— I’m not asking you to become a vegetarian.
I looked at her strangely; I hadn’t realized I was talking out loud. That happened to me occasionally; the blinds between thoughts and words drawn up.
— Then what are you telling me to do?
— You remember when I was 270 pounds? Mom asked.
— 1981–1990.
— You don’t have to be that specific. Was it really for so long? Now I can’t remember.
— We used to sneak whole bags of cookies.
— It was never that much, she said.
One of us was lying.
I thought: If my mother doesn’t let me swallow some ox I’m going to fall into a coma right in the grass. I’m telling you this even though I’m not proud of it.
— I’ll start tomorrow, I promised, though I didn’t mean it.
— You don’t mean it, she said.
I covered my forehead so she wouldn’t also see the sexual frustration I had gathered inside.
— Start today, she said. I’m talking about a whole change. You won’t believe how much of a difference it makes.
Imagine that everywhere you went some sprightly guy follows you; a train, an elevator, in the shower. Now this guy isn’t so bad; he doesn’t hit you. He just plays an accordion loudly and right into your ear. This goes on so long that it’s no longer exactly noticeable, but the sound is wearing you down. You become irritated and try to make him stop, but when you try to grab his throat he takes a tiny step just out of reach. And keeps playing. It’s no longer music or even separate chords, but a constant buzzing just behind you. It keeps you awake for days until exhaustion makes the stupid acts seem sensible. I’d been walking around my apartment naked on the day my family found me only because wearing clothes in the house felt too confining, I’m sure that lots of people do it. The problem is that when I opened the door I was just too haggard to get dressed. Though they must have thought I went outside like that all the time.
I gave my mother the plate of food then she took it to the trash. While Mom felt sure that this would save me, I had my own idea.
Walked up to a seventy-year-old woman with a face like warm pie crust, soft and dimpled. I took her hand and kissed it.
While pouring a dumpling-shaped teenager some fruit punch I told her: — Cornell’s architecture program is one of the best. You should let me see if I can get you in.
She shrugged then went back to her chair, somberly chewing potato chips. She was expressionless, her face amorphous, but I was so horny that she charmed me.
None of my lines worked, but then neither did straight conversation.
There was a lady leaning against one side of our house with her hair pulled back under a bright scarf, face in some book. I tip-toed closer because if I’d had any luck in the world it was with literate women. But this one was only checking the horoscopes in the back of her TV Guide.
Though she did smell like cocoa butter, which was nice.
Mom came around again checking if I’d loaded a new plate, but I hadn’t. The backyard was only about twenty feet by twenty, so where could I go to nibble mashed potatoes undetected? Since I couldn’t fulfill one hunger I tried the other; applying my smile to more women regardless of age or infirmity. One old woman had no voice box thanks to cigarettes, so she used that electric wand against her throat. As a girl she said she’d loved to sing, but no one listened since her operation. She wasn’t bad looking or at least I tried to be objective about myself here; I had no room to discriminate. She told me she’d sing two Jim Reeves songs, but if that was English I didn’t understand. Every word she sang was just a long or short variation on a sound, — zzz- or — zzzzzz- and occasionally, — zuh-. I held her hand gently, but it was clear that sex was long past her. So when Mom went inside to get napkins I ran to the meal tables and stole a chicken leg.
I crept to the side of the house then waited next to our Oldsmobile Firenza; even bent over like I was checking the hub-caps. Until I heard Mom out back again.
— You’re Anthony.
A man behind me spoke before I could eat so I turned with more than a soupçon of agitation asking, — What? What?!
— Nothing to worry about, my man. Your mother told me about the party. She told me about you.
He was taller than me. His suit was tailored tight to make him seem even longer. From a block away he’d look six foot three, but closer it was an even six.
— What did she say? I may have sounded agitated. All I needed was for Mom to ruin me with the neighbors, by telling them I was touched in the head.
This guy smiled, saying, — Hey now. No problems.
He said, — Ishkabibble.
— S’l’m aleikoum, I answered, unsure if this was right.
He asked, — You a Muslim?
— No, I thought you were. What did you say?
— My name. Ishkabibble. I helped your grandmother get the paper she needed for this house.
— She couldn’t do it on her own?
— I’m better than the banks, he said. I am the U.S. Treasury to half this neighborhood.
Ishkabibble had a doofy tooth. One of his front teeth was doofy. White and fully grown, but twisted about twenty degrees abnormal. He could sip a straw without opening his mouth. Would it be rude, I wondered, to suck the marrow out of a chicken bone right now.
He said, — I understand that you’re ready to enter the world.
— I bought brand new clothes and everything.
He nodded, then smiled. — Of course. I’m not trying to down you. Your mother just told me you were gone.
— That’s what it was.
— So now you come back to help them out?
— That’s what it is.
What I didn’t want to do was act greedy. — She’s in the back if you’re looking for her, I said.
Go ahead out back and let me feed, that’s what I actually meant.
— Your mother? I’ll speak with her later, Ishkabibble said. Right now I want to talk with you. Young man comes home and starts to work, he needs a way to get around.
— I’ll get a bus pass.
He slapped my shoulder lightly. — Are women putting out for bus transfers these days? Let me tell you, a nice car gives any man a polishing.
— You think I need one?
— Who doesn’t?
This guy was good. If he’d had a contract I’d have signed it without reading.
We were at my open front gate. — There’s five cars on this block that I helped with. Come see what we can do.
I had the chicken leg palmed so that the meaty top was hidden in my hand while the bone was up against my wrist, obscured by the sleeve of my suit jacket.
My neighbor’s garbage bin had been tackled in his yard. A big mess, there was a splash of yellow rice, egg shells and diapers across their front steps. A spoiled wave lapping at the shore. Before I could figure what made the mess a tiny dog ran out from behind the garbage can, leapt the neighbor’s low fence and attacked Ishkabibble’s skinny leg.
Rosedale was used to this. I hate to admit. Yes it was a middle-class outfit, from the mid-price cars to the Catholic schools nearby. A neighborhood of well-kept homes. But it was still common to find feral dogs hopping from yard to yard; so starved that their ribs showed through. Where had they come from? Children. Stupid, stupid kids. Who lost their dogs or set them free. Or even some who let their dogs hump in the park just to laugh at the sticking motion. This is how five loose dogs becomes fifteen. Then forty. Besides the domesticated house pets and yard guards, some frenzied crossbreeds terrorized the neighborhood. Daily there was shit on many stoops, torn garbage bags in driveways. At night they bayed from Brookville Park or street corners or under our windows.
But now there was the mutt trying to eviscerate Ishkabibble. It was a mix of Pug and Pekingnese; with a face so flat it might have been concave. A short-haired body, but a fluffy tail.