balancing on the edge of some incredible abyss, some unknown mystery. A cliff.

            “Dylan. Get the fuck out. I don’t love you. I met someone else. It’s over.”

            Tears slid down Dylan’s cheeks. He shook his head. He looked pathetic to her. Even in his expensive suit. Even with that rock-hard, sculpted body. She pictured his massive Chelsea apartment. They’d had some good times, back when they dated for nine months. Her parents loved him. But he was so shallow. He could be so selfish, such an egotistical asshole. All men were selfish to a degree…and the asshole factor was generally high. But Dylan was different; in a class all his own. That’s probably why he’d voted for Trump in 2016: He identified with the narcissism and privilege. She had privilege, too, of course, but not like that. She was so much more human.

            Dylan stepped towards her. “You don’t love me?” His voice was gentle, vulnerable, almost feminine. The sound of a breaking man.

            She took a long, slow breath, put her hands on her knees. Coughed badly.

            As if for the first time, Dylan noticed it. “What’s wrong with you? You seem like you’re having a hard time getting full breaths.”

            She eyed him. “It’s the Fibrosis. An attack.”

            “Do you need a doctor?”

            She shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean…no. Not now.”

            “Listen. Lore.”

            “I hate when you call me LORE.”

            “Laura. God. Listen. I love you.”

            “No you don’t. You don’t love me because you don’t love anyone but yourself.”

            “That’s cruel, baby. Please don’t say that. Please. I’m begging you.”

            “Go away, Dylan. Just leave.”

            Exploding, her buzzer rang. She stepped to it, pressed the intercom.

            “Yes?”

            “It’s Sam. Can I come up?”

            Dylan leapt across the kitchen and pressed the intercom. He wrested it from Laura. He said. “Get the fuck out of here you fucking shithead!”

            She tried to grab the intercom button but he prevented her. They struggled for a minute.

            “Did you really fuck this homeless piece of shit?” Dylan said, grunting as she wrestled for the intercom. “Did you? Did you?”

            She screamed then, wild and angry. “Fuck you, Dylan! Get out! Get the fuck out!”

            He raised his voice even louder. “Did you fuck him? Did you? Did you? Did you….”

            “YES YES YES YES YES YES YES!” she screamed, pressing her palms round her ears, closing her eyes. “Fine. Yes. I admit. I slept with him. Ok? What do you want?”

            He was silent. His eyes bulged. He looked manic. Rage seemed to burn brightly in his eyes.

            He rushed forward and shoved her, hard. She stumbled backwards, tripped on her own feet, and collapsed onto her butt on the living room rug.

            Dylan spat onto her kitchen tiles. “I won’t forget this. You’ll pay. You’ll pay and he’ll fucking pay. Fuck you, you goddamned slut.”

            He opened her door, rushed out, and ran down the twisting stairs.

42.

Sam walked back south the twenty blocks, to Laura’s, from East 89^th. He was tired. That fucking Dylan character was a real scumbag. He truly thought he could buy his way through anything. Some people thought like that. Trump, for example. This animal might as well be Trump’s son.

            He buzzed her apartment. There was a break and then he heard Dylan’s wretched voice telling him to fuck off. The prick had taken the taxi straight back to Laura’s place. Alright. Asshole.

            So he decided to go to James Langton’s. Dylan wasn’t for him to resolve. That was Laura’s problem.

            This time it was evening. A little after dusk. Sam wore his mask over his mouth and nose. He knocked on James’s door. Some cars rolled along West 114^th Street behind him. He felt the energy of Columbia University across the road.

            The doorknob jiggled and the door opened. There was James. White-haired, big-grinned, broad-shouldered, overall-wearing James Langston.

            “How did I know it was you?” James said.

            “Can I come in?”

            James opened the door wide. Sam came in. The old man closed it behind them.

            In the kitchen James said, as always, “Take a seat, kid. Get you anything to drink?”

            Sam pulled a chair from the table and sat. “Water?”

            A minute later James returned, sliding a glass of water to Sam. James himself had a steaming mug of coffee.

            Sam chugged the water down in one gulp.

            “Thirsty, huh?”

            Sam wiped his lips. “You drink coffee at night?”

            James smiled. “I drink coffee all the time. Take your mask off, son. I’m not worried. Maybe I should be but I’m not.”

            He’d forgotten. He pulled the blue hospital mask down under his chin. James obviously wasn’t worried about getting the virus.

            James leaned back in his chair. “So. What’s new?”

            Sam was silent a moment. He heard a manual clock ticking in the next room. He smelled the vague scent of tobacco. Coffee grounds. Window cleaner. He remembered seeing James that first time, sitting on the bench in the Sailboat Pond, reading Lee Child. When Sam was begging for change.

            Sam sighed, long and slow. He looked across the table at James. The silence was heavy. Sam said, “I love her.”

            James betrayed no emotion or reaction. He lifted his green mug and slurped his black coffee. He placed the mug back down onto the table. He watched Sam for a minute. Then he said, “Did you read some of the Big Book?”

            Sam felt annoyed. “Did you hear me? I said I love her.”

            “I know. And I asked if you read some of the Big Book.”

            “What does that have to do with love?”

            James grinned. “Oh. Son. Kid. It has everything to do with love.”

            “I don’t follow. Are you speaking in metaphors or something?”

            James cackled. “Maybe.” He slurped coffee.

            “What is this?”

            “Listen, son. You say you love this woman.”

            “That’s right.”

            “And this woman…”

            “Laura.”

            “Right. Laura. She loves you?”

            “She does. She told her father that. I heard her on the phone.”

            “And you want to be with her?”

            Sam smirked. “Of course I do. What else?”

            “But you’re scared?”

            “Maybe.”

            “Not maybe. You’re scared shitless.”

            “What am I scared of old man?”

            James gaped at Sam right in the eyes. It made Sam feel insecure. Pinned to the wall. “You’re scared you won’t know to love her. That you’ll fail. That you don’t deserve her love. That you’re a pathetic, washed-up loser. That you will fuck up the whole thing. And then you’ll truly hate yourself more than you ever have. If that’s even possible.”

            A silence fell. Sam felt his face going red. He was embarrassed. James was dead right, of course. Fuck the old man. Fuck this. He didn’t need to sit here and take this crap.

            Sam pushed his chair back and stood.

            “What are you doing?”

            “Getting the fuck out of here,” Sam said. “I don’t need this. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

            “I am your friend,” James half yelled. “Maybe your only friend. I’m telling you the truth, Sam. What you already know deep down inside. What you have to hear. What you can’t stand to look at. Face your shit, son! Recover!”

            “Yeah,” Sam said, still standing. “And how the fuck do you know who I am or what the fuck I need? Huh? Huh? Who put YOU in charge? Who built YOUR golden fucking throne?”

            James stared at him and then said, “Sam. You’re an alcoholic. An active one. You’re 39. I’m 68 and have been sober for decades. I know what it’s like, son. I get what you’re going through. I’m not saying this stuff to mock you or make you feel bad. I’m trying to help you. You need to recover. Look, if you want to be with her…with Laura…you’re going to have to change your life. You can’t stay homeless and drunk. You need to grow. You need to acknowledge you’re at your bottom.”

            “Yeah? And what if I’m not at my bottom?”

            “You can certainly keep digging, son. Be my guest. It ain’t no skin off my back. But you’re homeless. You’re a bad drunk. I’ve seen it. I know. You ain’t got any friends. Cept me. You’re depressed, angry, lonely, desperate. You’re estranged from your family.”

            “Fuck my family.”

            James shook his head. “You don’t mean that. Not really.”

            Heat rose into Sam’s face. His breathing sped up. He felt wild, anarchic. Blood coursed through his veins like a flood. He picked up his empty water glass and hurled it at the wall behind him. A loud crash of glass. It shattered into a dozens of pieces.

            James wasn’t fazed at all. “Go on, son. Get it out.” He even leaned back in his chair, crossing his big jean-covered legs. His right hand was gripped round his coffee mug. As if this were all entertainment; as if it was all stuff he’d seen before. Or experienced himself. Sam felt like he was an actor doing a part on stage. But he couldn’t stop himself.

            With a shaky, angry, emotional voice Sam shouted, “My father is a fucking piece of shit. He beat my ass for six years, from age 11 to 17. He’d come into my room and fucking start a fight and just hit me for no goddamn reason. Punched me right in the face. Punched me in the stomach. The back. Knocked me out a few times, even. He hit my mother, smacked her around. He drank like a fiend. Only my little sister escaped physically unscathed. Not emotionally though.”

            Sam shuddered, his palms falling flat onto the table.

            “I understand, son,” James said, in his calm, low voice.

            “I ran away twice. At thirteen and sixteen. I couldn’t stand it there anymore. Seeing that fucking prick’s face. His evil eyes. And my mother…my mother…” he said, out of breath, panting now. “That fucking bitch.” He felt the red hot tears zigzagging down his cheeks. “She fucking just sat there and let it all happen. She…”

            “I understand,” James said. “It’s okay, Sam. Let it go. Get it out. We’re only as sick as our secrets.”

            Sam trudged across the room to the bookshelves. He started pulling books out by the hardback spine and hurling them all over the room. He screamed, cursing his father and mother and his childhood home and his professors at the University of Washington and Zelda and Ralph and the four rehabs he’d been to and, lastly, even alcohol.

            At last, Sam stood there, books strewn everywhere on the floor of the living room. Pages had been ripped out and had fallen in random spots. Sam breathed hard and heavy. The glass shards were there on the floor.

            “It wasn’t fair,” Sam said, seemingly to no one. To the room itself, maybe.

            James rose, stood up from his creaky wooden chair. He was much taller than Sam. He walked slowly over to Sam, looked at him for a while, then stepped into Sam’s private space and hugged him. At first Sam resisted it but then, exhausted emotionally, he sighed and leaned into the old man, letting go. He leaned his chin on the old man’s shoulder. He felt the old man’s strong arms round his chest. It was so bizarre, being hugged by an older man. Or any man. His father hadn’t hugged him in years and years.

            Sam started crying. Lightly at first, and then full on weeping. Like he was an adult-sized baby. James gently patted his back. “It’s alright, son. Let it out. Don’t fight it.”

            So he didn’t. Sam wept like a child, until it was all out. Still holding him in a bear-hug James said, “Sam. Come to AA. Read the Big Book. Let me help you get sober. You can do this. You can truly change your life. It doesn’t have to be like this. Life can be so much better. So much easier. Life is always going to be challenging. But it doesn’t have to be impossible. What happened to you as a kid: That’s not your fault. It isn’t. Your father was in pain. He was spiritually sick, son. I know it sounds weird but: Don’t take that personally. Your dad, I mean. It wasn’t about you. It was about him. As a child we interpret it as about us, of course, because we’re still developing and we don’t know any better. But it’s not your fault, kid. And now you’re almost forty years old. It’s time to release this. Stop giving your father free rent in your head. Cut him loose. Be free. Save yourself. Your dad is miserable. He hates himself. Don’t let that mean you have to do the same. You can change, Sam. You can change.”

