Boys Page 11

  "Is this party at Levonne's place or did he just write down the address for you?" Alfonso said.

  "Levonne wrote it down for me."

  "Is it his place then?"

  "I don't have a clue."

  "It would be weird if it was his place."

  "Yeah, a little weird but who cares. It's a party."

  "True. True. He is a little on the grumpy side to be the host of a party, though. You gotta admit, he's pretty sour."

  "Like Lemonheads sour or like WarHeads sour?" I said. Alfonso placed his hand to his chin to think about this question, scratching his chin with his index finger. He took the question seriously, I could tell.

  "WarHeads sour."

  "That's pretty fucking sour!"

  We yucked it up, Nitzer Ebb's Hearts & Minds slinky beat crackling from the blown-out speakers in the door panels, the reflections of fast food neon signs smearing across the windows then disappearing into the car frame. Alfonso attempted to light a cigarette with his Zippo but the night breeze slithering through the windows kept the flame from igniting off the flint. He put the Zippo in his pocket and pushed the car lighter button, the cigarette dangling from his bottom lip while it waited to be burned into a fiery, carcinogenic, nicotine delivery system.

  "You think she'll be there?" Alfonso said, the cigarette, stuck to his lower lip, flopping up and down.

  "Laura Ann?"

  "Yeah."

  "I hope so."

  "I hope some other good looking chicks are there too." The car lighter button popped up and he lit his smoke. "I need to get laid." He pushed the cigarette lighter back in its place and took a long, deep drag off his cig, exhaling a plume of smoke to the ceiling through an exasperated sigh, his eyes fixed on the bright, pale yellow moon. "Man, I sure could use some trim. It's been a long, long time."

  A turn here and there off Riverside Drive changed the landscape from fast food urban corporate sprawl to gentrified yuppie high-rise condos to down and out hoods to plain old-fashioned shit holes. I rolled down the windows all the way and the cool night breeze poured into the car, flushing the cigarette smoke out. The neighborhood street was lined on both sides with parked late model American cars, Lincolns, Caddies, Buicks, some with magnificent, sparkly, alloy rims, some perched on top of dusty cinder blocks with the dented hoods erected. As we slowly passed each home looking for the party house, we could hear various kinds of music that revealed the diversity of this particular hood--one house emitting the oompa oompa oompas of traditional Tejano music, another thumping the low-end stylings of the Funkadelic-inspired Dr. Dre, another with the beautiful squeal of Stevie Ray Vaughn finger-fucking his guitar. As we came to an intersection, I turned to Alfonso for direction but, knowing my friend knew as much about getting around town as I knew about astrophysics, I took the piece of paper from his hand and reread the address. A copilot from Rosenberg, Texas was worthless in Austin, Texas.

  "Oh, almost there. It's up here," I said, tossing the piece of paper aside. I took a right and parallel parked my car in one fluid motion, squeezing my Civic between a maroon 76 Coup DeVille with a white vinyl top and a brown 74 Plymouth Duster with a flat tire and a smashed windshield. "Should be around here somewhere."

  "Better lock your ride," Alfonso said. "This hood is sketchy." We got out of my Civic, dusting our clothes off, fixing our hair.

  I nodded at Alf, locked my car, and we followed the sidewalk, our hands dragging along a chain-link fence with signs posted every three feet that said, 'Beware of Dog!'

  "I don't see any dog," Alfonso said, peering through the fence, looking for a vicious dog worth posting a sign about.

  "Yeah, me neither. This is 301. Two more."

  The next house was also surrounded by a fence but it was the wrought iron kind, some parts of it painted black, some parts rusted, protecting a house that could barely stand up, looking like a drunk propped up on a bar with one wobbly elbow after being pummeled in a bare-fisted brawl in an alley. A large hole in the roof--remnants of a house fire long ago--was surrounded by poofy pigeons perched for their evening nap.

  "Is this one even worth fencing in?" Alfonso said. "Look at it!"

  "Really, it's a dump," I said, looking for the house number. I saw the number next to the front door except the zero was missing, adding a sad punctuation mark to the depressed exterior of the neglected house. "I think this is 303. The next one should be 305."

