Malt Liquor and Memories
David and the Lion’s Den, chapter 23
I didn’t want to believe it.
I refused to believe it. I passed the next couple of days trying to deny and to push away the pain.
I ran out of the apartment a few minutes after Hilda’s bombshell, took a long walk in the cold to clear my head. It didn’t help.
I poured over my notes again later when the apartment was dark and empty. I searched my memory as hard as I could. The more I probed, the sicker I felt, the harder I wanted to push my recollections away.
My heart broke.
Ever since I’d been little, my friendships had followed an intense pattern. I was (and am) friendly and easy to get along with, but I always held back important parts of myself, kept a sterile distance between the real me and my friends. Only with a tiny group — maybe just one or two people — would I ever be real, ever be really intimate.
In the year since I’d moved to Manhattan, Howie had become one of those people. He snuck up on me. The depth of the bond between us was something I never expected or planned for. I loved him. And now I was grieving.
I stumbled down to the park on Halloween night, thinking about all this. I was in denial, sure, but I knew.
I knew.
I found a bench to myself and huddled up under my heavy wool coat, just like my psyche was wrapped up in self pity. I thought about how Richard was urging me to contact Kevin and explain our analysis to him. I was procrastinating, knowing what he’d do with the information.
I knew I’d call him, though. Eventually.
Despite the pain I felt, despite being unable to believe Howie was capable of murder, despite our intense friendship — call it love? — I couldn’t push away the relentless images that flooded my mind, demanding that I examine them in all their ominous detail.
Halloween in the Village. Have you seen it?
I was used to typical suburban traditions, to kids trick-or-treating house to house, maybe some teens on the prowl with TP or soap. Store-bought costumes.
Manhattan’s different.
First, there’s the parade. It assembles in Washington Square, downtown parents leading their costumed kids along a winding route up and down the Village’s crooked streets. Thousands of kids strong, the column of ghosts, vampires, space aliens, princesses, and assorted monsters is always an explosion of carried-away creativity.
It must be all the theater people.
I’d never seen the parade before, so I sat on my bench and watched the crowd form, impressed despite my churning gut.
I watched a tiger woman twirl her long tail as she stalked past me, twitching her whiskers and herding her little pack of cubs, all of them painted in vivid stripes of orange and black.
Just thinking about the paint was enough to send me racing back in time. I watched my fingers squeeze a tube of black pigment, saw myself swirl it around on my palette, saw Howie almost bounce into the room and light it up with his smile. I saw two styrofoam cartons in one of his hands, and … there, unmistakeable, a grease-spotted brown paper bag in the other. I hit fast forward and watched him pull the dessert out of the bag and hand it to Carl, the guy I was painting. Then pass it on to me.
Stop!
I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to see any more.
I jumped up from my bench and ran, bowling my way through happy kids. The makeup, the costumes and the white-fog laughter were all conspiring to drive me insane.
“Hey, watch it buddy!” I heard as I elbowed through a pack of gremlins. “Slow down already!”
I zigzagged at random, chose a side street, and sprinted.
I couldn’t escape either my memories or Halloween. There’s a second difference between Manhattan Halloween and the one where I grew up. In New York City, kids trick-or-treat at shops and stores, not usually at private homes. All the storekeepers put out huge bowls of candy by their registers or doors. Kids roam in packs from shop to shop, loading up their bags.
So, even away from the parade, I couldn’t escape the costumes and greasepaint that were summoning memories. Over and over, an image flashed into my head — Howie holding out a crumpled brown bag full of sugary death. Trick or treat! Give me something good to eat!
The worst part was that I knew why he’d chosen cannoli as the murder weapon.
I had to escape the crowds. I had to get my breathing under control. I had to stop seeing.
I slipped into a bodega, pushing past excited children to make my way to the refrigerator case way in the back. Quiet! Empty!
My eyes lit on rows of malt liquor bottles, and a plan congealed out of the air.
I opened the sliding glass door, snatched out a quart and pressed it against my forehead. After the cold subdued the pounding of my pulse, I reached in and snagged four more. I didn’t even check to see if they were the same brand, just grabbed at random.
Somehow, I made it home with my beer without having a meltdown.
Hilda was out at the parade with Richard. I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and applied myself to my booze like a parched man in a desert to a bubbling spring in the oasis he thought he’d never reach.
I twisted the top of the second bottle until a sharp crack ended its resistance, unscrewing it quickly and taking a long slug. I let go, relaxed my mind as I drank with a machine-like efficiency. The memories poured in, and I let them flow.
It’s late when I finally collapse into a chair at a table by the fountain. Who knew being a busboy would hurt this much? I’m not used to being on my feet for so many hours. Thank god it’s over.
My last fourtop finally emptied out a few minutes ago, and I’ve just finished clearing and wiping it down. I let out a sigh and kind of scrunch up my shoulders and upper back to work out some knots in tense muscles.
I keep an appreciative eye on the other busboy, the hot Colombian kid, as he finishes off his last table. As I roll my shoulders, searching for a stabbing pain halfway up my neck that just won’t go away, I feel strong hands clamp down on my back and start to knead me like a lump of dough.
“Good work tonight, David,” I hear Howie say from behind me. “Friggin’ zoo in here, huh? What was with that, anyway? It’s Tuesday!”
He turns toward the other busboy. “And this one! You’d think Raphael had that cute butt of his on the specials menu the way he was advertising.”
