Tompkins Square

"To me it's simple. More simple than for you. But the same. Except in a different way. The opposite. I'm doing what one's not expected to do, succeed, and by doing so, like you, it's a means of escape. I want to go to college. I don't know what for quite yet. I do know it won't be here."

"Outside here?"

"Outside the city."

"Don't like it here?"

"What's to like? Gotta go..."

They stood in front of her school.

"I like you," Joe said, responding boldly to her essentially rhetorical question. "When's school let out?" She let him know. He liked the answer. He would have a couple hours before he had to work.

By the time he got home it was late. He quickly forgot himself in the damp reflection of the spoon where the white powder disappeared into the dampness with a gentle shake. But it was only the most rudimentary boost to the system that had that much need to be boosted. The darkness, blind sleep, nestled there beside where powerful daylight ringed the shade, reams of sun shafting out the sides through the bedroom. No heat in it. The sun carried no heat that day.

The alarm let Joe know he had little time to clean up, dress and go. It would have to be a fast walk downtown to make his appointment. But he had to make himself presentable. Even with the late fall like cool air he knew he needed to be unexpected that day so he dressed up like going to a dance or opening night. All he had was the black cotton tux jacket and his plastic red tie and his one white dress shirt he always set aside. The black jeans were not an option but were presentable enough and the sneakers were as much a part of the quotidian uniform as were the jeans. Despite all else that might change the black jeans and white gym socks and whatever the newest shade of sneaker was that fit when he got them: black, white, blue, purple, peach, whatever, at the moment black, would always be on out there on the street.

An even faster form of the Manhattan walk had him breezing cross-town to 12th and 1st. He got there as school let out and saw all the youth only 2, 3, 4 years younger but seeming childlike somehow, pouring out the double doors, cascading around the steps which split the crowd East and West. He planted himself across the street to get the best vantage point. Eyes touching on every face strained through the flow like looking for that perfect thing he always wanted in the midst of a hundred similar objects. Finally she emerged alone among the crowd. While others paired or trioed or ganged up together, with their myriad conversations a crackle of enmeshed spears dancing through the late afternoon shadows, she silently clutched a notebook to her chest, the rest of her school books hanging loosely off the back of her left shoulder.

At the moment in which she began her descent from the school down to the street, she spotted him. She had shyly hoped to see this strange, interesting man there, but didn't want to be too disappointed. She wanted to be cool with it, but hope did rock her at her heartbeat.

When she looked up at this tall thin man and their eyes met, her face radiated a smile lacking in self-consciousness. Who was this lanky, sexy, gentle man?

Who was this person, this lovely soft, shiny skinned creature whom he loved?

He rocked towards her, stopping himself from springing across the street embracing as if he was greeting her at the airport gate as she emerged from the ramp and through the door after not seeing her, not embracing her for too long and needed immediately to end that time. And it was like that except the time away from such an embrace was infinite. He stood his ground. She crossed to it, invisible wings lightening her steps.

"Hi."

"Hi."

They exchanged nervous "Hi's"

They stared into each other's eyes and laughed simultaneously. No test of wills here. A testimonial to their comfort in spontaneity. The laugh relaxed them, channeling the excitement at the heart into a warm, effervescent flow spreading out to the fingers where they exchanged touches and tingles, and down to the lowest chakra, where it warmed and brewed.

The finger touch was brief yet transcendental.

"Are you heading home?" asked Joe.

"No," she replied assertively. "How about we go for a soda."

"A soda?"

"Ice cream soda."

Amidst the suet covered store fronts, making little assertions of their purpose: tables of greasy nuts and bolts attended by matching greasy outfits of men sitting back and still and trying to blend into the suet walls behind them, leaning back into them, there was a beacon shining out from a clean window and an ancient but clean counter beckoned them inside. A chocolate cake in a glass cake saver hovered near their two seats. Through the dark avenue blocks, walking straight East from the school on 12th Street, taking the corner at Avenue B, ringing the bell as they entered the door, an appealing peal of welcome, they were inside and seated and awaiting the sharing of a chocolate ice cream soda (not chocolate ice cream, vanilla, but chocolate sauce and the soda rich with dark and creamy bubbles making a mighty delicious crest inside the tall thick fluted soda glasses).

"Can I ask you a question?" she asked.

"Of course."

"It's about irony."

"Irony?"

