Marine Park(54)

            When his train came it was crowded, and he came out of the green station doors in a cluster of his friends. They were all just graduating that year, nothing they were supposed to be doing. It wasn’t like they only did this on Fridays. Every other weekday too, Lorris’d be creeping back at three or four in the morning. I didn’t really mind when he asked me for a ride; it was better than waiting at home trying to stay awake longer than he was.

            He opened the front door and he was still wearing my goddamn hat, the gray Mets one. He said, Hey, and put on his seat belt while his friends opened the back doors. I looked through the rearview mirror at them, all steaming from the cold even though no one had jackets on. When they closed the doors the windows immediately began to steam up. I said, Where’s all the girls? and they started roaring, and that made me feel good.

            How was your night? he said.

            Good, I said.

            Someone stole our jackets at the warehouse.

            Always happens, I said. I told you not to take one.

            Yeah, well, he said.

            You’re just lucky it’s not the hat.

            He took it off and held the flat brim between his fingers. He traced the NY, which popped up off the front. I know, he said.

             • • •

We dropped everyone off, the hand slaps at the stoops, the car doors open and shut. The impossibility of red lights at that time of night, just look around in all directions and make sure no cops or other cars were around, and go. Treat everything like a stop sign. I knew where all the cameras were in this neighborhood, had known since I was as old as Lorris is. He never paid attention when we drove anywhere, had his eyes on his hands.

            His friend Omar was last, second base to his shortstop, and they promised to see each other tomorrow. It was a few blocks from our house, and once Omar got to the door I went to put the car in drive, but Lorris put his hand on top. Let’s make sure he gets in OK, he said. We watched the living room light go on, and then go off, and then an upstairs bedroom one flicker quietly. You know we can go now, Lorris said.

            I checked my mirrors and there was no one and we pulled away. When I first got my license and would drive with Lorris, we used to circle the block if a good song was on the radio and we didn’t want it to end. Then in the alley, he’d hop out and open the gate, and I’d pull in slowly, avoiding the garbage cans, trying to get the car in as straight as our dad does.

            Where are you going? Lorris said.

            Let’s drive a little, I said.

            It was only a few blocks to the old house, the farmhouse. We used to think it was haunted. I pulled in front by the white fence. It’s funny, even in a neighborhood with so few parking spots, no one parks in front of the Lott House. Lorris gets out first like it was his idea, and he hops the fence, smoothly, two hands and a leg leap, and he leans up against the big tree next to its wide porch, a weeping reacher like I’ve only seen pictures of, except for here.

            By the time I get there he’s pulled a lighter out of his pocket, and a joint, already rolled. Omar had to get rid of it, he says.

            I didn’t know you smoked, I said.

            I don’t, he said. I just tried it once last week. I don’t think it does anything for me, though.

            You’re probably right, I say.

            He lights it, and passes it to me. I take a nice small puff, like I always do, and he takes it back, does the same thing. He holds it between his fingers for a second. Do you want this? he asks. When I shrug he sticks it in a cluster of dirt and grass next to the tree.

            There are a few wood steps up to the front door, and we stand there, watching the street. A Chevy Malibu goes by but it doesn’t notice us.