  Once the wrought iron fence ended, the side walk revealed a large front yard at the next lot, a tall pecan tree with a thin canopy at the left of it and a massive oak tree with a bushy top to the right of the yard, both trees kept watch over a lush lawn of a mixed variety, St. Augustine and Bermuda grasses intermingling in a cross-hatch of wide and thin blades, some lawn chairs spread out in a haphazard fashion, and a keg of beer in a grey, plastic trash bin sat in the middle of a walk-way that connected the small, white, thoroughly kempt house to the sidewalk. A dozen or so people stood in the lawn in various small, social configurations, some of them we recognized from the P.W., some of them we didn't know at all but looked worth knowing. The party had started without us.

  We approached the first group of folks that included that mooch Warren as well as the other mooch Paul and that bastard Fred. Just like any other place, cliques formed at the P.W. whether the employees wanted them to or not; that's the natural way. Warren, Paul, and Fred gravitated toward each other because they were kindred spirits, ones who were enamored with doing as little work as possible while taking as much from others as possible. Warren loved to mooch cigarettes while Paul was a master at mooching spare change and Fred was... well, Fred was just a contemptible bastard, the sort of coworker who seemed to get out of any side work, was always late for his shifts, never had his own pens or pads of paper, and who passed gas whenever possible in the close proximity of anyone he felt the need to fart on. These three were made for each other.

  "Hey fellas!" said that mooch Warren. "It wouldn't be a party without you."

  "Wazzup?" I said.

  "'Zup," Alfonso said, his greeting more an acknowledgment than a kind regard.

  We eyeballed the beers that the three bastards were holding, craning our necks to make sure the keg was still flowing. Warren extended his arm to keep us from leaving. I could tell he wanted something, that bastard.

  "Can I bum a smoke?" he said.

  "Surprise, surprise," Alfonso said, sliding his hand in his pants pocket as if to shield his pack of smokes from the despicable moochers. Warren looked hurt by Alfonso's gesture to protect his smokes.

  "Come on, man. This is the last time I'll ask. Promise!"

  "That is literally the thousandth time you've said it will be the last time that you ask to bum something," I said.

  Warren eyeballed me, surprised that I seemed to notice, and then conceded a smirk.

  "All right, then. This is REALLY the last time I'll ask," he said, slowly raising his palms to Alfonso, like a starved street urchin whose stomach pangs were too much to bear to suffer from the humiliation of begging.

  "Fine, goddamn it!" Alfonso said, pulling the pack from his pocket and roughly pinching an unsuspecting cigarette, tossing it in Warren's grubby hands.

  "Is this Levonne's house?" I said, looking around for more faces I recognized.

  "Nah, this house here is Levonne's grandmother's. He lives in the slave quarters in the back," said the other mooch Paul, his palms slowly raising toward Alfonso, who grudgingly tossed a slightly bent smoke into his hand as well. Alfonso's face was flushed and steamy. That bastard Fred's hands began to raise when Alfonso snapped.

  "I only have a few left!" he said. "I have to ration the rest."

  Fred slid his hands in his back pockets, tilting his head back as if to say, 'That's fine.'

  "Is his grandmother home?" I said.

  "Nah. Bahamas," Paul said. "Levonne's around back. Some others from P.W. too, the dishwasher, some of the girls, even Paula."

  "Paula's back there?" Alfonso said, surprised
.

  "Yep."

  Alfonso nudged me and we bee-lined for the keg, leaving the dirty three behind who were two cigarettes richer than they were before. The keg was unoccupied, a sleeve of plastic cups duct-taped to the side of the trash can, a metal lockbox attached at the rim of the can with a colorful, hand-drawn paper sign that read: DONATIONS! A fat red arrow with an electric yellow outline pointed to the slot in the middle of the lid to the lockbox. Me and Alfonso rummaged through our pockets, slipping spare quarters and a few, wrinkled dollar bills into the slot. Alfonso unsheathed two cups and held them in front of the keg tap. He tilted his head toward the keg.

  "You pump," he said. I obliged, pumping the beer tap, a glistening stream of golden liquid pouring out. I couldn't help but think that it looked like the keg was urinating in our cups, which wasn't too far from the truth considering how cheap the beer probably was. Soon, we each had two frosty brewskies and marveled that even cheap beer tasted mighty fine when it was very cold.

  SALUD!