            Sam still had his chin resting on James’s shoulder. He sighed several more times, long and slow. He was facing the kitchen. One of the books on the floor, he noticed, was Catch-22. He loved that book. Gently, Sam pushed back and detached from James. The man was like a replacement father.

            They gazed at each other, their eyes doing the speaking. Sam wiped his tears. He rubbed his face with his palm several times.

            “Oh, Christ. I’m a fucking mess. I destroyed your house. Books are everywhere. Paper. Glass.”

            They didn’t speak for a minute and then James started laughing. It was a small laugh at first, but then it grew bigger and louder, and then Sam was laughing too, and they were hands-on-knees laughing their asses off, howling. It was absurd. But it somehow made sense.

            Sam stayed for an hour more at James’s. They drank coffee and chatted about AA and recovery and the Big Book. It was time for Sam to go.

            James walked Sam to the front door. In the doorframe, Sam said, “Thank you, James. I owe you.”

            “You don’t owe me anything. Let us love you until you learn to love yourself.”

            He sighed. “I’ll try.”

            “Can I sponsor you?”

            Sam averted his eyes. “I dunno. Maybe. We’ll see.”

            He caught the old man’s gaze once more.

            “Can you stay sober tonight?”

            “Honestly…I don’t know. Probably not.”

            James placed his big palm on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s ok, Sam. Whenever you’re ready to stop digging. That’ll be your bottom. It’s up to you, son. No one else can get you sober. Only you can; Sam Bouchard. I’m here when you’re ready. I can sponsor you, take you through the 12 steps.”

            Sam felt slightly anxious. He rubbed his nose. “Alright. Thanks, James. I appreciate that.”

            James nodded. “Take care, son. Come back soon.”

            “Alright.”

            Sam turned around and walked off, east along West 114^th, towards the bus.

            “Hey!” he heard James yell behind him a ways. James walked onto the sidewalk.

            “Yeah?” Sam said.

            Steady-eyed, serious, James said, “I love you, son.”

43.

Laura sat on her couch, watching CNN. Her ass was sore from being shoved down to the floor by Dylan. That prick. She’d always known he was bad news. But this was unforgiveable. And the whole absurdity around his having had Sam followed. Threatening Sam to stay away from her. She wiped the fresh tears trailing down her cheeks. It was 10:30. She still struggled to get complete breaths and her cough had gotten worse. She’d taken more Penicillin. It didn’t seem to help much.

            She contemplated calling her mother, asking for advice. But she was angry at her mom about their last conversation, and besides, Mom was an alarmist when it came to these kinds of issues. Laura didn’t want to hear from her mom that she should go to the hospital. Weill-Cornell was very close, on East 70 and York. Six blocks away. But she hated hospitals. Surely her shortness of breath and coughing were some kind of stress-based panic attack reaction mixed with the Cystic Fibrosis. She was young. Healthy. Active. She’d be fine.

            How had her life devolved into this chaos? Two men fighting over her. Although Sam wasn’t exactly fighting so much as standing his ground. It was her, anyway, who’d been convincing him that her love for him was real. And it was. Real. Very real. More real than anything else in her life. Everything with Dylan had been shallow and skin-deep. Dylan’s life was shallow and skin-deep. He worshipped the God of Money. She didn’t respect him. Didn’t respect that ideology. Didn’t understand his values…if he had any real values. She didn’t love Dylan. Hell, she realized, she didn’t even really like him. He was there. He’d always been there. She’d settled.

            CNN showed two pundits yapping with a female reporter, whose face was caked with makeup. They discussed the first presidential debate. She hadn’t watched it but everyone had told her it was total anarchy: Trump had lied throughout, and had interrupted both Biden and the moderator (Chris Wallace) constantly. She was glad she missed it.

            The mental rabbit-hole opened again, Todd Miller. Two days after her mother forbade her from seeing him ever again. He called her. He told her not to worry, that her mother couldn’t stop them from seeing each other. No one could, he said. He told her he loved her, which frightened her given that they barely knew each other and had hung out exactly one time, and yet it drew her to his light like a moth to a bright lantern in the darkness. It felt glorious and horrible.

            He picked her up just after midnight. She was silent. She wore all black and dressed warm. She climbed out her window—she hadn’t done that since grade school—and jumped down to the front lawn. Then she jogged to his jiggling black Lincoln Continental. She tried to hide her blaring fear.

            “Hey baby,” he said, a big grin showing his white edgy teeth. He leaned across the consul and kissed her.

            “Hey,” she said. She was excited. The thrill of it all: Going against her mother’s wishes; escaping the dungeon after midnight; hanging out with the hot older guy who looked like a fit biker.

            They held hands and he drove off. Low volume AC/DC played on the stereo: You…shook me alllll night long…

            He drove them fast, without saying a word, eyeing the road ahead. She stared through the windshield, seeing the gray twisting road, the bright white lines of the shoulder, and the middle yellow divider line. Some part of her knew what was coming. She wanted it. And she didn’t.

            He slowed and parked along Shotwell Ave, off 16^th Street, in the Mission District. It felt dangerous. She rarely hung out in The Mission. That’s where gangbangers and hoodlums went, especially at night. Sure, there were hipsters, too, but it was not a safe area.

            Cutting the engine, Todd gazed at her and smiled, saying, “My place.”

            “Do you live alone?”

            He grinned wider. “That’s right, baby.”

            They got out. The Continental’s thick steel doors creaked. They slammed the doors shut. She followed him to the building door which he unlocked. They walked up a twisting, narrow staircase, to a row of apartments on the fourth floor. He stopped in front of 4B.

            Then her building door buzzed again, overriding CNN. She breathed slow and deep, trying to get as much air as possible. Oh, no. Dylan again? Please, God, no.

            The buzzer rang once more. Loud and angry and long.

            A minute later she opened the door to Sam. She smiled. She rushed into his torso, hugging him hard.

            She kissed him on his neck, his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth.

            “Happy to see me?” he laughed. His words seemed off somehow.

            “I love you,” she said, panting, breathless. “I love you I love you I love you!”

            Sam laughed. “I love you, too. I truly do.”

            She lugged him inside and her door shut behind them. She locked it. She heard CNN on still in the living room. Gazing at Sam, she realized he looked funny somehow. Something about his eyes. He reeked of liquor; Southern Comfort, she was pretty certain. He was drunk.

            “You’ve been drinking,” she said. Even she felt the disappointed edge in her tone.

            He pulled his black pack from his shoulders and set it down on the kitchen tiles. Then he yanked out a half-killed bottle of SoCo from his back pocket. He uncapped it. Slammed it. He winked at her, wiping his scruffy chin. “Goddamn right I am.”

            She averted her eyes from him for a second. She bit her lip. A wave of heat and fear rushed through her body like earlier. She coughed loudly several times. She struggled to breathe again.

            Sam’s smile morphed into a serious frown. “What’s wrong with you? What’s going on? Laura? Are you ok?”

            There was authentic, genuine concern and worry in his voice. He stepped to her, capping his pint. He placed his palms on her small shoulders. Looking right into her eyes he said, “Babe. Seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

            She slowed down and took big breaths, getting as much air as she could. She coughed uproariously.

            “Medicine cabinet,” she said, gasping. “Bathroom. Penicillin.”

            He flew into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and returned with the pill bottle. She opened it, snatched two, and took them with no water.

            A minute later she felt a little better. But then she started to sense a minor fever. Panic brushed inside of her. No. C’mon. You’re fine. Just calm down. Relax. Don’t panic. Don’t overt-think it. It’s the Fibrosis. You’ve dealt with this all your adult life, Laura. Take it easy.

            “C’mon, sit down,” Sam said, authoritative.

            He led her into the living room and gently sat her on the couch. He turned the TV off. He stepped into the kitchen and brought her back a glass full of water.

            “Drink,” he said.

            She slowly drank about half the glass.

            He sat next to her. “What is it?”

            She began to calm down. She leaned back against the couch. But she felt her lungs struggling. “I have hereditary Cystic Fibrosis. My father has it.”

            “Oh,” Sam said. “It scares me. Maybe you should call your mom. She’s a doctor right?”

            “No, I don’t want to call her. Not yet anyway.”

            “There’s a hospital very nearby…”

            “I know.”

            “Just saying.”

            “Hold me,” she said.

            She scooted next to him and he held her tight. She saw the reflection of the two of them in her blank TV screen and it almost made her smile. Her eyes felt heavy. It was warm and safe in her apartment, like a womb. He didn’t smell bad. In fact, he didn’t seem to smell like anything at all. That was nice. She nuzzled her head into his chest, breathing slow.

            She woke up with a start a while later. It was dark and cold. She was still on the couch, her head on Sam’s chest. He was asleep. His Adam’s Apple bobbed ever so slightly. His chest softly rose and fell. He lightly snored. It was adorable. She felt a little better. Air seemed to be freer in her lungs. The mucus seemed thinner. She didn’t cough. Her fever was still there but minor.

            Laura kissed his lips, nibbling. Little kisses. He began to stir. He groaned slowly awake, into darkness and confusion it seemed. But then he was kissing her back, and they were peeling each other’s clothes off and panting and he was kissing her neck and lips and collar bone and breasts.

            They moved into her bedroom. Fell onto the bed. He kneeled on top of her, slid his dick inside, and made love to her. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness but she did hear him whisper, “I love you, Laura DiLane.”

            Biting her lip in ecstasy, she said, almost crying, “I love you, too, Sam Bouchard.” She knew in that instant that they’d be together for a very long time. She’d marry him. He’d get sober. He’d change. Get a job. Be hers. He’d reconnect with his parents. He’d succeed. They’d succeed as a couple. They’d have a hell of a story about how they first met.

            Again they hadn’t used a condom. She reprimanded herself, in her head, but then she smiled, knowing she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

            After they both came, Laura said, “Tell me more about your parents,” she whispered into the darkness, her head lying against his nipple. She gently traced her fingernails round his torso. It was like with Dylan only she felt totally present. She wanted to be here, with this man. No confusion. No uncertainty. Not anymore.

            Whispering back he said, “There isn’t much to know. You already know. Dad was a physically abusive asshole. He owned a heating and plumbing company. Mom was really codependent and was a nurse for a long time.”

            She was quiet a minute and then said, “Did your dad get abused when he was a kid?”

            “Yeah. My grandfather was horrible. I heard stories about him. He died when I was nine. I remember him as being vicious to my dad. To my mom, too. He was one of those old-school Depression-era men. Hyper masculine. Traditional. He moved from New Rochelle, New York, to Seattle when my father was a kid. For work. He ran a wool company. He left his main location in New York to run a bigger operation in the West. My father grew up in Seattle. As I did.” Sam sighed, long and slow and loud. “Everything was sort of ok…until I turned eleven. My dad and I went camping once and…it all changed.”

            She traced his nipple with her finger. Her ears were flushed and hot. She said, “I’m sorry, Sam. You didn’t deserve it. No one deserves that. You were just a kid.”

