"You kept Vern from breaking my arm," I said.
"So did you."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
I backed away from him. His arm slipped out of me. I covered my chest. I pressed my hands against the tattoo, to see if I could travel in there, too, but all I felt was the boundary of skin.
"Why are you leaving?"
"You don't need me."
"Yes, I do."
"No, you don't."
"How do you figure?"
He walked to me. He moved my hands away from my chest. I tried to fight him off, didn't want to let him go, but he overpowered me, like he'd done as he dragged me to the dumpster. "Hold still," he said.
"What if I need your help?"
"I'll always be helping you."
"What if I want to talk to you?"
"Then talk to me."
I didn't know what to say, tried to stammer a couple sentences, but little-Rhonda held up his finger. "Let's not draw this out," he said. "I don't want to watch you blubber like a baby." He put both his hands through my tattoo and used his arms like someone doing the breaststroke to open the tattoo wider. He stretched it until it was the size of a manhole. I wish I could explain to you what it felt like, but there's nothing to explain. If I hadn't been watching him do it, I'd have had no idea he touched me. His arms pried me open farther and he pulled his feet up off the ground and began to shimmy inside. His helmet disappeared into my chest, and little-Rhonda's face was about to slip into me and he said, "Well, this is it," and I said, "I'll miss you," and he said, "You can't miss yourself, Rhonda." Then he sank the rest of his head into my body. His legs stuck straight out of me, and I panicked, thinking that I'd never see him again, and I grabbed his legs, trying to keep him from going any deeper. I held him still. I wondered about my heart, wondered where it went while little-Rhonda slipped deeper into my chest. He yelled from inside, "Let go," and I said, "I don't want to," and he said, "You have to," and I said, "No," and he said, "Let me go." He kicked his feet, and I tried to hold onto him, please believe me that I tried to hold on, but I lost my grip and his body kept noodling, now burying his torso in. I watched as his back sunk deeper into me. His waist slipping in, his thighs, knees, calves. The last thing I saw of him was a ratty pair of sneakers, and then they were gone and he was gone.
My hands touched my tattoo, to try and feel the hole in my chest, but all I felt was skin.
When I walked out again, old lady Rhonda said, "Now who wants some cake?"
"I'm starving," Enrique said, and I said, "Me, too," and Vern said, "You know what, I'm damn hungry myself," and she said, "All my boys are famished tonight."
We gathered around the cake; it had white frosting and writing across it in bright orange icing, the color of Home Depot: Let's start from scratch.
"Thanks for doing this," I said to old lady Rhonda.
"Once I go on `Wheel of Fortune,' we'll be set for life."
At first, I didn't say anything, thinking about me and old lady Rhonda, being set for life, having a life together in the first place. Then I said, "Do you really think so?"
"We'll either be rich and happy, or poor and happy."
She lit the candles. I put my face right over them, feeling their heat and taking a huge breath, blowing them all out.
"What did you wish for?" old lady Rhonda said.
But I didn't have time to answer her, because seconds later, the candles lit back up. I took another big breath and blew again. Some of them stayed out, but some came back to life.
Old lady Rhonda laughed and said, "Trick candles!"
We all cracked up.
"Come on, soldiers," Vern said. "He needs reinforcements," and they circled around the cake, the trick candles, circled around me, and all of us blew and blew until we'd finally put them out for good.
Apologies
This is supposed to be an Acknowledgements section. But I have this theory that anyone you wish to "acknowledge," you probably also owe an apology, even for the most prosaic crimes and intrusions. So here's my litany in no particular ranking of indictments. First, my dad. He's dead, and I was a smug little prick most of the time we knew each other. I hope he knows I'm not as smug or as little or as much of a… well, two out of three ain't bad. To my younger sisters, I apologize for a lack of latitude in my guidance; I probably should have pandered more than corruption. So it goes. I did the best I could with my contorted sensibilities and will hopefully learn to nurture you in better ways. My mom: I'm sorry if people think the mother character in this novel is you. Trust me, it isn't. This is fiction; this is a cluster of lies; no reason for Ms. Mohr to suffer the consequences for my sordid imagination. My ex-wife, I guess the "ex" makes this one self-explanatory Mistakes were made… moving on. My step-mother, I'm sorry my dreadlocks gave the whole family lice while I was in high school. To every proprietor of every bar I flung drinks in: I drank on the job. I drank a lot. Really. It was ridiculous. I owe each of you like $20,000. To every ex-girlfriend for every set of sheets I soiled. To the selfless teachers in my writing life — Susan, Kate, Andrew, Dodie, Dan — I know I pestered you congenitally; but there were questions that needed answers, damnit, answers! Old roommates, yes, your accusations were all true. I stole CDs and drank your booze and played grab-ass with your significant others. To my favorite drinking buddies: Shana, Veronica, Marc, Matty Jen L, Stix, Andrew B, Rick, Rob B, Michael A, Michael L, CY, Aubs and Pep, Ro and K: "To livers aching like shin splints!" Everything I've ever said to any of you in a blackout cannot be used against me in a court of law To Eric and Eliza at Two Dollar Radio, a preemptive apology: I haven't known you long enough to do anything extraordinarily insipid, but it looms. To Amy and Robyn, I'm sorry if my insomniac emails ever made your jobs more trying (You try entertaining yourself at four a.m.!). And finally to Leota Antoinette: this isn't an apology, you don't need one; this is solely thanks for your resilience and advice and optimism and thoughtfulness and rousing heart.
