99 CENTS
By
Upstairs there was a ruckus again, and I went
on about my business stealing pepperoni from grandma’s fridge. Pepperoni was strictly forbidden in the house, and always available
beneath the lettuce in the vegetable drawer. Downstairs my uncle stumbled about trying to find his bed. It was eleven o’clock on Sunday
morning, and grandma had been cooking sauce since nine. I went out into the driveway between our house and the neighbor’s. Walking
to the yard I heard my uncle through one of the half-windows of the sub-basement, “Shittin, shit God,” he yelled. He was an
unemployed mathematician, who drank too much for too long. I guess he finally found his bed and fell asleep.
Brooklyn was a mad house, an asylum, a myriad of sirens on summer nights, but our place on a ¼ acre of land numbered 402 was a safe
house where heads rested on pillows, and slept comfortably amid chaos. Through the window, by the fire escape on the second floor,
I could hear the endless baritone that played background music to my life; my father, cursing about someone or something would pause
only to reach his head out the window and swear death upon the miserable mutt that was barking in the yard. He thought the world would
fall apart if he stopped yelling and deep down inside he was scared, like everyone else that someday it would. Ma would be up there
too, doing the laundry and thoroughly ignoring my dad; she had a way of tuning out anything she deemed ridiculous.
I walked to the back of the house and stood up on the gate that ended our yard and started another. I leapt a bit and grabbed onto
the last rung of the fire escape ladder, which led into my room. A few good tugs on the biceps and I was up over the bars, one foot
then the next, onto the fire escape and into the window. This entrance held less peril than the front door, and I learned early that
a simple screen window was no match for steadfast determination.
An hour
earlier, I was in grandma’s living room surrounded by white painted wall paneling and matching elephant lamps. My Grandfather
was watching a boxing match on the television; pulling deep breath into his nose and pushing them out his mouth in short, timed, spurts
like he read in his nutritionist’s digest. He was a great man, my grandfather. He had self worth and calloused fingers; blue eyes
like oceans.
He turned to me in his easy way and said, “Joseph,
what’s on your mind”
“What are my parents always fighting for?” I asked.
“Your old man needs ninety nine cents to make a dollar,” he said.
“What
does he need a dollar for?”
“He doesn’t exactly need a dollar,” he replied
and scratched his head.
“Well, how much does he need?” I asked.
“He needs allot.” He left it at that.
After going through the fire escape
and up to my room, I lay the pepperoni on my bed, crossed my legs, and thought about the end of the world while sucking down unholy
and wholly unhealthy amounts of the forbidden fruit of my childhood. I needed ninety-nine cents to make a dollar, but that didn’t
seem too hard to me at the time.
A hot hazy afternoon passed by, and
I imagined how life would be when I grew up, how I would have money and buy my Ma nice things. The planet was moving around
a great ball in space without me knowing it, as beautiful reds and yellows poured into the clouds.
After Sunday dinner at Grandma’s, Ma sent my brothers and me up to see my dad. He’d be sitting up there watching a game with his pile
of dirty dishes stacked onto a tray. His hair was always neatly combed back and slightly damp from the shower. I would search
for some scrap to talk about, some thread of conversation to keep alive. Hoping the whole time that some spectacular play would take
place for us to talk about. Those were the best times, when we had a subject handed to us; when he was the grown-up and I was the
child. With each hair combed neatly down, he could take the driver’s seat and teach me something about football. All the
other nights it was like counting time at the gates of eternity. My father wasn’t a bad man: He worked hard and came home to
us each night. And on Christmas, when he drank enough, he told us how much he loved us, and meant it. I went up first that night in
order to get it over with.
I went out the front door of Grandma’s house
and past my uncle on the top step. His left foot was up on the corner of a cement flowerpot. His left elbow rested against
the bent knee and the left arm dangled casually with a cigarette between the second and third fingers.
“Hey kid,” he smiled. “What’s the word today?”
He was damn elegant
standing there with that smile on his face; looked like he should be in a fine suit in front of a nightclub. Instead he wore
brown shorts, old corduroys cut at the knees, with a belt that was too long and pulled too tight at the waist. His Budweiser
stuffed into a brown paper bag even though he was sitting on his own stoop. The bag made no sense, but it was a perfectly normal
sight for a Sunday night at 402 Avenue W, Brooklyn NY.
“Want to take a
walk?” He asked.
“Sure,” I said, and forgetting my father, we started
silently down the street making our way to the local bar. After a while of walking, I began asking him to tell old stories about my
dad.
“How about the one where you guys got that picture of you over dad’s
shoulder with the big black eye?”