            She felt his body slightly spasm.

            “Do you ever think about…forgiving them? Your parents? Especially your father? You know they did the best they could…”

            Sam’s body jerked up off the bed. Her head was flung off him. He pulled the sheets away and stood by the bed. He started getting dressed. She heard his heavy breathing.

            “Sam. What did I say? I’m sorry, baby. Please, forgive me. Come back to bed.”

            He ignored her and threw his jeans and T-shirt and jacket and shoes on. He walked out of the bedroom. She leapt out of bed and followed him. Her head was pounding again. She felt lightheaded. She coughed grotesquely. Her lungs felt milky thick and mucus-filled. The fever was back, like a pounding red river in her dome. She smelled nothing. That was strange.

            “Baby,” she said. “Please. What’re you doing?”

            He slung his pack over his shoulder. He gaped at her, looking angry and serious. He walked to her door. He opened it, turned, and said, “I don’t need your fucking sympathy.”

            “What? Honey. Baby. Sam. Please. I spoke out of turn. Forgive me!”

            But he flipped around and trudged down the twisting stairs, away from her. Every ounce of her body wanted to give chase, explain things, hug him, kiss him, tell him she was sorry. But she was starting to feel worse and worse.

            She slammed her door, locked it, and walked, zigzagging, into her dark bedroom. She flopped onto the bed. She felt so hot. Too hot. The fever was rising.

When she woke up she was hardly able to breathe. Her alarm clock said it was 3:19 AM. She coughed intermittently, mucus deep and thick. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

            She stood up. Heat rushed through her whole body. The fever was terrible. Pounding in her ears. Cough cough cough cough cough. She fell back against the edge of her bed. Ok, she told herself. Laura. Breathe! You’ve got to breathe, baby!

            Long, slow, deep breaths. But she just couldn’t get enough air. She snatched her iPhone and dialed 911. The dispatcher answered and, in her airless, struggling, feeble voice Laura said, “Help. Can’t breathe. Cystic Fibrosis. 131 East 69^th Street, apt 2F, at the corner of 69^th and 3^rd. Need immediate assistance…”

            The lady sent a paramedics van immediately as well as a squad car. She stayed on the line with Laura for a few minutes. She told Laura to calm down, to try to breathe, to make sure her apartment door was unlocked.

            Laura started crying. She was scared. Her room seemed like it was closing in on her. Her fear was raw and covered her whole mind like a black tent. What if she died right now? Three thousand miles from home. She wanted to call her mom. Her father. Where was Sam? Why had he left her?

            “You’re going to be okay, Laura,” the lady dispatcher said over the line. “Just hang in there. They’ll be at your place any moment now.”

            “I don’t want to die,” Laura said, weeping uncontrollably now.

            Then she heard boots running up the twisting stairs, and three men shoved her door open, walked down her living room, burst into her bedroom, flipped the light on, and came to her.

44.

After leaving James’s Sam made his way towards Laura’s apartment. He walked. No money. From West 114^th to East 69^th. Fuck it.

            He felt relieved after he’d smashed the glass and screamed and hurled the books off the shelves. Yet he also felt ashamed and guilty. He hadn’t even helped clean the place. The amount of genuine love James had shown him was palpable, incredible. He was embarrassed….and completely honored. He’d expressed, for the first time, really, his white hot rage. Towards his father. His mother. His shit childhood. The unfairness of it all. James had trusted him. James had held him. James had let him explode, fall to miserable pieces. Maybe James really did understand. He had spent two years in Vietnam. He’d lost a wife to death. He’d experienced things deeply. He’d truly lived. For the first time Sam thought: If James could do it…maybe he could too. Maybe.

            The question lingered: Could Sam get sober? For who would he do that? Himself? God? Laura? His parents? No. Not them. Then a voice inside said the obvious: He could only get sober for himself. No one else. Did he feel like he was worth it? Was Sam worth saving? Could Sam Bouchard learn to love Sam Bouchard?

            While walking he jammed his fists into his jeans pockets. It was cool out. A shiver raced down his spine. He didn’t know if he could actually stop drinking. If he could love himself. If he could forgive himself and his parents. If he could honestly change. Could people really, seriously change? Had he ever known anyone who had changed? He doubted it. He couldn’t think of anyone. Yet: James had changed. Hadn’t he? But who else did he know who’d changed? He couldn’t think of a single name. Right. Exactly. Point made. People never changed, they only tried to change the people, places and things around them. They tried to control their internal and external environment. That was why he drank wasn’t it? To control things, to not feel his emotions, to protect himself?  

            He felt mixed on all of these questions; confused. Disturbed.

            Around 98^th Street he walked into a shady corner liquor store. He hated doing this but he had to. He needed it. And he was broke.

            He walked in, asked the Indian man behind the counter for two pints of Southern Comfort, one hundred proof. The man stuffed them in little brown bags. Then, pretending to pull a wallet out, he snatched the two pints and ran out the door. He heard the Indian man yelling, giving chase. He sprinted. He ran east. Then south. The man’s voice died out.

            He paused and took a deep glug off one of the pints. So much for sobriety. So much for James sponsoring you, he laughed. But it felt sad. Like entering some dark void. He felt powerless. Like a machine. The alcohol plugged him into life. And not in a good or healthy way. In a sick way. But it saved him.  

            It took an hour and twenty minutes to reach Laura’s apartment . He was exhausted. Emotionally, more than anything else, after what’d happened at James’s. He buzzed her ringer. She let him in. He walked up. Knocked. She opened and rushed into him, wrapping her arms round him. He was gleeful to see her. His body buzzed with energy. Desire surged within him. Sexual desire, yes, but also that intimate feeling he craved. He only got it from her. Not even Zelda had given it to him like this. Not even Zelda.

            Inside they talked and she asked if he’d been drinking. He showed her the pint. He noticed that she was coughing, struggling to get full breaths. She told him she had Cystic Fibrosis. He panicked a bit, worried, feeling his cheeks flush. A terrible fear flashed through him: God…please keep this woman safe. Then he thought: C’mon. What’re you talking about. She’s young. Healthy. Fine. We both tested negative for Covid-19. What could be wrong? He snatched her Penicillin for her. She started to relax.

            He held her on the couch. Then they were touching again, kissing, and tearing their clothing off. He followed her into the bedroom. Dark and warm and safe. They were naked and panting and kissing deep. He loved her. He told her that. She told him, too. It felt like paradise on Earth. How had he gotten so lucky? What had he done to deserve this honor?

            And then, after sex, after they’d both exploded with pleasure and sensual ecstasy, he lay with her head on his nipple, her fingernails tracing designs on his skin.

            She whispered, asking about his parents. His father. Asking if he could find a way to forgive them. It made him think of James. He told her about his paternal grandfather but a seed of anger, of resentment, percolated in his solar plexus. He was sick of people telling him what to do, of how to think, to forgive. What the fuck did they know? Maybe James knew something. But Laura? Daddy-rich-girl living in the Upper East Side? What the fuck did she know about anything?

            A voice inside countered this, saying he was being immature, ridiculous, petty, selfish, childish, that he had rage and anger issues, that he should calm down. She loves you, man. Let go. Love her back. Just be here right now. Accept things as they are. Be in the moment. This moment. Someone wants you, Sam. A beautiful, successful, sophisticated woman.

            But he couldn’t. The fire of anger brushed below and rose through his body until he swung upward, hurling her head off his chest. He loathed how he lost control sometimes, wanting one thing but contradicting that thing out of fear. He swung the sheets off. She tried to reason with him. She asked, reasonably, for understanding, clarity, forgiveness. She was always so reasonable. And he was so hyper sensitive and angry. He did not respond. He dressed quickly, slapdash, throwing his clothes on. He wanted with all his strength to stay. He wanted her so bad. It felt like acting on a stage and yet he could not stop himself. He could not end the actions he was taking. This made him even angrier.

            He trudged across her living room. Snagged his pack. She followed him, still pleading desperately.

            He ripped her door open. Stepped out. Turned. Yelled at her. Flipped back round and ran down the twisting stairs. He heard the echoes of her crying above him. He felt sad, ashamed, belligerent, absurd. But he simply could not stop. Especially now. A man’s ego, a man’s pride, will not be severed in the moment of anger, particularly when it involves his father and forgiveness.

            He rushed out the building door. He headed to the park.

45.

Everything became blurry and confused for Laura over the next hour. The three EMTs—all wearing thick uniforms and thick masks with plastic covers—spoke to each other while lifting her onto a gurney. It all seemed very surreal. Someone placed a plastic oxygen mask over her mouth and she was able to breathe slightly better. But still not perfectly by a long shot. Her face felt flushed; her head was pounding with fever and headache. Jesus, she thought. Mamma. Daddy.

            Then they were carrying her slowly, carefully down the narrow, twisting staircase, on the gurney. She felt like she was floating. Her consciousness seemed to tune in and out, vaguely. Everything in her body felt hot.

            It was cold outside. Someone threw a blanket over her on the gurney; it scratched her skin a little. Wool, it seemed like. Her eyes were half closed. She heard the voices of the EMTs but couldn’t decipher what was being said. It was nebulous, distant. It was dark out still, silent other than them.

            They jammed the gurney into the back of the paramedics van. Shut the door behind her. One man stayed back there with her. Then the van lurched forward, and she swayed a little with the movements. The siren was atrociously loud and cut through the empty night. She tried to speak, tried to ask if she’d be alright, but she couldn’t do more than lazily mumble something which the man couldn’t understand. She tried two more times to no avail.

            They arrived at the hospital. She assumed Weill-Cornell. Six blocks from her apartment. She’d always joked with herself that if the Pandemic got bad she was at least this close to this hospital. But now that joke wasn’t funny.

            The EMTs dragged the gurney out of the back and jutted the metal wheeled legs out. They rushed her fast into the back door of the hospital. Yes, she saw now: Weill-Cornell Hospital. She tried to take a big gulp of air but only got half, at best.

            Then there was an RN—wearing a green-blue uniform, an N-95 mask on and a plastic covering over that—an older gray-haired woman with a boxy, angular face. The EMTs spoke to the RN and, in and out, Laura heard clips of phrases and words like “suspected minor stroke,” and “blood clot” and “Cystic Fibrosis” and “Possible Covid.”

Fear punched her in the stomach. Covid?

            The wheels of the gurney rolled metallically along the smooth, polished linoleum floor. Several people helped move her now. They all wore the blue or green uniforms and had multiple face coverings under plastic shields. She saw their mouths moving, opening and closing, but now she seemed unable to hear or catch what they said at all. She caught the sharp scent of sanitizer and ripe alcohol and iodine and soap. She heard a beeping noise somewhere. A siren from outside blared. Talking from random employees or visitors or both surrounded her in the vague distance. Screeching shoes slid along the linoleum. It felt like a TV scene she was living. But it wasn’t TV. It was real life. It was happening right now.

            She tried to sit up, and the nurse’s aid gently pressed her back down, saying, “Take it easy young lady.”  

            She needed more air. Now.