  We surveyed the rest of the party-goers and concluded, with a disinterested sigh, that the backyard must be a more interesting place, particularly if Paula the Assistant Manager, who was also very, very pregnant, was back there as well. Surely, a pregnant woman at a late-night party was up to no good. Alfonso led the way with me close behind, around the front, careening around a small group of strangers to the left side of the house, through a metal gate to the crowded backyard. A massive oak tree jutted up from the center of the yard, maybe 20 feet from the back of the house, whose trunk must have been another 20 feet in circumference. 18-inch pieces of two by four were nailed to its side in a ladder-like configuration up to the crotch and we could see legs dangling from up there but we couldn't see who it was. The backyard was filled with an array of metal behemoths, an assortment of dead cars sleeping in the tall grass that would give Alfonso's piece of shit a run for its money--a 21-foot sail boat on a rusty trailer that had seen better days, a small, cinder block house that must have been Levonne's slave quarters, another keg in a plastic trash can with a similar cup sleeve / metal lockbox configuration, and a happy group of people drinking, talking, laughing, all generally having a good time. And even though we had never been there before, there was a feeling of contentment in the air that was palatable. I studied the dangling legs from the crotch of the tree some more.

  "I wonder who that is up there," I said, tilting my head as if manually focusing my eyes.

  Alfonso looked up there too, quickly studying the brand-new pair of Nike Air Jordans on the feet, the starched pair of khaki Dickies, the bright white tube socks with a red and green stripe. The leg dangled limply.

  "Oh, that's just Reynard. I can tell by the shoes," he said. His observant tone surprised me a bit.

  "Reynard the busser?" I said.

  "Yeah."

  "Hmmm. I hope he doesn't fall down."

  "Whatever."

  Behind the oak tree sat a cluster of lawn chairs, some occupied, a couple empty. Me and Alfonso made ourselves at home. We studied the crowd some more, noticing some familiar faces from the P.W., others complete strangers. Alfonso nudged me with his elbow, tilting his head in the other direction, emitting a sound from his mouth that could easily be translated as, 'Oh shit!' Sitting on the hood of one of the automobile carcasses was Paula the A.M., still as pregnant as can be, her stomach protruding in front of her and draped by an over-sized shirt, her arms wrapped around a young man who wasn't impeded by her incubating bun. The young man swooped down on Paula, attaching his lips to her neck. She squealed with delight, fumbling on the hood, almost losing her balance, breaking her fall by wrapping her legs around the young man's twigs for legs. Alfonso chuckled.

  "That is NOT her husband," he said. I raised my eyebrows sharply with mock surprise. We leaned back in our chairs, wedging ourselves comfortably, and raised our plastic cups to each other. "A toast: To the night off."

  We clinked our cups together.

  "Cheers," I said.

  "Have you seen Laura Ann?" Alfonso said.

  "No, not yet. Have you?"

  "Yep. Over there."

  "Where?" I said, craning my neck, looking around.

  "There, by the fence."

  I turned to look, scanning along the fence at the side of the property.

  "She's talking to that dude over there," Alfonso continued. "She looks happy. She looks good too. Damn, she's hot!"

  I found her standing next to a good-looking dude, a guy who looked familiar but who didn't work at the P.W., maybe from a neighboring business or from the university. She talked casually with the guy, one of her hands on her hip, the other holding a cup of beer in front of her. She sipped her beer as she listened to the guy go on and on about something, laughing occasionally at something else, her head flinging back, a casual laugh flung into the air, then a another sip of her beer. They carried on together for a few extended minutes, talking and laughing back and forth as friends do, until the guy seemed to suggest that they explore other parts of the property, and the two walked off together. I watched them as they disappeared around the house, probably going to the front yard, maybe going to the backseat of his car. I sulked a bit. Alfonso noticed and sighed.

  "You gonna go talk to her?" he said. I didn't respond. Alfonso started to console me when two giant hands crashed on our shoulders, like two giant boulders smashing boldly onto the floor of an unsuspecting ravine, thudding loudly. We looked up, surprised, a little of our beers splashing on our laps. It was Levonne, the grouchy cook, our grumpy host for the night. A smile stretched across his face that would make the Cheshire Cat jealous.

  "Wazzup, motherfuckers!" he said, pushing down on our shoulders, giving them a little shake, a little more beer splashing on our crotches. Alfonso quickly wiped the crotch of his pants but it was too late. It looked like we peed our pants. Alfonso sighed, defeated. Levonne bellowed a deep, belly laugh. He was pleased with his handy work. "Don't let the ladies see you pissed yo self!" He pulled open a lawn chair behind us and sat down. "Glad you came to my motherfuckin' party, you motherfuckers."

