The Fugitivities, стр. 20
“Either he can walk and he goes with you, or we’re booking him.”
“You bastards! I didn’t do nothing…I’m innocent…tell them they can’t take me…tell them I have rights goddamnit…I’m a teacher!”
“Look, we don’t want to waste our time, but he needs to get off the street.”
“I understand the situation, sir, but it’s okay, he’s with me. I take full responsibility for him. Got my car right around the corner, he won’t bother no one, I promise.”
“You understand normally we would have to take him in…”
“Sir, I understand that perfectly, but I can assure you I can handle my baby cousin. You know how the kids is these days. Ain’t like back in the day, right? Hey, you guys probably too young to even recognize me, but, you know, I used to ball back in the day…Yeah, in the league, check this one out right here, always keep it in my wallet.”
“No shit, hey, check this out.”
“So listen, Imma get this young fella home, and we’re all good here, right?”
Phineas, sweet Phineas, always in time, just a little behind the rhythm so that it carries you ahead, carries you away until the level is passed, and the flood is everywhere, and the flood is all things.
6
Nathaniel Archimbald placed the boy on the couch in the living room with a pillow under his head. He went into the kitchen to make some energy drink. In the sink a frying pan streaked with grease lay stranded like a supertanker. No matter. Doing dishes, for Nathaniel, was a pleasing exercise, an operation that allowed him to ventilate his mind, to see before him those magic hands splendidly at work, the rhythm and practiced improvisation like smooth handles on the dribble. When he returned to the living room, the youngster was lying on the rug. Now how in the hell did he end up on the damn floor? The kid looked too clean to be a dopehead, dressed in that eccentric preppy style he often saw downtown or in Brooklyn. He found a teacher’s ID in the wallet, though that hardly proved anything in New York City.
Nathaniel lightly touched his shoulder, not too hard, but with enough pressure to make sure the boy would feel his hand through his coat.
“Hey, kid.”
The boy moaned.
“Look at me.”
Jonah turned over, his face nearly plastic from dehydration.
“Where the fuck am I?”
“You in my house. So let’s get one thing straight. You follow my rules. And I only got three. Rule number one: Watch your mouth. Only person that cusses in this house is me. Keep that up, and you’ll find your way out my door with my foot in your ass. Rule number two: This ain’t a flophouse. Don’t mess with none of my furniture. You get yourself together and stay off my rug.”
Jonah sat up. The full force of head-spin and nausea hit him with a wrenching dizziness. “Okay, okay,” he said. “What…what’s rule number three?” he asked, swallowing back a hint of bile rising in his throat.
“Rule number three: When I ask questions, I better get straight answers. I saved your ass from a long night in the Tombs—you can thank me later. For now, we gon’ get you back on your feet so you can go about your business. And while we’re doing that, you best keep in mind that you a guest in my house. I did you a favor, so you better do as I say. Don’t give me no lip, and don’t get any ideas. Here, take this Advil. Bathroom is down the hall on your right.”
Jonah returned feeling less nauseated. His head raged with pain, particularly behind his eyes. There were other pains on his body too, bruising pains he’d have to locate later. His large host offered him a tall, greenish beverage.
“What is this?”
“That there is the good stuff. I call it Nate-o-rade, it’s a secret recipe. Gets you squared away quick, never lets me down.”
“And who are you?”
“Nathaniel. You can call me Nate. You’re Jonah.”
“How did yo—”
“Cause I’m Kojak, black. It’s called photo ID. In your wallet.”
“Right, sure. And you make your own Gatorade—you into fitness and stuff?”
“Fitness? Man, I learned to make this shit before Gatorade even existed. I was a pro athlete, fourteen years shooting hoops in the league. Didn’t you notice?”
Nate gestured at the photos and plaques on the wall. Jonah had vaguely registered the museum-like clutter but hadn’t mentally brought the content into focus. Now he stood up gingerly and gazed around the room. There his host was, in a Celtics jersey, suspended in midair, going for a layup, a defender with outstretched arms trailing behind him; and there, dribbling with spiderlike angularity; standing with fans and celebrities, holding a trophy of a man helping his teammate up.
“What award is that?”
“Teammate of the Year. Got that during my final year on the court.”
“And when was that?”
“A long time ago.”
“Why did you leave? You don’t look that old.”
“Blew out my knee. Any other questions?”
“What do you do now?”
“Coach.”
“A lot of ballplayers seem to go right into coaching.”
“This is more of a new development. I went overseas for a while after I retired.”
“Where did you go?”
“France.”
“No shit! Oh, sorry…I guess what’s funny is that I’m from Paris…well, kind of. I mean, I’m American, but I grew up there.”
“No shit? So what you back in New York for?”
“My life was too easy, I guess. I was just watching movies all day. I sort of had a girlfriend, but, well…it’s complicated.”
“Sounds cushy. Why did you leave?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I do—but it’s hard to explain.”
“We got time.”
As the young man got to talking, Nate examined him closely: the lightness in the eyes, his bony frame, the odd accent. Jonah. An errant prophet washed ashore. What had overcome him to pick this boy up and bring him home? Was it his spiritual thing, his compassion? Was it refusing to see another young brother get taken to jail