"Yeah. It's for my literature class," she said as she paged through the notebook she had clutched to her chest out on the street. "You like literature?"

"Yeah. It was my favorite subject. But I wasn't much good at the irony angle."

"You read Mark Twain?"

"Sure."

"So we got this topic," she found the topic written in her book and recites it, "The ironic gaze of Mark Twain regarding the Adventures of Tom Sawyer."

"Pretty advanced stuff."

"So what's your definition?"

"Irony?" he asked and she nodded. "A twist on what appears to be there which gives another and more meaningful and often humorous glimpse at what's really going on."

"Complicated."

"Yeah. Hard to define. That's a hard question for a high school class."

"It's for college. It's for a college class I'm sitting in on."

"Still hard."

"Yeah."

"Focus, that's the key to writing papers. Find one passage with maybe one or two others if needed and analyze it for irony. How long is..."

"Five pages."

Joe noticed the time. "I gotta go." He dropped a couple bills on the counter, the last of his money. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," she said with a smile. She wanted him to say that. "Bye," she said as he set off the bells over the door and was gone.

Joe made good tips for a Wednesday, which helped, having Thursday off. He was on his game, with a touch of cheer caused by the permanent grin planted on his face. One he hoped would continue and perhaps grow as time went on. He figured on tomorrow being his first date with Lani. During the few lapses of business, he contemplated the possibilities. Though he came up with a few possibilities, he decided to give her first crack at it. He couldn't wait to see her. He was glad nobody else was interested in going out. He would have said no. He went home after a quick nosh and slept the sleep of the innocent.

***********

Indian summer was blown away by the chill of wind channeled down the avenues. Winter was busting forth and dispersing his connection. Joe searched the street. No friendly face welcomed him. Too early, no. It was the afternoon. Too damn cold more likely. He would have to network. Find a replacement sight he didn't know yet. Then he saw the old man, Lani's father. He was nearing the entrance stoop to his row house, walking briskly and bent. Joe walked towards him.

"Mr. Martinez!" Joe said loudly enough that a trace of his voice could be heard by the man before it had completely blown away. Martinez stopped and looked up at him. After a careful glance, Lani's father smiled.

"Met you yesterday," Martinez said in his well-seasoned Nuyorican accent. Joe smiled and nodded. "Come on up," he smiled, which seemed to blow away when he spied a tan unmarked police car creeping around the corner and towards them. "Come on," he hurried Joe through the outer door and up the steps.

Martinez's quiet, tall, pretty wife, looking like a matured version of Lani, poured a couple bowls of chicken soup. When Joe sipped from his bowl, it warmed him down to his frigid toes. Martinez even shared with Joe the warmth of the oven baking bread for supper. "This is perfect. Hits the spot. And the apartment is lovely," said Joe to Mrs. Martinez. And it was true. Despite its origination as the same old railroad style configuration Joe knew well from living in one for over a year before moving into his apartment looking over 14th Street, there was a warmth and softness, a homey quality he had never experienced in such places. And it smelled good too. The bread baking, the spicy soup, the cleanliness.

"Thank you. Very kind of you to say," she replied.

Martinez seemed nervous as he glanced through the edge of the drapes down at the street. "What can I get you?" He asked.

"I was looking for a deck," Joe answered.

"Here," handing him ten tiny envelopes bundled together with a rubber band. "Listen," Mr. Martinez continued, very agitated. "Do as I say. Go into the hall bathroom. Make it smell like a fresh one if you can. A couple minutes. You hear some guy getting let in to my apartment. Go soon after that. A couple minutes in there and go." He pushed Joe out and shut and locked the door. Joe obeyed, entered the toilet and thought about doing it there. Shooting up the primo street stuff that Martinez was selling. It was damned tempting, and was a little too crazy. The scene was edgy to say the least, with that worst component, at least when Joe was on the wrong side of the law as he was then, the police were intruding. He kept his works hidden, stashed in his jacket lining and let himself have a good crap. As good a crap as a couple minutes provided. And he was out the door and down the steps and gone.

"What's wrong?" Tina asked her best friend Lani between bites of the barely edible lunch in the school cafeteria. She had never seen Lani so distracted.

"I'm fine," Lani said.

"You're not high or something?" asked Tina.

Lani looked at Tina seriously. "You know me better that that."

"Not like this."

"I'm...just...happy."