            They pushed her through some double doors and into a small room divided by a blue plastic partition. Her chest was heaving. She was literally heaving for air. Desperate. She felt lightheaded; her brain seemed partially dysfunctional. Her thoughts raced uncontrollably. She felt fear all over but not in any discerning way. Just that nebulous, internal terror.

            “Ready for intubation,” the RN said.

            The nurse’s aid nodded. They slid a tube into her trachea. There were beeping machines all around her, tubes and wires seemingly everywhere. She started to panic. But then the air came in from the machine and she breathed. Oh, thank God, she could breathe. At least for the moment. Jesus.

            The RN and aid stood looking at her as if she were from Mars, with their uniforms and masks and plastic coverings. She felt like an alien from another planet; an alien they didn’t know what to do with.

            The machine near her, she saw, was charting her heart rate and oxygen levels and many other things.

            The RN gripped her hand—she wore latex protective gloves. “Can you hear me, Laura?”

            Looking up at the RN with the tube in her she felt so scared, so weak, so vulnerable. She was terrified of death. She started crying.

            “It’s okay, Laura,” the RN said. “I’m Nurse Gifford. We’re going to take good care of you.” She squeezed Laura’s palm. “I’m going to give you a quick rapid Covid test, alright?”

            She nodded, the tears pelting down her face.

            The RN did the rapid test. Then she used her stethoscope and checked her lungs.

            “I’m told you have Cystic Fibrosis…”

            She nodded.

            “Ever had trouble like this in the past?”

            She tried to speak around the tube but it came out jumbled. She partially gagged.

            “It’s ok, Laura; just nod or shake your head.”

            She shook her head.

            “So this is worse than ever before?” Nurse Gifford asked.

            She nodded.

            Nurse Gifford sat there staring at her for a moment, and then said, “You’re twenty-seven I see here?”

            She nodded.

            “Alright.” She patted Laura’s hand gently and stood up. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. See that button next to your hand?”

            She nodded.

            “Need help: Press that button.”

            She knew she was in a dream. She was back with Todd Miller, at his apartment on Shotwell and 16^th in the Mission in San Francisco. He pulled along the curb. Parked. Cut the engine. He lead her down the sidewalk and up some brick stairs to a paint-peeling, stained shit-brown door. Fumbling for his keys he opened it.

            His place was small. A one-bedroom. Maybe 300 square feet, she guessed. It reeked of French fries and olive oil and pot smoke. There was a queen-sized bed on a metal frame with an olive-green cover. A tiny kitchen. A poster on the wall—gigantic—of Scarface, Al Pacino’s twisted, maniac smirk, firing his machine gun, the words, Say Hello to My Little Friend, above it. Another poster was of the late 70s punk band The Misfits. And another one, also massive, of James Dean, clad in tight jeans and a motorcycle jacket, dipping his head to light a cigarette. It said, REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE.  

            “Take a seat,” Todd said, his muscles taut in his arms. He jerked his head to the bed in the front of the apartment, near the door they’d entered through.

            She walked slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. She regretted having worn the short skirt and heels. Stupid stupid stupid.

            She woke, bolting up momentarily, her eyes bugging out wildly. She was fiercely confused. Drenched in cold sweat. Then it all started coming back. Intubation. Tube down her trachea. Hospital room. RN. Trouble breathing. It was like waking from one nightmare into a worse one.

            Nurse Gifford was standing over her, looking at her with pity in her warm brown eyes, which were hidden behind that plastic covering. She felt so far away from her, as if she were the human and Laura were the circus freak.

“So, Laura. Looks like you tested positive for Covid-19. You’re also dealing with severe upper respiratory inflammation due to your Cystic Fibrosis—likely made worse by the Covid—and it also appears that you probably had a minor Covid-related stroke due to the formation of a small blood clot in your brain. We’re going to do some MRIs momentarily here, and see what else may be going on.” Nurse Gifford paused, averting his eyes from her for a second. “I have to be blunt here. It doesn’t look good. If it were solely Covid, that’d be one thing. But with multiple brain/respiratory issues at the same time like this…well…we’re doing the best we can.”

            She nodded, trying to restrain more tears.  

            Nurse Gifford said, “I have to check on others. Monica here, my aid, will assist you. The doctor will visit when he gets a minute.” Nurse Gifford eyed the twenties Latina aid with jet-black hair, large, young eyes behind her plastic face shield. “We have your cell phone. Would you like to call your family? We’ve already contacted your parents. They are on the next flight out here from San Francisco. They probably won’t arrive until around 10:30, 11 AM. It’s only 4:15AM now.”

            Her tears slid down her face again.

            Nurse Gifford nodded to Monica. The RN tried to smile briefly at Laura and then walked off at a brisk trot. They had others to deal with. Laura was just one more cog in the diseased machine.

Monica approached and handed her a pad of paper and a pen.

            With shaking hands she wrote, “Please call Mom and Dad and tell them I feel OK and that I love them.” She struggled to write. Her pulse raced against her flushed ears. Her whole body vibrated with fear and anxiety. “And then please call my ex boyfriend, Dylan Lansky. Tell him I’m here and what’s going on.”

            Monica said, “I’ll do that now.”

            The nurse’s aid pulled Laura’s iPhone out and dialed her folks first. Laura closed her eyes, scrunching her lips, weeping quietly. God, life was so fucking unfair.

            Then Monica held the phone to Laura’s ear. Her mother was on, crying, saying, “Baby? Laura?”

            “Yes, mamma…”

            “MY BABY,” her mom said, crying hard. “I love you, Laura. We’re on our way. We fly in 45 minutes. God, baby, hold on for us. Be strong, honey…”

            Her father jumped on. “Honey, how are you feeling?”

            She mumbled something garbled. Monica gently snatched the phone from her and said, “Apologies, Mr. DiLane, your daughter is intubated. She can’t speak. Just tell her what you want to tell her.”

            Monica held the phone back at Laura’s ear. Her father, his voice wounded, said, softly, “Your birth in 1993, baby, was the best thing that ever happened to your mother and I.” He choked up. He was trying to hide it. It wasn’t working. “God. Jesus. Laura. My daughter. My lovely, perfect daughter.” He broke down.

            Laura cried around her tube. Her teeth grazed the hard plastic. It all seemed too fucking dramatic. This didn’t happen to real people in real life. Not people like her. Several times in the past she’d imagined her death, how her family would all gather and remember her, would sing her praises. But it wasn’t like that. She was alone. Across the nation. By herself. Terrified. Afraid.

            Her mom came on again. “Honey we’ll be there soon, okay? Hold on for mamma. Hold on, Sweet Baby.”

            Her father briefly spoke to her once more. They all cried. Her folks hung up. Monica took her phone, found Dylan Lansky, and dialed.

            Hurriedly, Laura wrote on the pad: Tell Dylan to come to the hospital. But to first find and inform SAM. Sam doesn’t have a cell phone. He is usually around 67^th and 5^th in the park. Tell him it’s very important to me. Tell him to forgive me and ignore his own feelings. I need this.

            Monica made the call. The aid spoke to Dylan. She barely could hear the high-rising, worried, frantic voice of Dylan from the phone’s speakers. They talked for a few minutes. Monica hung up.

            “Alright, Laura,” Monica said. “Relax now. Take it easy. MRIs soon.”

46.

Sam sat behind the bushes near 67^th, at the Billy Johnson Playground. He was drunk. He’d finished his SoCo pint. It was still dark out, nearly six AM, but you could see just the very earliest wisps of young gray dawn slowly approaching. He lay in his sleeping bag—old, torn and weathered—with his head propped against his pack. The books inside of it, mixed with clothes, made for a decent pillow.

            He felt annoyed at Laura for bringing up his parents, for suggesting that he “should forgive them.” Everyone thought it was so easy to forgive. Like, poof: You’re forgiven. No problem that you beat my ass like an animal for six years. No problem that you beat my mom up. No problem that you were a brutal, ruthless alcoholic. No problem that things were so bad that I ran away not once but twice by the age of 16. Forgiveness. What in the fuck was forgiveness, anyway?

            Then he thought of James. The old man’s kind, primordial words. The feeling of being heard and seen, truly heard and seen. Understood. Loved, even. James had said, Let us love you until you learn to love yourself. Again that thought: Was it possible? Could Sam change? Millions of people around the globe had done it with the 12-steps. Why couldn’t he? That internal alcoholic voice answered back calmly: Because you’re a no-good, washed-up piece of subhuman shit. You’re worthless, kid. Might as well drown yourself in the Hudson.

            James had allowed him to flip out. To throw things. He’d hugged and held Sam close. Sam felt he trusted the old man. He didn’t know exactly why or how. But he did. The old man didn’t want anything from him. Maybe companionship. But more than that it seemed James wanted—honestly wanted—to help Sam. No one his whole life had wanted to help him. Not his father. Not his mother. Not his sister. Not his rehab “friends.” Not his outside “friends.” Not his drinking buddies. Not the other homeless guys. No one. He was alone in the world.

            Oh c’mon, stop being such a victim. You’re alive. Not yet forty. You live in the United States. You did this to yourself. Only you can change.

            He was dreaming again. Someone was calling his name, shaking him. Then he woke up, jutting into a sitting position.

            This time it was dawn. Barely. He must have passed out for a half hour or so.

            For a second he was completely bewildered. A tall young man in a suit was crouched next to him, his black tie touching Sam’s cheek. The man looked stern and angry and scared. He said, Sam…Sam…Sam…Sam…

            Then he realized. Dylan. Dylan?

            “What are you doing here?” Sam half yelled.

            “Look man,” Dylan said, emotionally. “Laura is in the hospital. It’s bad. I mean real bad. She’s got Covid. And her Fibrosis is worsening. And something about a blood clot and minor stroke.”

            “WHAT?!” Sam wormed out of his sleeping bag. He stood up immediately. He was frantic. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

            Dylan rose. “C’mon. My car is parked along 5^th. Let’s move it.”

47.

Laura lay on her back on the hospital bed. She was emotionally and physically drained. Whipped, as her father used to say. She heard a slow, constant beeping from the machine next to the bed. Her breathing was slow and shallow, the tube still down her trachea. It felt awful. Her throat was ragged and sore. They’d given her fever-reducer and it had lessened the intensity but it was still there. Her head pounded but not as bad.

            She was in her own small room. This would have been vastly different if it had happened back in March, April, May, when the Pandemic was at its nasty height. She recalled reading some horrible stories in the New York Times, and seeing some stories told on CNN about people, just like her, who had…died…and not even been able to say goodbye to their families. Young people like her even. Nurses and doctors had had to make tragic choices, snatching ventilators from older people in order to potentially save a younger patient. On hearing these war tales she and her friends had always sighed, shaking their heads, saying So fucking sad. Now it was her. Laura DiLane. She was the one in the hospital. Suffering. Struggling to breathe. On the potential verge of losing everything.

This made her clench her eyes shut tight. She felt the tears sliding down her cheeks. She tried to take in a deep breath.

