there.”
“Mister, you don’t live here. I do.”
The homeless man seems thrown by that answer. It’s as if someone has just changed the channels in his mind. He looks confused and then upset as he tries to regain his bearings on the street.
“Where am I?”
“You’re on the Upper West Side.”
“Then gimme some money,” he says.
“Paul, go up and ring the buzzer,” Alex tells his friend. “Wake my parents.”
“Don’t go in there! Don’t go anywhere!”
The man’s switched channels again. He suddenly seems angry and feral. He even crouches a little, like an animal sniffing the sidewalk between them. Getting ready to pounce.
“You come to take her away. Right?! Well that ain’t gonna happen.”
He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a boxcutter with the edge exposed.
“You touch my daughter or my wife, I’ll cut your fuckin’ balls off,” he says, grinding his teeth and advancing on the boys. “Fuckin’ little parasites.”
His blade catches a glint from the streetlight as he holds it above his right ear.
“Hey, Paul, forget the bell. Let’s get out of here,” says Alex, backing up slowly.
But Paul is frozen. He’s too scared to take his eyes off the boxcutter. The homeless man’s grinding teeth begin to make a cracking noise.
“What, you think I’d do a thing like that to my own daughter?!”he yowls, as if he’s indignant at some invisible interrogator. “How could you think a thing like that?”
Without warning, he turns on Alex and the blade slices the air a foot or two from the end of the boy’s nose. It makes a sickening whoosh as it goes by and Alex feels his scrotum seize up like someone just grabbed it.
“How could you think that?!”
The man takes another step and kicks a green Heineken bottle that was lying on the sidewalk. It shatters and sprays glass on the front steps. He’s now less than a yard away from Alex. He smells so terrible that the air seems to die around him. Flies wouldn’t get near him. Oh shit, Alex thinks. He’s going to kill me. I’m gonna die without ever getting laid.
He catches sight of Paul whimpering and cowering by the wrought-iron courtyard gate, and it occurs to him that this might be the last thing he’ll ever see.
“What do you think I am? A fuckin’ animal?” the man shouts.
Just then there’s a loud squeak and a wash of bright light from the top of the steps. Alex looks up and sees his father standing at the front door. For the first time in years, he allows himself to feel a full rush of love for the old man.
“I thought I told you to get out of here.” Jake comes pounding down the steps, fists clenched.
The man in the Yankees cap doesn’t pause to face him or pocket his boxcutter. He just turns and runs off toward the park, knocking over a plastic garbage can on the way.
“You all right?” Jake says, coming down the rest of the stairs and putting an arm around his son.
“Yeah, fine, Dad.” Alex squirms and shoots a sidelong glance at Paul. “Don’t make a big thing of it.”
14
How’s your boy doing?”
The man coming up the front steps looks familiar, but Jake can’t quite place him. A stocky guy about his age—maybe a year or two older—with wheat-colored hair, a middleweight’s physique, and a drinking buddy’s face.
“He’s all right, I guess,” says Jake, sweeping some more of the broken glass off the stairs. “Pretty shook up, at first. He’s never had anybody stick a knife in his face before.”
The man exhales and shakes his head. “They’re taking over, aren’t they?” He looks beyond Jake’s shoulder at the exploded star of broken glass in the front-door window.
It’s just after ten in the morning. Fragments of green glass sparkle in the sunlight. Jake sweeps them into a yellow dustpan and dumps them into a garbage bag. He still hasn’t figured out how the glass in the door got broken. Maybe John G. threw a rock at it before the boys came along.
“Philip Cardi,”
“Mister, you don’t live here. I do.”
The homeless man seems thrown by that answer. It’s as if someone has just changed the channels in his mind. He looks confused and then upset as he tries to regain his bearings on the street.
“Where am I?”
“You’re on the Upper West Side.”
“Then gimme some money,” he says.
“Paul, go up and ring the buzzer,” Alex tells his friend. “Wake my parents.”
“Don’t go in there! Don’t go anywhere!”
The man’s switched channels again. He suddenly seems angry and feral. He even crouches a little, like an animal sniffing the sidewalk between them. Getting ready to pounce.
“You come to take her away. Right?! Well that ain’t gonna happen.”
He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a boxcutter with the edge exposed.
“You touch my daughter or my wife, I’ll cut your fuckin’ balls off,” he says, grinding his teeth and advancing on the boys. “Fuckin’ little parasites.”
His blade catches a glint from the streetlight as he holds it above his right ear.
“Hey, Paul, forget the bell. Let’s get out of here,” says Alex, backing up slowly.
But Paul is frozen. He’s too scared to take his eyes off the boxcutter. The homeless man’s grinding teeth begin to make a cracking noise.
“What, you think I’d do a thing like that to my own daughter?!”he yowls, as if he’s indignant at some invisible interrogator. “How could you think a thing like that?”
Without warning, he turns on Alex and the blade slices the air a foot or two from the end of the boy’s nose. It makes a sickening whoosh as it goes by and Alex feels his scrotum seize up like someone just grabbed it.
“How could you think that?!”
The man takes another step and kicks a green Heineken bottle that was lying on the sidewalk. It shatters and sprays glass on the front steps. He’s now less than a yard away from Alex. He smells so terrible that the air seems to die around him. Flies wouldn’t get near him. Oh shit, Alex thinks. He’s going to kill me. I’m gonna die without ever getting laid.
He catches sight of Paul whimpering and cowering by the wrought-iron courtyard gate, and it occurs to him that this might be the last thing he’ll ever see.
“What do you think I am? A fuckin’ animal?” the man shouts.
Just then there’s a loud squeak and a wash of bright light from the top of the steps. Alex looks up and sees his father standing at the front door. For the first time in years, he allows himself to feel a full rush of love for the old man.
“I thought I told you to get out of here.” Jake comes pounding down the steps, fists clenched.
The man in the Yankees cap doesn’t pause to face him or pocket his boxcutter. He just turns and runs off toward the park, knocking over a plastic garbage can on the way.
“You all right?” Jake says, coming down the rest of the stairs and putting an arm around his son.
“Yeah, fine, Dad.” Alex squirms and shoots a sidelong glance at Paul. “Don’t make a big thing of it.”
14
How’s your boy doing?”
The man coming up the front steps looks familiar, but Jake can’t quite place him. A stocky guy about his age—maybe a year or two older—with wheat-colored hair, a middleweight’s physique, and a drinking buddy’s face.
“He’s all right, I guess,” says Jake, sweeping some more of the broken glass off the stairs. “Pretty shook up, at first. He’s never had anybody stick a knife in his face before.”
The man exhales and shakes his head. “They’re taking over, aren’t they?” He looks beyond Jake’s shoulder at the exploded star of broken glass in the front-door window.
It’s just after ten in the morning. Fragments of green glass sparkle in the sunlight. Jake sweeps them into a yellow dustpan and dumps them into a garbage bag. He still hasn’t figured out how the glass in the door got broken. Maybe John G. threw a rock at it before the boys came along.
“Philip Cardi,”
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