same.
PENNY
L ETTING GO IS EASIEST . It would be by far the easier thing to do, and the smarter thing. She likes to think of herself as an intelligent woman of independent mind. She could just let Dwight Arno go back to wherever it is he came from. She could do that.
The door to her office is closed. It is three-fifty in the afternoon, which leaves ten minutes before the start of office hours. In this circumscribed shelter she sits. Her box of Kleenex ready, next to her dog-eared copy of The Rattle Bag .
Ten minutes: she could pick up the phone now and call him.
Her office phone is black and old-fashioned. Bought at an antiques store, it is not retro but original; it refuses to indulge in the idea of change for change’s sake. It weighs about three pounds. With it, she likes to think, she could sink a dinghy; or call the president of the United States (no thanks); or, with a modicum of chutzpah, knock a broad-shouldered man unconscious.
DWIGHT
T ONY L OPEZ , avowed family man and shrewd small-business operator, has offered my son the stockroom and cashiering duties previously performed by his nephew. Despite his misdemeanors, Evander will continue to receive his more than generous paycheck, but will henceforth be ghosted out of the store, made an employee in name only, free to skate and smoke his days into contented oblivion. Sam, on the other hand, not being family, will be paid a buck above minimum wage and embark on a trial period until Tony’s comfortable with the situation on a long-term basis, at which point opportunities for promotion may be explored.
“Maybe take your old man’s job,” Tony says to him with a grin that can only be described as sly.
The three of us are gathered at Mama’s Taqueria on a Tuesday evening. The workday done, the oiled-cheese scent of nachos in the air. I sip my Dos Equis and think about how all this might appear to Ruth—the paltry back-room starter job for our messed-up son—and feel a stirring of shame at not being able to do more for him. And yet, simultaneously, I am guiltily heartened by the prospect of commuting to work with him each morning, returning home each evening, the wordless camaraderie this would seem to promise, the intimate, meaningless chatter. The truth is I can hardly wait for it to begin.
Tony sets down his mineral water with lime and leans across the table. “One thing we gotta get clear, Sam, okay? Whatever problems you had at school? Your dad here”—reaching out and pincer-gripping my forearm—“he’ll tell you straight out, I don’t put up with no shitin my business. You understand what I’m saying to you? Not in my business.”
“He understands, Tony,” I say.
Tony frowns at me without taking his eyes off Sam.
“I understand, Mr. Lopez.”
Tony sits contemplating the young man. What he reads there is anyone’s guess. Finished, he checks his gold Rolex, pushes back his chair, and stands up. It’s seven past seven, which makes him seven minutes late for his regular sit-down dinner with Jodi and the girls. He is a family man, by God, and there are demands.
“We got ourselves a little weekend softball league,” he says. “Hear you play some real ball—varsity third base?”
“Till a couple weeks ago.” Sam’s face has begun to flush.
“Me, I was center field, way back. Brother Jorge played catcher—like Posada with the Yankees. Man, I tell you? Jorge could swing the fucking lumber. Made it to Cape Cod summer league ’fore he blew out his knee.”
“You should see Sam hit. The kid can smack it.”
Sam turns and stares at me, the color vanished from his cheeks and his eyes dimmed by some internal judgment that I’ve just failed.
“All right …” Tony’s already on his way to the door. “Just make sure you come out to the park with your old man this Sunday. We could use some pop in the lineup.” He pauses to grin over his shoulder at us, then he’s gone.
Outside, the evening has turned California cool. Sam and
PENNY
L ETTING GO IS EASIEST . It would be by far the easier thing to do, and the smarter thing. She likes to think of herself as an intelligent woman of independent mind. She could just let Dwight Arno go back to wherever it is he came from. She could do that.
The door to her office is closed. It is three-fifty in the afternoon, which leaves ten minutes before the start of office hours. In this circumscribed shelter she sits. Her box of Kleenex ready, next to her dog-eared copy of The Rattle Bag .
Ten minutes: she could pick up the phone now and call him.
Her office phone is black and old-fashioned. Bought at an antiques store, it is not retro but original; it refuses to indulge in the idea of change for change’s sake. It weighs about three pounds. With it, she likes to think, she could sink a dinghy; or call the president of the United States (no thanks); or, with a modicum of chutzpah, knock a broad-shouldered man unconscious.
DWIGHT
T ONY L OPEZ , avowed family man and shrewd small-business operator, has offered my son the stockroom and cashiering duties previously performed by his nephew. Despite his misdemeanors, Evander will continue to receive his more than generous paycheck, but will henceforth be ghosted out of the store, made an employee in name only, free to skate and smoke his days into contented oblivion. Sam, on the other hand, not being family, will be paid a buck above minimum wage and embark on a trial period until Tony’s comfortable with the situation on a long-term basis, at which point opportunities for promotion may be explored.
“Maybe take your old man’s job,” Tony says to him with a grin that can only be described as sly.
The three of us are gathered at Mama’s Taqueria on a Tuesday evening. The workday done, the oiled-cheese scent of nachos in the air. I sip my Dos Equis and think about how all this might appear to Ruth—the paltry back-room starter job for our messed-up son—and feel a stirring of shame at not being able to do more for him. And yet, simultaneously, I am guiltily heartened by the prospect of commuting to work with him each morning, returning home each evening, the wordless camaraderie this would seem to promise, the intimate, meaningless chatter. The truth is I can hardly wait for it to begin.
Tony sets down his mineral water with lime and leans across the table. “One thing we gotta get clear, Sam, okay? Whatever problems you had at school? Your dad here”—reaching out and pincer-gripping my forearm—“he’ll tell you straight out, I don’t put up with no shitin my business. You understand what I’m saying to you? Not in my business.”
“He understands, Tony,” I say.
Tony frowns at me without taking his eyes off Sam.
“I understand, Mr. Lopez.”
Tony sits contemplating the young man. What he reads there is anyone’s guess. Finished, he checks his gold Rolex, pushes back his chair, and stands up. It’s seven past seven, which makes him seven minutes late for his regular sit-down dinner with Jodi and the girls. He is a family man, by God, and there are demands.
“We got ourselves a little weekend softball league,” he says. “Hear you play some real ball—varsity third base?”
“Till a couple weeks ago.” Sam’s face has begun to flush.
“Me, I was center field, way back. Brother Jorge played catcher—like Posada with the Yankees. Man, I tell you? Jorge could swing the fucking lumber. Made it to Cape Cod summer league ’fore he blew out his knee.”
“You should see Sam hit. The kid can smack it.”
Sam turns and stares at me, the color vanished from his cheeks and his eyes dimmed by some internal judgment that I’ve just failed.
“All right …” Tony’s already on his way to the door. “Just make sure you come out to the park with your old man this Sunday. We could use some pop in the lineup.” He pauses to grin over his shoulder at us, then he’s gone.
Outside, the evening has turned California cool. Sam and
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