            Would she die? She was only twenty-seven. She couldn’t die. Not yet. She wasn’t anywhere near ready for that. Were you ever ready for it? No, of course not. At least not at this age. Just make it until your parents get here. Thinking this made her cry harder, and she closed her eyes, her stomach convulsing.

            She woke up to the doors of the room being opened loudly. It was Nurse Gifford, with her gray hair and boxy face and blue hospital gown and face mask and plastic shield. She wore white latex gloves.

            The RN came to her and looked at the machine beeping next to the bed. She nodded and then looked at the other numbers on the charts.

            Nurse Gifford eyed her and said, “How’s the fever?”

            She shook her head.

            “We can give you more fever reducer. How’s everything generally?”

            The RN handed her the pencil and paper pad. She wrote: Body aches. Headache.

            The RN glanced at what she wrote and said, “I understand. We’ll get some more headache reducer.”

            Nurse Gifford told her a number of things about how they were trying to treat the Covid. Then she said it was time for her MRI. After that, the doctor would see her. It’d been less than half a day inside the hospital but it felt like decades. Yesterday was ancient history.

An hour later she was back in the room again. After her MRI. She waited. Then the doctor entered, clutching a manila folder. The man was short and thick, wearing the same green-blue scrubs as everyone else and the face mask and plastic shield. He had gray eyes that radiated professionalism and sympathy. He was Latino.

“Hello, Laura. I’m Doctor Hernandez.”

She nodded.

He stepped to her bedside. He smelled like antiseptic. He glanced at her charts. He opened the manila folder and pulled a sheet out.  

            “Laura, these are some stats and images from your MRI. It looks like you did, in fact, suffer a minor stroke. That explains the foggy confusion in your apartment you mentioned to the dispatcher when you first called 911. See this here, in the image of your brain?” He pointed to the image of her brain on the sheet. She saw a little knot that jutted up. She nodded. “Well, that’s a blood clot. Not good.” He then showed her an image of her lungs. He told her about the Covid and the Cystic Fibrosis. “I’m going to give you an injection of Remdesivir, for the Covid, and emergency Penicillin. Ok?”

            She nodded. She jerked her head for the pencil and paper. He handed it to her. She wrote: Doc. Be honest. What are my chances?

            He stared at the paper too long. Then at her. He tried to remain stoic but she saw the concern in his gray eyes.

            Doctor Hernandez rubbed his chin, frowning, and sighed. “I don’t know, Laura. We’re doing the best we can for you. That’s all I can say.” He placed his latex-gloved palm gently on her shoulder. He pressed. She closed her eyes. All she heard was the incessant beeping. God damn it. She was angry. She felt all the bad emotions: Anger; fear; rage; confusion. She felt like crawling up in the fetal position under the sheets. She recalled the night with the insane, racist Trumper. Sam. The gun. How the Trumper tried to force them to act out George Floyd’s killing. She thought of Floyd: On the ground, that cop’s knee against his neck, trying desperately to breathe, calling out for his mother. That’s how she felt. With all her whiteness and her class privilege and her family: She related in that moment to George Floyd. It was different, she knew that. No racist cop was harming her. It was Covid with its knee on her carotid artery. Her Cystic Fibrosis. It was God.

            She heard a knocking on the glass of the double-doors to her room. She opened her eyes. She looked. Nurse Gifford was banging her palm against the glass. Doctor Hernandez said, “One second, Laura.”

            The doctor walked across the room to the doors. He opened them. He spoke to the nurse a moment. He returned.

            “You have two visitors,” Doctor Hernandez said.

            She wrote frantically on the pad: Sam and Dylan?

            Doctor Hernandez said, “That’s right.” He paused. “However. Unfortunately they can’t enter the room. Too dangerous due to the Covid. You’ll have to communicate with them through the glass doors from the other side. I’m sorry. It’s better than nothing.”

48.

Sam sat in the passenger seat of Dyan’s shiny silver Beamer. They wore their masks. Dylan drove fast down 70^th, heading east. The road was still largely empty. They passed Park Ave and then Lexington and then Third and then Second, where they stopped at the red light.

            The expensive little car rumbled. The heat was on full blast. It all seemed surreal. He remembered Laura’s weird little cough, her shortness of breath, how she told him to snatch the Penicillin in the medicine cabinet. Dylan said it was the Cystic Fibrosis. But other stuff, too. Covid. Covid? They’d both just been tested. Did he need to get tested now?

            “Listen—” Sam started, but he was immediately cut off by Dylan.

            “I don’t want to talk. Ok? I don’t like you. You don’t like me. The only reason I got you was because the doctor said she asked me to. She might…this might be…I mean…Oh fuck…” Dylan said, and he was crying.

            The light went green. The car lurched forward.

            Sam wanted to say, I understand, but instead he remained silent. They didn’t have anything to say to each other.

            Five minutes later they pulled into the hospital past York Ave coming east off 70^th. Dylan parked. They leapt out. Dylan jogged fast. Sam followed. It became real, all of it. This wasn’t a dream or a nightmare. It wasn’t some prank by Dylan. A set-up. No. It was dead-fucking-real. Laura, the woman he loved, was sick. In the hospital. Perhaps, he hated to think it….close to death. No. No, not that. Don’t think that.

            Before they walked through the transparent electronic sliding glass doors of the hospital—Weill-Cornell Hospital in black text across the glass—Dylan paused. He stood there, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.  

            They entered. Dylan told them who they were and that they were there to see Laura DiLane. The desk nurse called the nurse’s aid.

            A few minutes later a Latina woman came out, black hair peeking out of her blue cap. His gown and pants were green-blue and she had a face mask on and over that a thick plastic face shield.

            “Gentlemen,” she said, with a South American accent. “I’m Monica, the nurse’s aid.”

            “Where’s the doctor?” Dylan said, his tone accusatory and entitled.

            Monica said, “I’m sorry. Doctor Hernandez is busy seeing multiple patients.”

            “How is she?” Dylan said, alarm and an edge in his voice.

            Monica cleared her throat. “Well. I’m sorry to say, Mr…”

            “Lansky.”

            “I’m sorry to say Mr. Lansky, but it doesn’t look good. She had a minor stroke based on a blood clot, brought on by Covid. That along with the virus itself is very bad. Add to that her active Cystic Fibrosis and…well…we’re doing everything we can.”

            “Are you giving her medication?” That frantic alarm coated his voice again. It was corrosive, like acid melting a battery.

            “Yes. We’ve given her headache and fever reducer. Remdesevir. Penicillin.”

            “Are you certain about her diagnoses?” Dylan sounded wild and desperate.

            Monica nodded. “We did a thorough MRI. She initially called 911 complaining that she ‘couldn’t breathe,’ and with a bad cough. She said she was foggy and confused. We’ve had younger Covid cases with stroke from blood clot before. It’s not common but we’ve seen it.”

            There was a silence.

            Sam said: “Is there anything else we can do?”

            Monica faced Sam. Sam saw the pity in the woman’s deep brown eyes.

            “I’m sorry. We’re doing all we can.” She paused. “Would you like to see her? We can’t let you into her room, I’m afraid. Too risky due to the Covid. Only personnel. But at least you could see her, to some degree communicate with her. She’s fairly aware at the moment.”

            Sam and Dylan nodded at the same time.

            “Follow me,” Monica said. “We’ll have to give you both rapid Covid tests. Do either of you have any symptoms?”

            “No,” Dylan said.

            “No,” Sam added.

“You’ll need to wear fresh hospital scrubs and these special masks and plastic coverings like I’m wearing. Protocol.”

            “We understand,” Dylan said, at last glancing over at Sam. There didn’t seem to be any animosity in Dylan’s eyes. They had bigger fish to fry.

            Twenty-five minutes later Sam and Dylan followed Monica—six feet apart—wearing their scrubs and masks to the elevator where they rode up four floors to the ICU. They’d both tested negative for Covid-19. Of course there was a nearly 50 percent “false negative” reading for these tests. But they weren’t going into her room anyway. This was so bizarre. Only hours ago Sam had been in bed with Laura, her head resting on his chest. In love. Content. After that intensity at James’s place. James. Alcohol. Sobriety. It was wildly selfish but, even now, in this instant, he worried about himself: Could he get and stay sober? Laura would be alright. She’d pull through.

            As they walked down the hallway towards her room Sam thought back to the moment after he last relapsed. After his ninety days, his fourth rehab, in Jamestown North Dakota. He’d drunk Old Grandad with working-class men at some dive bar in Chicago. It had been his last attempt at sobriety. Over three years ago. He’d been 36.

            In the end he found yet another trashy motel, this time in the dangerous South Side of Chicago. He found some under-the-table work as a busboy in The Green Mill, a famous jazz dive bar/club uptown on North Broadway. He got free drinks. He heard and saw some classic jazz. He hit on waitresses. He made a few superficial friends. He worked six days a week. When he wasn’t working he lay on his twin-sized bed in his nappy, stinky room and read and drank alone. He often read Bukowski. His life, to him, felt very romantic in a dark way. It was almost as if he wanted to be a writer. But no. He didn’t want to write. Not really. He wanted to be a teacher, to teach English Literature. But every time he had this thought he laughed. Him? A teacher? He had a PhD in alcoholism and failure, that was about it. A grade-A loser.

            And then, one day, for no real reason at all—at least no conscious reason—after four months he just up and left. Took all his cash (not much) and thumbed east again, this time all the way to New York City. He camped a few nights out of the city a ways. Wandered around the Bowery and the Lower East Side. Made a few friends. He spent the little money he had. He didn’t work.

            It wasn’t long before he was homeless. It didn’t surprise him. For years he’d been getting closer and closer to the street. At last he tasted it. And it tasted terrible. But he had no will to work. His spirit was cracked. He was exhausted by everything: Work and women and alcohol. He didn’t care anymore. Fuck it. What did it matter, anyway? What was the fucking point of anything? You’re born, you’re abandoned, you struggle and you die. Who needed that?

            Yet he couldn’t help admit to himself that now, over three years later, walking down the corridor to see the one true love of his life…he did care. It did matter. If not for him then for her. He cared for her. Wasn’t that what love was anyway? Caring for someone more than yourself? Isn’t that how lovers felt? Parents? But what about his father? His mother? They hadn’t felt that way. Had they? For the first time in his life the thought came to him: What if his parents really HAD done the best they could? It was a destabilizing thought, and he felt angry just thinking it. And yet…there was something to it. Wasn’t there? No one was perfect. His father had gone through his own abuse as a kid. His mom had been raped as a teenager. That was a terrible story. He hadn’t thought about it for years. He’d repressed it. His folks had had their own hard roads.

            Sam felt like crying. It was bad timing. He thought of James. The anger and violence in the old man’s house. James’s hug. Sam, resting his chin on the old man’s shoulders. Weeping. Letting it all out. How James hadn’t seemed fazed by any of it. Like he knew exactly what he was feeling. It had been powerful. Almost unbelievable.

            Monica jarred him out of his reverie. “Right this way, gentlemen.”

            The nurse’s aid opened a set of doors. They walked through. They were in the ICU.

