Marine Park(38)
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Andrew walked out of the barber shop, past the funeral parlor and the Park Bench Cafe. From behind him, he heard a voice, and he turned around.
Hey, Javi was saying, looking up and struggling with his key in the barbershop door. Can you give me a lift?
Andrew nodded and extended his hand toward where his car was parked, across the street. It was the same Camry. If he got the new job he’d buy a new car. The Camry was a hand-me-down, the type of thing that was good for a late twentysomething. Andrew looked at the car as he opened it. It wasn’t the type of thing you’d put a wife in. Or a child.
Kings Highway, asked Andrew, is that where you’re going? He fiddled with his seat belt.
Well, said Javi. He was wiping stray pieces of hair off his hands, onto the floor in the passenger seat. Andrew wondered if it was his hair.
Could we make a stop? Javi asked. It’s a little embarrassing.
Andrew drove and Javi directed. Up to the light on Quentin. A left on Marine Parkway, the wide street that looked like Paris. Andrew had heard once that real estate agents were telling gentrifiers that that was the beauty of the neighborhood: the wide Parisian streets. Andrew wondered whether middle class neighborhoods could be gentrified. He didn’t expect to see many coffee shops. Though even Ditmas Park was getting crowded. Left on Avenue U, Javi said.
Andrew pulled into the Avenue U parking lot, which was nearly empty of cars. One SUV had its trunk open, playing Jamaican dance hall music. There was a cricket game happening at that side of the park, though it seemed to Andrew like it was miles away. The SUV was full of men and women watching the game, people lounging on the side. In the corner, where during the winter a company comes to sell Christmas trees, there was a small white car, which at first glance you would think was a woman’s car. Andrew wasn’t sure why—the color and the careful polish? Here, Javi said. When he got out, the door of the white car opened, and then Andrew grinned, because it was Ed Monahan.
Andrew watched the two of them converse from his car. Ed didn’t get out of the driver’s seat. Andrew remembered Ed when they were kids playing basketball in the park. Andrew had been taller, stronger, played center all the way through, but Ed was the real prodigy, had a basketball scholarship to Molloy High School, even though he was one of the shortest guys on Good Shepherd. Andrew had never seen, before or since, on the street courts of the cities he’d lived in, a ball handler as good, one who was as tenacious getting rebounds and looking for the upcourt pass. Ed was the type of kid who, when he was getting refused entry to street games even if it was his rightful next, would take a ball from where it was resting against the chain-link fence and begin spidering, faster and faster, just to show he could. Sometimes the games stopped. More often someone just yelled, Let Whitey in. Ed would stop the wild motions then, hold the ball breathing heavy against his side, flushed with victory, convinced that he was, as everyone told him, good enough. If Andrew remembered right he’d walked on to St. Joseph’s for college—they were looking for a backup point guard. But the starter, a real beautiful kid from the South Bronx, never gave him a chance, and Ed only played the one year. When he came back he didn’t have it in him to take the fireman test, wait on that line. Someone had told Andrew he was working sanitation.
As Javi walked back Andrew stuck his head out the window. Hey, Ed, he called. Hey. Ed Monahan looked up from where he was counting bills, startled. It’s Andrew. Andrew Dempsey, Andrew said. Ed squinted, his dirty ponytail shaking, like he wasn’t sure if Andrew was supposed to be an undercover cop or something—Marine Park had those too. Government employees popping up like McCain signs. How ya doing? Andrew asked, and Ed nodded. You know, fine, fine, all is good. Still playing ball? Andrew asked. Ed peered at him like he was crazy, and then pressed the button to pull his window up.
Javi opened the passenger-side door, putting the ziplock bag in his jeans pocket. Sorry, my friend, he said. Just quick, no problem. Andrew grinned at him. Javi smiled back. Do you want? he asked. Andrew considered. He hadn’t smoked since college, when there were weeks he remembered being high even on the basketball court. Playing pickup, only being able to play one game, because of the kick to the lungs, feeling glorious. But he was expecting to get the new consulting job. It was the type of thing that came with a drug test. They’d probably still be interviewing for the position, and he needed to give his two weeks’ notice. Come on, Javi said. I have one of these, he said, and pulled a one-hitter from his pocket, shaped like a cigarette, where the red glow of the ember could hang on the nether end.