"I've seen you happy."

"Have you?" Lani said seriously, staring into her friend's eyes. Then they laughed.

"I've seen you have a good time."

"I've had a good time with you."

"I hope so."

"Of course. But happy?"

"What is it? A boy you actually like?" Tina asked. Lani barely nodded. "Yeah? Who?"

"You don't know him."

"And you?" asked Tina. "Do you know him?"

"Not yet. I hope to."

Silence. Tina looked concerned at her friend.

"Don't look at me like that," Lani said. "He's nice. I think you'd like him. You don't need to protect me, Tina. I'm not some innocent little girl. I'm all grown up."

Just growing up was what Lani thought in the silence at the end of their lunch, reentering her distraction. She didn't notice the food she forked in and chewed, which was a good thing. She was young enough to have this feeling, this stimulating thrill at the thought of being in Joe's company, as her first experience with a lusty, all encompassing love for a man.

"Earth to Lani," said Tina. "Never mind. Let's go. Bell's gonna ring."

The rattling excitement stayed with Joe until his arrival at his apartment long street blocks away. He hadn't thought about the money until he searched his pockets for his keys and found the roll of cash still there. He thought better of trying to return it to Martinez right away. He had a couple of roommates panting for his arrival if nothing else. He would be noble enough not to mention the screw up. He knew his roommates would want the money back. To have their drug money double in value would thrill them no end, or at least another day when it was spent and the pursuit of cash would quickly return. He would stop by later at the gracious Martinez home.

Once back inside his large apartment, he was surprised to see John, or as the public knew him Johnny Fire. The man was a punk rock legend, one of the progenitors. He gave the movement a rock steady base, simple and enthralling, to which to set all other mayhem on top. No one quite got to Johnny's level of simple power, though many tried for years after his legacy began. John was a good friend, which, besides being a feather in Joe's cap, was a joy. Joe liked John's sly sense of humor and his shiny eyes which always revealed a great deal of heart. He hadn't seen John for a few weeks. It was good to see him. Joe could tell John wanted to talk in the way his eyes looked when they acknowledged each other.

Business first, since the full compliment of roommates was impatiently awaiting the dope. He dealt out the pack, and they all tore off to their sanctuaries to tear open their prizes. Four went to Mark and Gracie, the married couple in the first room, and three went to Izzy, living in the adjoining room. Joe, who had lived in this space the longest, managed to end up with the large room down the hall, kept the last three packets for his own use.

Before Gracie filled up her water glass from the sink tap in the bathroom she told Joe why John was there. "John knows a new spot and was out collecting. I told him we were waiting on you." She quickly filled up the glass and darted into her and Mark's room.

"Sorry," Joe said. John shrugged. After getting himself some fresh water he slipped into his bedroom. "Come on in." John followed him. John watched him set up the shot, pouring two bags into the spoon. Joe drew up a little more than half of the liquefied heroin, impaled a vein and sent it inside. "Want some?"

Out of nowhere emerged a kit with a set of works that John extracted, and he made the kit vanish. He sucked up the dope water as thoroughly as possible, filling the narrow tube with the clear liquid. Tapping and squeezing out the pockets of air, he handed his works to Joe. Now came the hard part. Finding a vein through the callused arms. Luckily he found a hill that successfully bought him to a vein. He pushed in the plunger, and John let out a low soft sigh.

"How you been?" asked Joe.

"Fine, Joe."

"Good to see you."

"You too."

"Can I ask you something, John?"

"Shoot."

"Well, it's about this girl..."

"You're asking the wrong guy about girls. Can't figure the fuckers out."

"It's not like that. It's a whole thing," Joe began, trying to assemble his thoughts. "First off she's young. Still in high school. But mature I think. Smart. And she's Puerto Rican."

"You like the hot blooded type?" said John in his cracked actor way, at once humorous, almost caustic, and at the same time concerned, compassionate, interested. But always cool.

"She's quiet. Hot blooded. I hope so. Maybe not though. And she's the daughter of my connection."

"Wow. That's a dark place to go."

"But it's not like that. She's a charm. Her dad's a nice guy. The family's nice."

"Man. I don't know. That's a whole 'nother place."

"But do you think I gotta chance with all that maybe riding against it. Her age and where's she's from. I don't see it in my heart, but I guess it seems so foreign to me, I don't get so hooked in by a girl as she is hooking me in."