            “Right this way,” Monica said.

49.

Laura saw Dylan and Sam standing behind the glass rectangles of the hospital room’s doors. A flood of emotion rushed through her body and she cried hard. She felt a mix of desire and joy with fear and worry. But she felt alright physically in this exact moment. She breathed slow and shallow, the tube down her trachea helping her.

            The two men who loved her stood there in the blue hospital clothes provided to them, wearing the white N-95 face masks with plastic shields, just like the nurses. She became aware of all the sounds around her; the beeping of the machine calculating her vitals; Nurse Gifford’s shoes lightly screeching along the linoleum floor as she checked her charts and looked at the various numbers; the vague, distant drone of an airplane far above in the sky. An EMT paramedics van outside in the distance somewhere.

            She closed her eyes for a moment and envisioned her father reading Dr. Suess to her when she was a child, in bed. She saw her mother’s smile when they were close. She pictured her mom sweaty and determined, concentrated, when they played tennis in the park across the street. She thought of high school and all the family trips to Lake Tahoe in the winters, that cabin they always stayed at. She thought of the way she had always trusted her mother, though they’d frequently locked horns when she was a teenager. She thought of how her father had once called the parents of a boy sophomore year who’d said something mean to her and had threatened the kid’s parents, sounding emotional. At the time she’d felt embarrassed…but now she understood it had been unconditional love.

            And she thought of Sam. Sam. All these years with the wrong men. And finally, she’d found him. He’d found her.

            Dylan knocked his knuckles against the glass. She opened her eyes, seeing his blue orbs gaping at her in fear. He mouthed the words, I love you. Laura nodded, crying. She made a groaning noise and looked at Nurse Gifford. The RN handed her the pencil and pad. She wrote, Can you hand this to Dylan, and Dylan only?

            Nurse Gifford called Monica over. “Laura, I need to go check on others. Monica will assist you now. You know what to do if you need me or Doctor Hernandez.”

            Laura nodded.

She wrote, Thank you, Dylan, for doing the best you could. You are not a bad person. I’m sorry I said mean things to you. I’m sorry I said I didn’t love you. We cannot be together anymore. But I do love you as a friend. We had some good times. Thank you for being there when you were.

            Laura

            She tore the piece of paper off and handed it to Monica. She walked it to the door, opened the door a crack, and handed it to Dylan. She said something to Dylan. Then closed the door again.

            Laura shut her eyes tight, crying again. God this was painful.

            Dylan scanned the paper and hung his head for a moment. Then he looked up at her again through the thick door glass. She could tell he was holding back tears. He nodded, very slowly. He breathed. She saw his shoulders fall. It seemed as if he’d let something go, as if he’d given up on something.

            She wrote on the pad: Sam. God. Sam. I love you so much. You have no idea how much I love you. Thank you for finding me. Thank you for giving me your love. Sam, you are a GOOD person. You truly are. Don’t ever think the opposite. Please, for yourself—not for me—GET SOBER. It’s the drinking that is killing you slowly. God, what I would give to have another five minutes with you. In my bed. She paused a moment, breathing as deeply as she could. She fought tears. Sam, you are the best man I’ve ever known. You are the best thing that ever happened to me in my whole life. Promise me you’ll save yourself. Promise me you’ll change. Promise me you’ll…forgive your parents.

            Don’t be mad. Forgive. Let go. Move on.

            I will always love you. I will never forget you.

            With all my heart and soul.

            Laura H. DiLane,

            Weill-Cornell Hospital, September 19^th, 2020,

            New York City

            She laid there silently for a moment holding the pad on her shallowly rising chest. It felt like she was holding onto life just for this one moment. What about her parents? They wouldn’t get here for hours still. It was too long. She couldn’t wait that long. She just couldn’t. Somehow she intuitively knew this.

            Laura tore the paper page out. She wrote on another one, Monica, please first ask Dylan to leave the room for a moment. Fold my note in half and give it ONLY to Sam.

            Monica did as she asked. She walked to the door. Spoke to Dylan. Dylan glanced at her through the glass with an irritated, confused look. Then he turned and walked out. It was just Sam. The aid’s arm shot through the open door crack and she handed Sam the note. Laura smiled, watching Sam’s harsh green eyes looking at her, and then avert to read the note. It took him a few minutes so he must have read it a few times over. When he looked at her again water edged his eyes. The tears sludged down his cheeks.

            He mouthed the words, Thank. You. Laura. I. Will. Never. Forget. You.

            Laura grinned wide. She felt good. Glorious, even, for just that moment. She tried to breathe. She wondered what would become of the country in terms of the Pandemic. Who would win the presidency in November? Would Trump lose power? She hoped so. So many unanswered questions. What would it be like when it ended? Her life, she realized she meant. This terrified her. Her breathing became more difficult. More and more shallow. Her whole body felt hot. Her stomach started to vibrate and then shake. Her whole torso began thrusting uncontrollably.

            There were voices all around her. The beeping noise went flat and long. Monica was yelling, CODE BLUE, CODE BLUE, WE NEED ALL DOCTORS ON HAND!

            She felt half conscious. She looked for her father, then her mother, and then remembered they weren’t there. They were flying. She felt so scared, so utterly alone. Laura heard a loud commotion at the door and then saw the doors kicked open and there was Sam, weeping, screaming, saying, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD SAVE HER, SAVE HER, SAVE HER, SAVE HER….

            And then two security guards were pulling him away, and he was kicking and crying and shouting and so was she—as much as she could—reaching her arms out, and the doctors flew around her saying something about Respiratory Arrest and the beeping flatlined again and she saw Dylan trying to get through the doors now, screaming also, so high-pitched and angry she couldn’t tell what he said and then the security guys pulled him away, too, and then everything was swirling around her madly, insanely, like being wasted at a rock concert, confused, joyful, terrifying. She felt nauseas. Nurse Gifford was there. Doctor Hernandez. Two other nurses. Frantic hands moved all around her. Serious, frantic voices. The voices all sounded wild and distorted and deluded. Was she dreaming all of this? She heard respiratory arrest again and CODE BLUE CODE BLUE CODE BLUE and she’s flatlined, and, all doctors…

            The flatlined beep was the last thing she heard. Mamma, she said in her mind. Or did she say it out loud? I love you, mamma. Daddy. I love you. Goodbye.

            She felt her eyes close. She sensed her consciousness fading. She saw a bright light in her inner world. She smiled, at least internally. Her head tilted to her side.

            And then everything went black.

50.

Sam gazed at Dylan as Dylan read the note Laura had written to him. Then he looked away. It was awful seeing her in that ICU room, lying supine on that bed, the nurse’s aid helping the three of them to communicate. Lord, she looked horrible. It was surreal with that ventilator down her trachea. It made everything feel so much more real.

            A few minutes later Monica came back and handed Sam a note from her. The doctor told Dylan she wanted a few minutes alone with Sam. Dylan looked at Laura through the glass, and then he stared momentarily at Sam. Hey, Sam thought, Don’t get mad at me. I didn’t ask you to leave the room. She did. Monica nodded to Sam after Dylan walked off. Sam paused and looked at Laura through the glass. He felt his pulse in his brain. He breathed long and deep and slow. Then he read her note.

            He stopped after he read it and nearly cried. He looked away for a second, pulled himself together, and then read it again. And a third time. A fourth. He gaped at her and felt the tears moving down his face. She was saying goodbye. He wanted to come to her. But he couldn’t. He committed himself right then and there to achieving what she told him to. What James told him to: Getting sober. Changing his life. Even, he thought…even that. Forgiving his parents. Oh, God. It was deep. He didn’t know. Could he do this? Any of it? Maybe she’d be okay. Maybe they’d be together and he could try AA. Maybe her love would be enough to sustain him. Maybe…

            She started struggling to breathe. Her chest began to convulse violently. The beeping machine flatlined in a long, monotone noise. Panicked personnel ran into the room, masked. Dr. Hernandez yelled. He heard words like code blue; flatlined; respiratory arrest; emergency; calling all doctors.

            Something supernatural, beyond human came over him and he shoved the doors open and ran into the room, yelling her name, saying he loved her. Then two giant security guards were tearing him away from her. She looked at him as they carried him out of the room. He kept yelling I LOVE YOU, LAURA; I LOVE YOU, LAURA; I LOVE YOU, LAURA, with the tears all over his face, his voice getting hoarse.

            Fifteen minutes later Sam and Dylan were sitting on benches down the hallway, on the ICU floor. There was a large window overlooking the Upper East Side and Sam looked out of it, seeing the buildings and the East River and the Waterfront and Roosevelt Island. The Roosevelt tram, a red cart, carried people along the thick wire from Midtown to the island. It was now sunny and cold-seeming out. The morning gray was gone.

            Sam heard a door creak open down the hallway. He glanced back. It was Dr. Hernandez. He wiped his hands and walked slowly towards them from across the hall. Dylan sat across from Sam, his head in his hands, looking down at the hardwood floor. Sam wanted to speak, to say or do something. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

            Then Dr. Hernandez was there, facing them. His hands were planted in the big, deep pockets of his hospital blues. A stethoscope hung round his neck. His dark brown eyes looked defeated. Sam saw how hard the doctor was checking his tears. Professionalism. That must be incredibly hard, Sam thought. He remembered thinking that years later. In that precise moment. Before Dr. Hernandez said a word.

            Silence ensued. It seemed to stretch. Then Dr. Hernandez breathed, and sighed loosely and gently. He looked at Dylan, who was now facing him expectantly. And then he looked at Sam.

            The doctor pulled his hands from his pockets. He wore blue latex gloves. He crossed his arms against his chest. “Laura had a code blue. She flatlined. It was a respiratory arrest. The combination of the Covid mixed with the blood clot and former stroke and the Cystic Fibrosis were too much for her to handle. She didn’t make it. She’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

            Dylan’s eyes bugged out wildly. He didn’t speak for a moment. Then he dry-heaved. Instinctively, Sam came to him and placed his palm on Dylan’s shoulder but Dylan violently flung it off. “Don’t touch me you fuck,” Dylan hissed angrily.

            Sam spread his palms out wide. He backed up.

            Dr. Hernandez was about to speak but Dylan rose and suddenly attacked the doctor. He backed Dr. Hernandez up against the wall holding the man’s collar. Dylan’s eyes were red and bloodshot. He screamed at the doctor saying YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER YOU KILLED HER…

            Dylan fell back and onto his knees and he was weeping uncontrollably. Security appeared and took Dylan under the arms and moved him away.

            Doctor Hernandez faced Sam. A single tear slid down the doctor’s cheek.

            “I did everything I could,” the doctor said.
            Sam nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. Thank you for caring for Laura.”

            “It’s tragic when they’re this young. Twenty-seven. Barely getting started in life.” The doctor seemed to momentarily scan Sam up and down.

            “I loved her,” Sam said. He felt the lump in his throat, the tears brewing in his eyes. He touched the folded note in his pocket.

