to boarding school, Derek wrote him letters and hitchhiked the hundred miles to sleep on the floor of Daniel’s dormitory room.When Daniel finally moved back to Leyden, Derek was there to meet the van, with a picnic cooler full of beer, another filled with sandwiches, and three of his own children to help unpack the truck.
Feeling exposed and ridiculous, Daniel puts the magazine back in the rack and goes to the counter to pay for the gasoline, the coffee, and the bagel. “Will zat be ull?” the Egyptian asks, as if challenging Daniel to purchase one of the magazines.
“That’s it for me,” says Daniel, forcing his voice to sound cheerful.
“How are you, Eddie?” Derek asks. He slaps a five-dollar bill onto the counter. “Let me have a pack of Camel Lights.” He accepts the pack of cigarettes, the few pieces of change. Eddie acts frightened of Derek, displaying the almost ritualized respect of a man who has been warned.
Derek eagerly tears the pack open, lights up. “Since Stephanie got the new furniture delivered, she won’t let me smoke in the house,” he says, smoke streaming out of his large, dark nostrils.
Daniel and Derek stand beneath the eaves of the gas station and watch the pelting rain.
“How’s Stephanie doing?” Daniel asks.
“She’s okay. She says she’s going to give Kate a call, put together a dinner or something.”
Daniel’s heart sinks. He knows Kate will decline Stephanie’s invitation, he only hopes she does it without being too blunt. Hurting Stephanie’s feelings will only hurt Derek’s.
“The kids could play, too,” Derek adds. He takes another long drag of his cigarette. “How’s Kate doing?”
“Hanging in there.”
“You really scored on that one,” Derek says. “She’s a great lady. She’s so pretty, and so fucking smart. You know what I like about her? Her laugh. She’s got a great laugh. I look for that, you know. It’s a sign.”
[ 65 ]
Daniel raises his to-go cup, shrugs. “I’m sort of running late.” It sounds too abrupt to Daniel, and so he extends the excuse. “I’m going over to Eight Chimneys, finally getting to wet my beak in some of that river gentry cash-o-rama.” He grins, rubs his thumb against his first two fingers.
But Derek, fully aware that money doesn’t mean very much to Daniel, acts as if Daniel hasn’t said a thing. “I had a runaway kid this morning,” Derek says. “At large and dangerous. I picked him up at the train station.”
“Whose kid?”
“One of the boys from Star of Bethlehem. I swear, the people running that place don’t have the slightest fucking idea what they’re doing.
They keep trying to respect those boys, or rehabilitate them, and meanwhile it’s a fucking jungle, with some of the worst juvenile offenders in the state, with nothing to keep them in but a couple of counselors and an electric fence.” He looks at Daniel, trying to gauge the level of agreement or disagreement. “These are the ‘boys’ that made you decide to get your white liberal ass out of the city and come back home. The kid I picked up? First of all, his mother, who was probably twelve or something when she had him, names him Bruce, probably after some Bruce Lee movie, and then, just to be Ebonic and make sure he never learns how to spell, she spells it B-r-e-w-s-e.”
“Since when do you care so much about spelling?”
“I learned how to spell. You used to cram it into my head before spelling tests.”
“I don’t remember it doing all that much good. Anyhow, spelling’s just custom. African-Americans are making their own customs.”
“Yeah, well this kid makes a lot of his own customs. Like the custom of capping the first motherfucker who stands between him and a new pair of Nikes.”
There’s a sourness in Derek’s voice, a disdain, which Daniel believes is an occupational hazard for cops, like squinting for a jeweler, or grisly jokes for a surgeon, but there’s an element of racial scorn that Daniel
Feeling exposed and ridiculous, Daniel puts the magazine back in the rack and goes to the counter to pay for the gasoline, the coffee, and the bagel. “Will zat be ull?” the Egyptian asks, as if challenging Daniel to purchase one of the magazines.
“That’s it for me,” says Daniel, forcing his voice to sound cheerful.
“How are you, Eddie?” Derek asks. He slaps a five-dollar bill onto the counter. “Let me have a pack of Camel Lights.” He accepts the pack of cigarettes, the few pieces of change. Eddie acts frightened of Derek, displaying the almost ritualized respect of a man who has been warned.
Derek eagerly tears the pack open, lights up. “Since Stephanie got the new furniture delivered, she won’t let me smoke in the house,” he says, smoke streaming out of his large, dark nostrils.
Daniel and Derek stand beneath the eaves of the gas station and watch the pelting rain.
“How’s Stephanie doing?” Daniel asks.
“She’s okay. She says she’s going to give Kate a call, put together a dinner or something.”
Daniel’s heart sinks. He knows Kate will decline Stephanie’s invitation, he only hopes she does it without being too blunt. Hurting Stephanie’s feelings will only hurt Derek’s.
“The kids could play, too,” Derek adds. He takes another long drag of his cigarette. “How’s Kate doing?”
“Hanging in there.”
“You really scored on that one,” Derek says. “She’s a great lady. She’s so pretty, and so fucking smart. You know what I like about her? Her laugh. She’s got a great laugh. I look for that, you know. It’s a sign.”
[ 65 ]
Daniel raises his to-go cup, shrugs. “I’m sort of running late.” It sounds too abrupt to Daniel, and so he extends the excuse. “I’m going over to Eight Chimneys, finally getting to wet my beak in some of that river gentry cash-o-rama.” He grins, rubs his thumb against his first two fingers.
But Derek, fully aware that money doesn’t mean very much to Daniel, acts as if Daniel hasn’t said a thing. “I had a runaway kid this morning,” Derek says. “At large and dangerous. I picked him up at the train station.”
“Whose kid?”
“One of the boys from Star of Bethlehem. I swear, the people running that place don’t have the slightest fucking idea what they’re doing.
They keep trying to respect those boys, or rehabilitate them, and meanwhile it’s a fucking jungle, with some of the worst juvenile offenders in the state, with nothing to keep them in but a couple of counselors and an electric fence.” He looks at Daniel, trying to gauge the level of agreement or disagreement. “These are the ‘boys’ that made you decide to get your white liberal ass out of the city and come back home. The kid I picked up? First of all, his mother, who was probably twelve or something when she had him, names him Bruce, probably after some Bruce Lee movie, and then, just to be Ebonic and make sure he never learns how to spell, she spells it B-r-e-w-s-e.”
“Since when do you care so much about spelling?”
“I learned how to spell. You used to cram it into my head before spelling tests.”
“I don’t remember it doing all that much good. Anyhow, spelling’s just custom. African-Americans are making their own customs.”
“Yeah, well this kid makes a lot of his own customs. Like the custom of capping the first motherfucker who stands between him and a new pair of Nikes.”
There’s a sourness in Derek’s voice, a disdain, which Daniel believes is an occupational hazard for cops, like squinting for a jeweler, or grisly jokes for a surgeon, but there’s an element of racial scorn that Daniel
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