“Which ones that?” He joked. “You
already know that one. How ‘bout the one when I was living with Teresa? You know she was a junkie.” My eyes lit
up.
“What’s a junkie?”
He made a gesture of a hypodermic needle
piercing the skin and I cringed.
“I catch you on that stuff I’ll break
your face for you. You understand me?” He stopped and grabbed me by both shoulders and almost burned my cheek with his cigarette.
He curled his chin up and tightened his eyes to slits; half telling me and the other half begging me from behind the mask of alcohol
and broken teeth, “You understand me, what I’m saying?”
“Sure I do,”
I said, and I did.
“O.K., Teresa was out one night late and I went down
to meet her. I could fight both righty and lefty you know, but at heart I’m a southpaw. Smack cracked that guy.” His face
welled up with pride as he made a fist and beat it against his open hand. “He was bugging her about some money. Luckily
I went downstairs to meet her. I popped him one in the jaw and he went down like a rookie. I had my money then, so I threw his
ten bucks on the floor and I went upstairs with my lady. I could never get her off that stuff, but I could take care of her. I’m no slouch you know. I can still fight alright too.” He play punched me in the arm and his face twitched the way it did when
he got excited.
When we opened the door to the Playboy Pub, he walked me to the bar. I sat myself up on a big stool. My uncle pulled me over a plate of pretzels and ordered drinks.
“Give my uncle a soda,” he called, “and a vodka for me Eddie.”
The smoke was thick around the pool table so it was hard to see who
was shooting. Someone yelled “Hey Paulie. Who’s that with you, your guardian angel?”
“That’s right you ugly bastard,” yelled my uncle without looking back. He drank up the Vodka and asked for another. I
sipped my soda and pretended it was something else.
Change was flying
around the place with great ease - unlike the supermarket where mothers read labels and price tags, dividing dollars by ounces to
formulate the real value of a can of beans. At the Playboy, when the door slapped shut and the lights went gray, the men just
kept going till the money was gone. There were two such men in the corner booth under the sign that read, ‘Taste the High Life’, in
neon yellow. The ‘H’ in High flickered on and off to no particular beat, but it did set nicely on the men’s faces as they drank
and talked.
“Is that The Twins over there?” My uncle asked. “Come
meet The Twins.”
The Twins looked like young boys that someone had made
up to look older. Their faces were weathered and beaten and their bodies were long and stretched out by time, but something in their
eyes made you think it was all a joke. I had met them plenty of times before, but each time was like a new time. Sometimes they
wouldn’t remember me and say, “nice to meet you.” Other times they would think they remembered me, but really they remembered someone
else; so I pretended to be someone else for a bit. My uncle never gave me away. This time I was to be Jonathan who was just
back from military school.
“Hey boys,” my uncle chimed. “Slide
over and make room.”
“Jonathan,” one of the twins said to me.
“Hey.”
“How’s military school treat’n you?” He asked.
I looked over at my uncle and he shrugged his shoulders, absolving himself of any responsibility for the twins.
“Military school is just fine I guess. If you like war, I mean.”
“We’re all proud of our soldier,” said my uncle.
“I like war just fine,” the first brother said, “it’s straight to the point.”
Then the other brother jumped in and finished, “That’s right, you don’t like what somebody’s doing you shoot them and if you do like
what somebody’s doing you shoot the guy who don’t like what they’re doing.”
“Nothing makes friends like enemies,” my uncle put in.
“It works out
well,” said the first. “I was in Vietnam you know?”
“And where the hell was
I?” asked the other.
“War made me a man,” said the first.
“We both grew up in Vietnam. Man, I was 12 weeks straight in the jungle one time. Carried an M16 all the way cross from
one side of the country to the other, killin’ everythin’. No sleep and no food either.”
“War was ugly,” growled the other.
“Yes,” said the first, “before that
I couldn’t blow my own nose.”
“Now war is clean. Just drop bombs;
fly over some little countries and drop bombs,” finished the other, calming down a little bit.
Then the first continued, addressing me directly, “In war you don’t think ’bout blowing your nose, though. It makes no difference
that you can’t breathe easy or that your home in time for supper.”
“Kill, Kill, Kill,” cried the other.
My uncle jumped in then.
“Alright, alright,” he said and spread his fingers out over the table as if to soothe the conversation, “Your beer’s finished Jimmy,
that’s all, you’re alright”
“You’re gonna have a good time in war school
kid,” said Jimmy and then turning to his brother, he said, “Go get us a beer.”
“You go,” the other said back.
“I’ll go,” I put in, “but it’ll cost you.”