  "Thanks for having us," I said. "You have a nice setup."

  "My grams lives in the big house, me and my fams lives in the small house over there. But they all gone right now. It's just me, alone."

  "Where'd they go?" Alfonso said. He continued to wipe his pants even though it wasn't doing any good.

  Levonne leaned back in his chair, a cup of beer in one hand, a huge sausage wrapped in a flour tortilla in the other hand. He alternated between the two, a sip here, a chew there. He was medicating his lonely soul.

  "My grams is on a cruise, a Love Boat cruise. Going to the Bahamas. She went with an ol' folks group last week. She be back next week."

  "Sounds nice," I said.

  "Yeah, must be nice," Alfonso said.

  Levonne raised his elbow to the arm of the chair, attempting to prop his chubby chin, but when he tried to rest his wide chin in his big hand, his elbow slipped, shuffling his body violently. Some beer spilled on his lap too and Alfonso couldn't help but laugh. We all looked like we peed our pants and Alfonso felt justified.

  "Goddamn it!" Levonne said. "That's what I get, I guess. I can't do nuttin' right." He shoved the pool of beer off his lap. "Damn!"

  "What do you mean?" I said, curious.

  "My woman left me, took my kid too. They stayin' at her pop's house in Houston. She mad cause I be workin' all the time, stayin' at work late, workin' doubles and shit. But what does she want me to do? We got bills to pay, a baby to feed. Shit, a man's got to work, ya know?"

  "True, true," Alfonso said. "But you have to make your woman happy, am I right?"

  "I guess," Levonne said, a little deflated. "That's the Marvin Gaye answer, ain't it? I try to get all my shit done at work but it never ends. There's always more to do."

  "When is your wife coming back?" I said.

  "Shit, she ain't my wife. She just my baby mama," Levonne said, chomping at the sausage wrap in
his hand, taking a swig of beer, and continued talking with his mouth full, spittle of food and beer spraying everywhere. "I proposed to the bitch but she say no, not until I treat her better."

  "You could start by not calling her a bitch, I guess," Alfonso said, sipping his beer, his eyebrows slowly raising over wide eyes. Levonne gave him a stare that burned through his face and, for a quick moment, he regretted opening his mouth and saying anything, especially to the super, depressed host with boulders for hands. But soon, Levonne wheezed and laughed then slugged Alfonso on the back.

  "Shit, you droppin' knowledge and shit. I need to sho' some respect, right? Even if she just my baby mama. I do love the b--" Levonne paused, collecting himself, taking a deep breath. "I mean, I have sincere feelings for the mother of my child." He sat up straight in his seat, putting on a dignified air about him, propping up his chin, before collapsing into a fit of giggles and wheezing and knee-slapping. He whacked Alfonso on the back again, the sausage wrap leaving a grease mark, beer spilling from his other hand on my back. "You're a funny motherfucker, my man!" He stood up, spilling even more beer around, like a demented water sprinkler, splashing everywhere. "I gots to piss. I'll be back, motherfuckers!" He sauntered off, dropping the cup of beer on the ground then holding his crotch.

  "Geez, he's wasted," Alfonso said.

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Say, you gonna talk to Laura Ann?"

  "Nah."

  "Why not?"

  "Cause it looks like I pissed myself."

  "You do!" Alfonso said, releasing a loud laugh, his head flinging back, then slumping in his chair. "Want to smoke a doobie instead?"

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  Life Can Be Gross

  For my side work, I wiped bar glasses until they sparkled. Alfonso buffed silverware until it shined. We stood in the kitchen of the P.W., off to the side along an ancient brick wall originally built in the 1920s, dutifully ripping through our side work, assigned to us in a huff by Paula the Assistant Manager after she overheard us snickering about her adulterous behavior the night before at the party. She wasn't very pleased with herself for the way she acted but she was more upset that others noticed. Me and Alfonso were being punished for her lack of morals. The irony was not lost on us. Making the silver and glassware sparkle and shine was made all the more difficult by their cheap composition. 'You can make a turd sparkle if you can buff the shit out of it,' a brilliant man once said.