            Doctor Hernandez wiped his eyes. He said, “I know you did. You’re here.” He paused, then added, “You should get a more accurate PCR Covid test, son. Just to make sure. Especially if you’ve been in contact with her recently. Sixty percent of cases are asymptomatic. The rapid tests aren’t always accurate. Tell Dylan the same. We can do the tests now…but you won’t get results for 2-3 days.”

            Sam nodded. “Okay.”

            Sam was led down the hall and into another room. Doctor Hernandez kept walking.

            Sam stopped. “Can I see her, Doc?”

            The doctor stopped. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s impossible. Only family.”

51.

Sam left the hospital, staggering west along East 70^th. He was in shock. He felt disturbed. It was bright daylight now. Sometime around eight AM, he figured. The late September sun arrowed down against his skin. He was cold. But he was starting to get warm.

            He needed alcohol. And now. But he was dead-broke. Where had Dylan gone? He wasn’t even sure. He felt like he’d been out drinking all night, like he hadn’t slept at all. It reminded him of his wild teenage drinking years in Seattle, sneaking into bars in Capitol Hill and in the University District, going with the guys down to Lake Washington with some stolen forties to get loaded. Sometimes they met drunk girls on the street and convinced them to join. He remembered so many mornings waking up in strange places, with strange girls he didn’t know, feeling hung-over and confused with a pounding, awful headache, desperate for water and sugar and greasy food. Those days felt like a lifetime ago.

            At the corner of 2^nd Ave and 70^th—he was heading back west to the bushes behind Billy Johnson Playground—he walked into a liquor store. He stepped slowly in and heard the door bell ding. He was anxious. He hated doing this. But he had to.

            He faced the old Arab man behind the counter. He scanned the bottles lined up pretty and violent behind him. He said, “Gimme two pints of Sapphire Gin.”

            The man stared at him for a second, dark eyes, chewing a piece of pink gum, arms folded across his burly chest. He slightly nodded and pulled the pints down. They clanked together inside of the brown bag. He handed them over. Sam dug round his pockets pretending to grab his wallet. Then he snatched the bag and ran out the door. He heard the bell dinging as he flew.

            “HEY!!!” he heard the Arab man scream after him.

            Still running, Sam glanced behind him and saw the Arab man giving chase. And gaining. The man was in his mid-forties, perhaps, big but muscular and in shape.

            Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

            At 3^rd, a police cruiser passed by slowly and he heard the Arab man yell for the cop to stop. Sam didn’t wait to find out if he did. He kept running. At Lexington he took a right and trudged north to 71^st. At 71^st he ran across the road barely missing being hit savagely by several cars. Two honked brutally at him. One skidded out. Sam heard a siren somewhere; he doubted it was for him.

            Then he was passing Park Ave and 71^st, running hard across the wide, two lane road with the divider in the middle. The voice of the Arab man was now gone. Sam was out of breath, panting. His heart thundered against his chest.

            He passed Madison Ave and then slowed, at last arriving at 5^th Ave and the knobby, uneven cobblestone of the path paralleling Central Park. He thought instantly of the Trumper. The gun. Floyd. Sam jogged south along the cobblestone. He passed runners and joggers and walkers and people sitting on green benches drinking white to-go cups of coffee.

            At the spot to enter Billy Johnson Playground—between 66^th and 67^th—Sam entered, his chest expanding and contracting, expanding and contracting. He saw and heard the voices of little children playing in the playground with their mothers. So innocent, as if life were easy. It was hot and bright sunny out. He shoved around the bushes and saw his black pack and sleeping bag, just as he’d left them when Dylan woke him up. Nothing had changed.

            He stepped to his sleeping bag and fell down, crying. He stifled the noise with his hand. He was here. Back where he’d started two hours before. But everything had changed. Everything. She, Laura, was…dead. Fucking dead. Dead dead dead. Jesus H. Christ. Sam wept, holding his face in his palms. He tried to stay as quiet as possible so as not to make the children’s mothers aware of his grief. No one cared. The world didn’t give a shit. It just didn’t want him to get in anyone’s way. In the way of real people. He was a fake person, a subhuman, a non-entity.

            He stared up at the bright blue sky. The sunshine felt good. His breathing was slowly starting to calm. The brown lunch bag with the two pints sat next to him.

            “Oh GOD,” he said sluggishly, out loud, “What am I going to do without her?” His lips trembled. His hands shook. “I loved her.” He shook his head. “I loved her, man.” Spittle flew from his mouth. He was a mess. “She was beginning to feel like my best friend. My soul-mate. You get someone like that maybe once in a lifetime. If you’re lucky.”

            He wiped his face dry from his tears with the heels of his hands. He breathed long and deep and slow. Why? Why was she dead? Why did she have to die? Why now? WHY NOW?  

            A level of clarity descended unexpectedly into Sam’s mind. What do you want to do, Buddy?, an internal voice proclaimed. Your call, chief. He opened his pack and searched around, finding the blue Big Book of AA. He sat it on the ground. Next to the brown lunch bag with the two pints. He felt a lusty surge inside, a desperate craving for alcohol. He wiped his mouth.

            He realized in that moment that he was at a turning point. Laura was gone. She was never coming back. Ever. Her fate had been sealed. He’d never see her or smell her or touch her or hear her ever again. He dipped his head, feeling that stone in his tight throat, adrenaline pushing through him. He felt the tears sliding down his face. He looked up again. At the bushes. At the sky. Momentarily even at the sun, directly, like you’re never supposed to do.

            He pulled out her note. He read it again, slowly. And then again. And again. He groaned. She begged him to change. To get sober. To forgive his parents. He knew it was the right thing to do. But: Could he actually do it? Was Sam worth it? He didn’t even like himself, let alone love himself. Was there anything there, inside, worth loving to begin with? Well, he said to himself: Laura loved you. That was true. She had loved him. Truly and completely and, also, rather confusedly. He hadn’t understood exactly why she’d loved him. Or really why he’d loved her. They came from completely different universes. Different backgrounds. Different classes. Different everything. But their mutual love had sliced like a magic sword through all of that superficial shit.

            Love was powerful. Love could move mountains. Love could change people.

            And what about James? He loved Sam, too. He did love Sam. He had said so, straight-out. Let us love you until you learn to love yourself.

            Then that other, deeper voice, from the depths of the black void: C’mon, Sam. You’re a drunk piece of shit. You’re worthless, kid. You and I both know that’s the reality. Daddy beat your ass for six years. He didn’t want you. Mamma looked the other way. Amanda abandoned you. You’re a loser. Nobody loves you. Nobody wants you. Nobody ever has and nobody ever will. Hell, even Zelda cheated on you. And now Laura abandoned you. Drink, you fuck. Drink. Drink. Drink.

            Whenever this game happened, the bad voice always won. Every single time. Sam sighed, pulling one of the pints from the brown lunch bag. He wiped his mouth again. He felt sweaty and tired. Part of him wanted to sleep. Part of him wanted to drink himself into oblivion. Part of him wanted to leap off the Brooklyn Bridge into the East River. End it all right now. Join Laura. Thinking of her—seeing her body convulsing, her struggling to breathe, the nurses and doctors rushing in, him yelling for her—made him cup his face again and weep. It had been so…shocking…so…violent…so…unexpected. Like a dredged up, horrible, surreal nightmare. He kept thinking he’d wake up and everything would go back to real life, back to normal. He’d go to her place, #2F. They’d kiss and make love. They’d have pillow talk. Why had he left her that way the last time? That had been the last time they’d interacted before he saw her in the hospital.

            God, he said out loud, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

            He remembered saying this prayer in rehab. But something felt different now. He uncapped the pint. He brought it to his nose. Smelled it. Closing his eyes he inhaled the rancid liquor. A siren cut down 5^th Ave on the other side of the wall. He felt like his life was on the other side of a wall from the rest of humanity. He was captured; fucked; different. And yet, right here and now, in this moment, his whole body seemed to glow, pulsate in some new white light. An internal light.

            Suddenly, the bottle opening half an inch from his mouth, he stopped. Was this really what he wanted or needed? Was he just going to drink himself to death? Drink for the rest of his life? He was thirty-nine. He wasn’t old yet. He still had time. He thought of James and his words. His love. Laura and her words, her love. The good times as a child. It wasn’t all bad, was it? It couldn’t all be bad. Couldn’t it be possible that his parents were, in fact, decent people, deeply flawed human beings who’d been broken themselves and had done the best they could?

            He held the pint in his hand, near his mouth, for a whole minute. An internal struggle pulsed within him. An angel on one shoulder versus a demon on the other. Slowly, he lowered his arm. He looked at the pint. He sighed. He said, out loud, very softly. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t love you. If I love you it means I hate myself. I have to change. I need to change. I must change.”

            Sam turned the pint upside down, pouring it out. He snatched the second one, uncapped it and did the same. It hurt, wasting all that free alcohol. But he knew it was right. 

52.

Two days passed and he did not drink. He hadn’t seen anyone. He’d read the AA Big Book. He’d gone on quiet, thought-filled walks. He suffered through mild delirium tremens. His hands shook. He felt cold. He threw up several times. He had walked into the hospital and discovered he was positive for Covid-19. It was likely he’d been the one who gave Laura the virus. He wanted to beat himself up. But three things stopped him: One, the fact that they’d both made the choice independently to see each other and to physically touch; Two, he just didn’t have any fight left in him to hate himself anymore; and Three, he had already decided he was going to change. He had, for the first time, hope.

He knew who he needed to see.

He banged on James’s door. It was a little past nine AM. He’d half walked, half run. Sam was exhausted. He felt thrilled and excited, terrified and like he was opening a brand new door onto a brand new path. He was done. He had hit his penultimate “bottom.” He was ready. Somehow, all of the sudden, he was ready. But surely this was not “sudden,” but rather the slow accumulation of years and years of suffering. He’d been doing this to himself since he was eleven years old. Twenty-eight years of hard drinking and rough living. He’d always been an angry person. A rebel. An outsider. A freak, really. A deep, intellectual person, but a very scared man. A childish man. A man who would rather drink at his problems than face them.

            But now, finally, he was going to face this shit. Once and for all.

            The door opened and James stood there, his white thick hair and his jean coveralls. He had his green mug of black coffee in one hand.

            “Sam. What are you doing here so early?”

            Sam wore his blue hospital face mask. “Put your mask on, James. I tested positive for Covid.”

            “You did?” James said, scrunching his eyebrows, curling his mouth.

            Sam nodded. “You better get tested, too. We’ve been in close proximity.”

            “Hold on.”

            James left Sam standing outside with his door wide open. He came back a minute later wearing a high-level N-95 mask. He wiped his hands with sanitizer from a little bottle. He held the bottle above Sam’s hands and Sam took some and wiped, too. The reek of alcohol wafted. A craving rumbled within Sam’s solar plexus.

            “C’mon in, son,” James said, his voice slightly muffled from his mask.

            Sam entered. He closed the door behind him. They sat at the table. He felt grateful. He smelled the Colombian roast. Sam avoided the old man’s eyes for a minute.

            “Something happened. Something went wrong,” James said.