T hey laughed an easy outrageous laugh, and Jimmy gave me a worn down five-dollar bill. I got up and went over to the bar. I pulled myself up on one of the stools and said, “Two Heinekens Eddie.” The bartender looked at me for a minute.
“Come on, it’s for my friends.” I said.
Eddie looked over at my uncle,
who nodded back to him. He uncovered two bottles and pushed them in front of me. I slid him the money and said, “Thanks
Eddie, you’re alright.”
“That just makes my day kid,” Eddie said without
expression.
I carried the beers back to the table and pushed them in front
of Jimmy and his brother. Jimmy slid me a nickel from his change and drank his beer. I did the math and weighed the ounces:
It would take about 3 gallons of beer to make 99 cents, but I had all night. When the other men saw me getting beers at a nickel a
pop they couldn’t bear to be excluded.
“One over here,” one yelled, while
someone else just waved an empty bottle in the air, and hung his head down in shame until I brought him a refill. Not everybody
gave a nickel, but everybody gave something, and it seemed that the more they drank the less they gave. They were pacing themselves
out, making the money last. Half of them couldn’t make out two plus two, but when it came to calculating how many beers they could
afford for the night not one of them was anything less than a genius. My uncle was a prince here. He could make something out
of nothing, which was lucky for him. People wanted to buy him drinks. It made them feel better about buying themselves drinks,
and he knew that. He knew when to get up from the twins table and move over to the next. He knew how to work a room, how to
upgrade from a beer to a vodka and get away without tipping.
In the end,
time had flown by and it was late, but I had made my ninety nine cents. I looked around for my uncle and found him in the back
room, lying in a booth. I nudged him awake and helped him up. All the way home my head was flying with bar room chatter,
but we were silent. The night was cool and winter would be back soon, but it didn’t matter; it was still summer and the world
was wide open. I had made my ninety-nine cents. I was a king among men returning, with his jester, to his castle.
Things went well until we got to Ocean Parkway.
“It’s too big,” he said.
“What is?” I asked.
“The street, we’ll never make it.”
“But, we have
the light,” I said pulling his arm towards the other side.
“No, lights
change – nothing stays the same”
My stomach dropped with that sinking
feeling you can’t quite put your finger on, but you know it happened. You know it happened and there’s no going back from it, no erasing
it.
“OK, but we really should go,” I said trying to keep up our momentum,
but I knew it was useless. Storm clouds were forming in my mind. I could tell by his tone that things had changed. On the axis of those four words - NOTHING STAYS THE SAME - turned a world of light and darkness, a world of alcoholic confusion and
faultiness.
He laid himself down on the ground with his head in the street
and his legs up on the sidewalk, feet flopped parallel to the horizon. Some gravel dug into the flesh of his cheek as I knelt down
beside him. My bare knee touched the ground first and then I shoved my left hand under him, dragging my skin along the gravel. The dirt stung the trails that were now scraped into my forearm forever.
“Go home,” he mumbled.
I felt sorry and embarrassed, but I stayed by his
side.
He twitched a little bit in the jaw and left leg, as he seemed to
fall asleep. I pulled him with all my might and managed to get him onto the sidewalk and out of the street. Luckily he
had been wasting away for most of his adult life or I wouldn’t have budged him. He would have laid there in the street until a car
tire came and pushed him into the ground. The light changed as he said it would, but no cars came to crush him. I laid his head in
my lap and brushed back his stringy red hair; tilting his head a little incase he had to vomit.
“Mother Fucker!” he yelled. Then again for a second time, slowly annunciating each word, “You - Mother - Fucker.” He was mad at the
world because it didn’t add up.
The light clicked from green to red to
green, and in between I wiped his mouth and prayed to god that he would be all right. I thought of how he waived his hands over
the table, earlier, when the twins got a bit overzealous. He seemed to have some power over them and over the whole world at
that moment. The mere movement of his palms crossing a scene could bring calm and order, but now they twitch along the pavement
gently cutting holes into his skin. I passed my hand over him and whispered, “You’re alright Duck. Your beer’s just finished,
that’s all.” This did nothing.
I could see my house from where I sat beneath my uncle and I knew that if I could reach it everything would be OK. My Grandfather
would scream, and Grandma would chew on the inside of her cheek while checking to make sure he was alright. So I sat him up
and said, “OK duck - you’re gonna’ cross this god-dam’ street – because you gotta get to the other side.” I had seen my grandfather
do the same a million times – state the obvious and leave no choices. So I did it and he slowly got up. With his arm over my
shoulder, I could smell the stale mix of blood and alcohol running through his veins, but somewhere beneath that, I could smell my
uncle and I knew that even then, I was perfectly safe. He walked and walked until he reached his bed and then Grandpa’s yelling
started and Grandma bit deep into her cheek, but I’m pretty sure he slept through most of it.