Howie’s teasing. I can tell from his voice that my new boss likes Raph. He’s talking loud enough to include him in the banter. The kid laughs and holds up his middle finger. “Screw you, patrón. You just jealous of the culo, man.”
“Ha! I can can still shake my booty when I need to. I wish I’d been shaking it behind the bar tonight, though. I’d a made a fortune like you!” He hollers this after Raph, who’s sauntering toward the dishroom, exaggerating the sway of his hips.
“How about you?” he asks me privately, kneading on my shoulders now. “You make out OK tonight?”
I don’t understand at first. I’m melting under the pleasure of his strong hands. My brain is turned off.
“The tips Claudia and Jill split with you? You musta done pretty well.”
“Oh, uh. Yeah, sure. I guess.”
What I’m thinking is that the small wad of cash in my pocket won’t go very far, and that earning it had been harder than I expected.
“Don’t worry,” he reassures me, apparently sensing my tension through his fingertips. “It gets easier. You get used to it. I can see you don’t mind working hard. You’re gonna do great here. Promise.”
He lifts his hands off my shoulders, stepping around so I can see him, running his hands through his bushy hair. He’s been through the ringer too. His white shirt isn’t neat and crisp like it was when we started. It’s sticking to him in places. I can tell he’s worn out.
Then his eyes light up as they lock onto something across the room. “I know what we need!” he says, rubbing his hands together and laughing darkly.
“Bar wench!” he calls out, grabbing Jill’s attention as she trudges down the spiral steps.
“What now?” she grumbles over the bubbling cascade.
“Coffee, amaretto! We’ve got an emergency here.”
She grins at him and reverses course, heading back upstairs with a little more pep.
I look at him, confused. “Emergency? I thought we were all through?”
“Absolute Triple A emergency, Miss Mary Louise. Just look at that dessert cart! Look at it, I tell you. Unacceptable. Something must be done.”
“Huh?”
He winks at me. Jill joins us a minute later, coffee pot and liquor bottle in hand. She sits down and fills the coffee cups Raph sways over with. He picks up the amaretto and tops off each drink with a generous slug. Howie picks up a slice of cheesecake and sniffs at it suspiciously.
“People, this has to be stale by now. We don’t dare let our fine customers eat stale pastry. Cucina stands for quality. Only the best. Right? It’s a tough job, but somebody has to be in charge of quality control.”
Jill and Raph are smiling as Howie takes a bite. I see they’re used to this. Jill starts laughing before he even finishes chewing. His eyes go round with surprise. “Damn! Guess I was wrong. Ain’t even half stale. Well, we can’t serve it now. I might as well finish it off.”
He does so in huge forkfuls, washed down with almond-laced coffee between each bite. He waves a fork at us. “What are you waiting for? Better get testing, kids.”
Jill and Raph grab plates for themselves and I follow suit, hardly knowing where to start. The cart’s been teasing me all night. The food we get for free doesn’t include cheesecake, Boston cream pie, and whatever that tiramisu stuff is.
By the time I’ve finished a piece, Howie is still going strong. Raph pours more coffee for himself, glances down at my nearly empty cup and fills me up too. He adds amaretto in even bigger glugs than before. Then he sits back and sighs, looking sated. I feel the same, happy to take careful sips, done eating. The buzz of caffeine in my blood mixes with alcohol, and the room takes on an airy shimmer.
I feel good. I can tell I’m going to like my boss. Howie. What a goofy name. He’s cool, though. I smile at Jill, so amazed she was able to get me in here. I really owe her big. All the money I saved — what a huge pile it seemed before I moved to New York — is gone. Now I can stay. Paint. No running home to mommy and daddy admitting that I couldn’t make it.
I even feel a rush of affection for Raphael, who I don’t know from Adam. He’s cute, and cocky, and sharp tongued. I like it. I like how he’s accepted me so fast, including me in his cracks and insults. I like how he poured me more coffee without even asking.
Jill’s voice snaps me out of my glow. “Take it easy, Howie. Alonzo’s gonna kill you if you go overboard.”
“I take care of Alonzo,” Raph growls, banging a fist on his chest and grinning. “Mi primo is one big, how you say? Pooosey cat!”
“Yeah, right,” Jill snorts, rolling her eyes.
“Whatever, Blanche,” Howie drawls. “We’re not done until we test the cannoli.” His eyes glint like he’s a mad scientist or something.
I have to laugh at him as he passes plates around. “Eat! Eat!”
“Fine, buddy. Your neck,” Jill clucks before taking a dainty nibble.
Me? I’m blown away by the contrast of the sugary cream filling and the crispy outer layer. I could eat a million of these! Well, two or three at least. And I thought I was full.
“Jesus, don’t choke, Miss Thing,” Howie laughs at me. “Chew first! You don’t need to boast about your lack of a gag reflex.We all believe you, honey.”
“Dude, what ARE these?” I ask. “I mean, what’s in them? This is totally awesome. My new favorite thing ever!”
He laughs and hands me another.
So, I sat in Hilda’s dark kitchen, cracked my last quart, and kept remembering — remembering how Howie, who became one of the best friends I ever had, knew exactly how much I liked cannoli.
I remembered how he brought a bagful of them to every one of my painting sessions, sessions he’d arranged for me. Personally.
I lifted the cool glass rim to lips and chugged. I hoped I could drink fast enough to pass out before the tears started.