"A hooker, huh," said John, laughing.

"Fuck you," said Joe, and meant it. But he knew John could take it. Better than he could take John's barbs sometimes. What are friends for?

"No, fuck her," said John, meaning it's what Joe wants.

"I'd like to snuggle up to that long dark body and stare into her lovely eyes and just have a pleasurable coast through a night."

"Not likely with her young and living at home."

"Yeah..."

************

They were finally seated. The first date had begun.

Good Jewish Deli food. Closest Joe could find to a deli like the ones at home. The partitioning of space gave some privacy, corners without a lot of commotion around them. The Second Avenue Deli was one of the nicer restaurants in the East Village. Perhaps abnormally nice. Lani had never been.

"So this is where the other half lives," said Lani as she eased herself onto the booth couch, settling in. The complexion was universally white except maybe the dishwasher in the back.

The place made Joe a little uncomfortable, too. Confused. He blended in but he didn't. Seemed like old news. His head was not at all connected to the old days when he scooped dishes off tables in such a place. Had he ever fit in?

Joe looked across the wide table and smiled. "Yeah. Bourgeois kid. Brought up in professional's houses in the suburbs." Joe looked over the menu. "Want me to order for you?"

"Sure, but let's have an ice cream soda for desert."

"Share one?"

"Sure."

He ordered corned beef on rye for the both of them. They nibbled on the kosher pickles swimming in brine in the silver bowl. So far it had been a quiet date.

"I used to work in a place like this, except it was out in the suburbs. Last I heard it was torn down to make room for an even bigger highway. So yeah, this is where the other half lived," said Joe.

"It's like being in some white guy's view of the world," said Lani.

"You want to go?"

"Course not, silly. It's very nice."

All there was was glances. Nothing said between them as they gobbled up the sandwiches. Or, to be more precise, what was said was silence was okay. They were learning about each other. Studying. Mostly at the eyes, looking into the soul. Seeing the sadness and the intelligence. Seeing the sexiness and making the lowest chakra warm and expand and throb.

Seeing into the soul was so attractive neither one studied the other physically. The eyes were the thing. So what they didn't notice then was they had transformed. When Joe looked at Lani or vice versa from then on they looked at their lover, the most intimate person in their lives. A subtle shift of reality that they wouldn't have ever noticed anyway had they looked away from their eyes.

When the ice cream soda arrived, Joe moved himself over to sit beside Lani. Norman Rockwell must have felt a need for copyright infringement when they touched faces for the first time at the ice cream soda while sucking up the rich foaming liquid through their straws. Looking at each other and laughing, they settled back against the cushioned rest. His arm had ended up around her. When he leaned down to kiss her, his hand slid gently along her soft cheek.

Touching lips was but a whisper to the full voice they wanted. They soon were open to tongues playing back and forth and were pressed firmly together. His hands moved down to her torso to discover the softness of her skin beneath her dark red cotton dress. Not loose, but soft skin. He moved his hand down further until he took hold of her pelvis and slid her closer.

She began touching him also first at the cheek. After feeling the side of his mouth and all the action of their dueling tongues, she brought her other hand up to push him away from her lips. Keeping hold of his face, she stared back into those rich blue eyes full of sass and sadness in equal doses.

The second kiss, when she attacked his lips with full force, was noticed by a grumpy old white man in a suit who mumbled his disgust.

Noticing the mumble, Joe said a little loudly, "Mind your own business."

Lani just laughed. "I'll call my dad," she said with a smile, racing off to the public phone with her purse.

"Uh," was all Joe could say, since she was quickly out of earshot. He was stunned. Did that mean she was going to stay over or that she wanted a couple more hours? Did she really want him as much as he wanted her?

Her eyes were damp, nearly leaking tears when she returned. "Let's go," she said.

Joe grabbed the bill and, after leaving a decent gratuity, darted off behind Lani to the counter and soon outdoors. They swooped around the corner. When she stopped, Joe was flung two arms lengths past. His was a clumsy stop but he quickly recovered. He twirled her, flung her out and back into his arms so her butt was pushed against his crotch. She felt his hardness as he held her pelvis against it. Leaning her head back, they kissed. Turning around, she hopped up, wrapping her legs around his waist to push her hot throbbing pussy against one proof of his attraction to her. The other proof continued at their lips and tongues.