            He always knew. How?

            “Yes,” Sam said. Already he felt the emotion rising.

            James cleared his throat gently. He was silent a moment. “Want to tell me about it?”

            Sam breathed heavy and slow. He shook his head. “No. I don’t.” He paused. “I really don’t.” he choked up. “But I have to.”

            James didn’t speak. Sam felt that same compassion from him, his old, warm brown eyes, his wrinkled, weathered face. He thought of Vietnam. His dead wife. Fighting in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

            He looked at James and said, “She—Laura—ended up in the hospital last night. Early morning, actually. We had been together and then I got mad at her and I left and…it’s a long story but…” he started to tear up. He braced for it. He paused. Looked away. Clamped his lips down tight. Faced the old man again. He shook his head. “I went there. To the hospital. To see her. Her ex got me. And uh…” he paused. His eyes went loose and he saw double. Tears streamed down. “She had a mix of Covid and Cystic Fibrosis and a minor stroke from a Covid-related blood clot. She didn’t make it, James. She’s dead.”

            “Ah, Christ,” James said. He stared at Sam with such warm compassion and love that Sam couldn’t help himself from crying. So he did. “I’m sorry, kid. I really am. That’s brutal. That’s…” But he didn’t finish his sentence.

            Sam cried and let it all out. James didn’t say a word.

            When he was done, Sam looked at James and said, “I stole some liquor a couple days ago, after I left the hospital. But at the last second I dumped them out. I didn’t drink.”

            James nodded, as if he already knew this. He gripped his green mug with both palms. “Are you done? Is this your bottom?”

            Drying his wet cheeks Sam said, “Yes. I’m done. I’m done. For the love of GOD I’m done.”

            James sat back in his creaking chair, grinning. “I’m glad, kid. I really am. I think you’re ready.”

            Sam pulled Laura’s note from his pocket. He flicked it to James. James opened it and read it. Twice. He tossed it back.

            “She wrote that to you?”

            “Right before she went into respiratory arrest. Before she died.”

            “It’s the truth, kid. She’s right.”

            “I know.”

            James leaned forward onto his elbows on the table. “But you can’t get sober for her, Sam. It’s got to be for you.”

            “It is for me.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Yes.”

            “Are you willing to let me sponsor you?”

            “Yes.”

            “Are you willing to do whatever it takes?”

            “I am.”

            “You’ll do the twelve steps?”

            “I will.”

            James said, “Alright, kid. That’s what I wanted to hear. Your life is going to change. You are going to change. Now, this is out of order as far as the steps, but you need it. Are you ready for your first assignment?”

            I don’t know, Sam thought. But he said, “Yes.”

            James steepled his hands. He smiled a little. “You’re not going to like it.”

            Sam shrugged. “What? Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

            James ogled him silently for a half minute and then said, very softly, “I want you to pick up my land line, right now, and call your father.”

            Sam’s eyes bulged. His heart pounded. “What?”

            “You heard me, kid. You said you’d do whatever it takes.”

            “You tricked me.”

            “Sam. Do you want to change or not?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do you trust me?”

            Sam breathed slow. He stared at James in the eyes. He tapped his fingers on the maple table. “Yes. I do.”

            “You know your parents’ phone number by heart?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Well. Then. Do. It.”

            “Right now?” Sam said.

            “Right now.”

            Sam pushed his chair back slowly and stood. A voice inside told him to run. Fly out the door and sprint out of there. Drink. Steal another pint. In spite of this fear he walked to the land line, a white phone hooked to the wall in the kitchen. It had a three-foot-long curled cord. God, James must have been the only person in New York with a land line.

            Pulling the phone off the hook he heard the flat dial tone and it reminded him of Laura, her hospital room, how she flatlined. He shut his eyes, afraid. He breathed.

            “It’s ok, kid. You can do it.”

            Opening his eyes again Sam said, “What do I say?”

            “Forgive him. Tell him you understand. Tell him you love him. Even if you don’t fully mean any of it. This will help you let go. I’ll be right here the whole time. If it starts to go bad, hang up. You’ll be alright. You have a Higher Power inside of you, Sam, and he’ll guide you through this. Trust this. Trust me. Trust the process.”

            Sam swallowed the rock down his throat. Oh, fuck.

            He slowly typed the numbers in. His palms were sweaty and trembling. He sensed his adrenaline and his pulse against his forehead and ears. He felt slightly dizzy.

            Sam held the phone to his ear. It rang. He hoped no one would answer. His mother wouldn’t be there. His father sometimes started work late. But sometimes he’d be gone by now. Of course it’d been years since they’d spoken.

            Then the line was picked up and a gruff male voice said, “Bouchard residence.”

            Silence. Sam gaped at James. He felt the fear rushing along his spine. He couldn’t speak.

            “Who is this?” the male voice said. His father’s old, gruff, working-class, angry voice.

            “Is this another one of those fucking Pacific Gas & Electric bill collector assholes? I told you already: I’ll start paying next month!”

            Silence. Last chance.

            “Dad,” Sam said. “It’s me.”

            Silence. Deep, thick silence. And then: “Sam?”

            He breathed slow. “That’s right. It’s Sam. Your son.”

            Heavy breathing on his dad’s side. He heard his father shuffling round and then pulling a chair out and sitting down. He pictured his father at the kitchen table. He saw the sink and the marble counter and the window and the blinds. He saw the living room with the furry dark-brown rug and the couches and the flat-screen TV. He saw the stairs and the front door and his parents’ room and his childhood room. He saw the sliding-glass doors and the backyard. He saw everything.

            “Where are you, son?”

            “New York City. Been here the last three years.”

            “Where are you living exactly?”

            He hesitated. He glanced at James. James was watching him, drinking his coffee. He gave Sam a thumbs-up.

            Sam moved his tongue round his lips. “I’m on the streets, pa.”
            “Jesus, Sam. Christ.”

            “I know. I tried four rehabs. Nothing stuck. I know how much you and mom love me. I just didn’t know how to cope. I felt abandoned. I felt…fucked up. I felt like…all the violence when I was a kid…all the hitting…all the drinking…”

            “I’m sober, Sam.”

            Silence. “What?”

            His father sniffled and then, to Sam’s shock, started to lightly cry. “I just celebrated eighteen months. Listen. I’ve worried about you incessantly. I have. Your mother, too. We split up.”

            “Really? Seriously?”

            “Yep. Six months ago. She said I could keep the house. She wanted to leave. She’s living with your sister in Portland.”

            “Wow. I don’t know what to say. I’m shocked.”

            There was a long silence and then his father said, “Sam. Listen. When you were young.” Sam braced for anger. For confusion. For rage. He prepared to hurl the phone at the wall. “I was an asshole, son. I was a shitty, horrible father. I let you down. I wasn’t there when I should have been. I was an active alcoholic. I was full of self-loathing and self-hatred. I never loved you or treated you the way you deserved to be treated. It was wrong. It was so wrong, son. There’s nothing I can ever do to repay what I’ve done.”

            Sam felt the tears dripping down his cheeks. He felt a huge sense of physical and emotional relief. Like something had literally been lifted off his shoulders. He started crying loudly, weeping. The dam just cracked and crumbled. His father cried, too.

            A few minutes later, sniffling, breathing deep and slow, collecting himself, Sam said, “I forgive you, father. I know you went through your own shit when you were a kid yourself. I love you.”

            “Oh, Sam. I love you, too. Thank you, son. Thank you. Thank you.”

            They were quiet for a solid minute, each in his own world. Everything was going to be different. Everything was going to change. Nothing would stay the same.

            “I’ve got to go, Dad. I need to work with my sponsor.”

            “You’re sober too, son?” His father’s voice sounded positively glowing.

            Sam looked at James. Sam smiled, which he’d thought impossible. “I’m working on it.”

            “Alright, son. Will you come see me soon?”

            He nodded. He cupped his trembling mouth. He gathered himself. “Yes, dad. I will. I’ll come see you soon.”

            “I love you, son.”

            “I love you, too.”

53.

Eight months later—May, 2021—Sam jumped onto the zoom AA meeting. He was the speaker. He sat on a chair at his small dinner table next to his spacious open kitchen, his laptop open in front of him.

The Pandemic was still alive and kicking, but they had all been vaccinated now. A real, actual vaccine, not a Donald Trump version. They were close to herd immunity at last. Biden was president of the United States. The senate had turned Democratic.

Today was eight months sober. He hadn’t had a drink since the night Laura died. He’d gone through all 12 steps. James was still his sponsor. James had gotten Covid-tested and had been negative. Sam had self-quarantined for two weeks and nothing happened. He tested again a month later and they found the antibodies. He’d admitted he was powerless over alcohol. He’d discovered his own Higher Power. He did a 4^th step list of resentments, identifying “his part” in each one. He read that list to James. In step nine he called people and did zoom chats with people he’d hurt in the past. He owned his part. And he did step twelve, sponsoring two guys himself. Passing the message on, as James had done for him.

Not a day went by that he didn’t think about Laura. He envisioned her curly blonde hair. The way she smelled. The way she talked. The way she tasted. Her soft kisses. The way she made him feel when he was with her. Their pillow talk conversations. He still didn’t understand fully why she’d “picked” him. And above Dylan, the perfect, Ken-doll New York man. But, now, he knew that she’d seen the little spark deep down inside of him. That little fire which had never completely gone out. It never died. It had always stayed alive. Even during the worst times of his drinking. There’d been moments when that spark was so low it seemed gone. But it wasn’t. Not all the way. And now that spark had been blown into a raging fire. He liked himself, for the first time. Dare he say he loved himself. Or at least he was going in the right direction.

He’d talked to his mother, to his sister; he even visited them in Portland. He met with his father in Seattle at his childhood home. They embraced, weeping, holding each other for a long time. He tried to locate Zelda but couldn’t find her. He found as many people as he could and apologized for the past. He asked for their forgiveness. They granted it. They wished him well and said they were glad he was sober.

Like Laura had wanted, and like James had promised, his life changed. It was still in the process of changing. He was working as a server in a restaurant in Midtown. He’d worked his way up from bussing tables. He made enough to live in a tiny studio in East Harlem (a rough area but at least he had a roof over his head) by himself. He worked six days a week and took a night zoom class (American Lit) at City College of New York. He loved it. He read books. He felt stimulated. He walked around Central Park, hands shoved into his jeans pockets. He had new clothes. He gave the homeless people quarters when he saw them. He sometimes told them how he’d been homeless and how AA had changed his life. He had a socially-distanced outdoor dinner with James every Sunday.

Sam smiled at all the sober people in the little squares on his laptop screen. The meeting started. The secretary did the opening bits. Someone read the AA preamble. Someone read How it Works, from Chapter five. And then the secretary said, “And without further ado, our speaker today is Sam B.”

Everyone clapped. Sam laughed. He un-muted himself.

“Hey, everyone. My name’s Sam and I’m an alcoholic.”

People waved and smiled and clapped.

“It all started, really, with a woman. Love will do that to you. It’ll change you.”

And then he told his story.