I went upstairs. My Ma was on the couch in the living room reading a book. She put the book down and asked, “Where did
you disappear to?”
“Went for a walk with Uncle Paul.”
“Where?”
“Just around.”
“Your father saw you. You didn’t come up to see him?”
“No.”
“No, I know you didn’t. You should have.”
“I know.”
“OK Get ready
for bed.”
“OK, thanks Ma.”
“Thanks for what?”
“Nothin’,” I said and wiped my nose on my sleeve. She rubbed my head
and smiled as I turned and walked towards their bedroom to see my dad. I opened the door and stuck my head in.
“What’s
the matter?” He asked.
“Nothin’.”
“Your mother’s inside.”
“I know.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I came to say
goodnight.”
“OK.”
“Goodnight Dad.”
“Where’d you go with your uncle?”
“Nowhere.”
“Where’s that?”
“Just
for a walk.”
“Yeah, I saw you out there. Something the matter?”
“Nothin’.”
“All right, your Mother’s inside say
goodnight.”
“Yeah, I know, goodnight.”
I closed the door and walked
to my room. My Ma had fallen asleep on the couch. I kissed her on the forehead, stroked her long red hair, and took off
her glasses to place them on the end table. The light shut with a twist of the switch and I yawned in the darkness. It
felt good to be home.
I looked in on my brothers on my way to bed. They were asleep and the T.V. was sounding off into the night air. I crawled under my sheets and fell asleep.
The next morning the radio was going in the yard, and the game was broadcasting through the window. I rolled out of my bed and
stuck my head outside.
“What inning is it?” I asked.
“Top of the seventh,” called up my uncle, whose freckled shoulders were roasting in the mid afternoon sun; the tattoo of a duck
holding a bottle blending deeper into obscurity from years of fade and fight on suntanned shoulders.
The game announcer cried ‘Holy Cow, he struck him out.’
My grandfather screamed, “Black bastard.”
“He’s alright Pop. He’s just
in a slump,” returned my uncle.
“A slump? These are not ball players.
You think Joe D. ever…”
I pulled away from the window and called into
the kitchen, “Hey, Ma.”
“Well look who decided to join the living,” she
beamed back at me with her hair tied behind her head and her glasses resting on a perfect nose.
“It’s gonna be a good day,” I called back. I was going to feed the hungry, bring world peace, and fix other things of which I had
little or no concept, but I had that feeling. That feeling, that’s bigger than baseball and barbecues, bigger than Santa Claus and
the Sasquash. I was going to give my mom 99 cents and the world would be back in balance.
Ma was reading at the kitchen table while the washing machine, which my Father rigged to the sink, was clunking away undetected.
“Here you go Ma,” I said and laid the 99 cents out on the table.
“What’s this?” She asked.
“It’s 99 cents. Grandpa said you guys needed
99 cents to make a dollar, so here it is.”
My mother smiled and laughed,
“All I need is you baby.”
She took the 99 cents and disappeared into her room. A minute later she returned, laid a dollar bill out on the table, and told
me to take it. I thought to argue, but there was no argument; she picked up her book and continued reading.
I went down to the stoop where my uncle was in his usual spot. I explained the whole thing to him and he shrugged and patted me on
the head.
“Better put it to good use,” he said.
“How about a beer?” I offered.
“You’re too young.”
“Not for me. For you, but you have to promise it will be your last.”
I ran upstairs, got a little sheet of paper, and wrote out a
note that began, “I, Paul Cicalla, being of sound mind…” I added a dotted line and an X to the bottom.
My uncle thought it over and signed it. I stuffed the note into my shirt pocket and went to the store to buy my first Bud. When I
came back we sat on the stoop, looking out onto the street, and he drank the beer saying, “Ahhh, that’s good coffee,” after each sip.
I can still picture us sitting on the steps. The both of us wishing it would be his last beer and knowing it would not.
In my memory I pull away from the house, through the basement and the second floor, and up into our apartment on the third. Through
a sloped roof with grey shingles and black tar, I can pull up past the antennae and into the open air. Then some more houses come
into view. Then a square block amongst a million other square blocks, and Brooklyn like a church, lit with the holy glow of
a working class sunset, red bricks blazing.
Author’s Bio: Joseph Thayer’s work has appeared in several places online and in print, including here in our first issue. Joseph is an expatriate of Brooklyn, NY hiding in the hills of North Jersey with his wife and two children. When he is not writing he performs a high-wire act, zero feet above the ground.
