The Sea Beach Line. Ben Nadler
pulled up in his white van. The inside of that van was a lot like the inside of the storage space. He got out of the van and leaned against the side, waiting for me to come to him. He was wearing a Yankees cap, and all his gold chains. When I made it across the lawn to him, he gave me a manly hug.
“This is the house?” He looked over my shoulder with apprehension. He had never been there before. I think the house was bigger than he expected.
“Yeah. We live here. You want to come inside?”
“No. I don’t want to go in there.” His family had been taken from him, and relocated to this suburban house. Of course he didn’t want to go inside.
“I think they have some Sam Adams in the fridge.” I knew they did, because I’d been pilfering them all day. “If you want a beer?”
“No, not right now. You doing all right, boychik?”
“Sure.” I was confused. Had he driven all the way out into the suburbs just to check up on me? It felt strange to be standing beside him on a green lawn. I associated him with pavement.
“How is Becca?”
“She’s good. She’s still up at school, until May.”
“Yes. I know. Boston. Boston College.”
“Boston University.” I felt bad correcting him. There was no reason he should know the difference between the schools.
“Yes. Boston University. She is doing well in her studies?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.” She always got good grades. She was competitive, and it was important to her to do better than the other kids.
“She has a field of study?”
“A major? Marketing, I think.”
“Marketing? Ah. Advertising. Selling. Smart. She is like her papa.
“Listen. Takhlis: I have something going on, out West. Something big. I’m going out there now.” I didn’t know what “something going on” meant exactly. He never told me too much about his hustles. All I really knew was that he made “deals” from time to time, and that he would be flush with cash afterward.
“Right now?”
“Yes. It is sudden. But the situation out there.” It was only later that I realized I never even asked where “out there” was. I knew he went west, but I didn’t know what state. “And the situation here. You know, I could use a partner.”
“A partner?”
“Tak, road partner, business partner. You interested?”
“You want me to help you?” How could I help him?
“Sure. Who else would I turn to, buddy, except my own flesh and blood?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to.”
“Nu?” He needed an answer. Did I want to man up, and head out into the world? “I can’t just go,” I said. “I mean, I have school . . .” It was very sunny out. A man was watering his lawn across the street. He eyed the Astro van suspiciously. I really felt as if I couldn’t go. Packing my backpack and getting in the van seemed impossible.
“What’s that Jew prick looking at?” Alojzy said. He gave the neighbor a hard look. The neighbor turned off the hose and went inside his garage. Alojzy turned back to me and sighed.
He looked sad. Something bigger than the trip was slipping away—a whole part of what I could do and who I could be—but I was scared to grab it. I thought about the moment many times over the years, and that was the only explanation I could ever come back to: fear. The moment passed completely, the two of us standing there silent, and then it was gone.
“Of course,” Alojzy said. “Of course. You should be in school. You are a real good fella. Study hard. Go to Boston University.”
“I’ll see you before then.” I was sure I would.
“Of course. I’ll see you soon.”
“Maybe I could go with you, if, just in a couple days. If I talked to Mom—” I was already regretting the scene, even as it was still unfolding.
“No. You’re right. It was just a thought I had. You should be in school. You don’t need to get mixed up in my endeavors.” It was clear to me even then that he didn’t believe this, that he was just giving me an easy way to punk out and still save face. But I took it.
We talked a little more. He didn’t want to stick around the house for too long, for fear of seeing my mother. We ended up going to the Dairy Queen for sloppy joes, and then he dropped me back at the house. We didn’t talk too much while we ate, though at one point he said that if anyone ever came asking about him, it would be best if I just told them that my father was dead.
I hadn’t seen Alojzy since then. For the first year or so, I received postcards off and on. Then they stopped. He was gone from my life until his most recent postcard brought him back. Now I was being told by Goldov that he was gone for good and I would never see him again. I hoped this wasn’t true, that this was just another of Alojzy’s disappearances and he was lying low somewhere. Surely he would come back once more, and I’d have a second chance to prove I was a worthy son.
What would my life be like if I’d gone with Alojzy that day? Surely, I’d be stronger and tougher. Not so confused. I would never have wasted time in college and would have seen more of life. Maybe I’d be a hustler myself, in business with Alojzy.
It occurred to me that even though Alojzy wasn’t here, I could still go into business with him, selling his books. The cart was just sitting there, waiting for me to come take it out. Goldov’s comment about “selling off assets” might have been somewhere in the back of my mind, but I had no intention of giving that man a dime.
I had enjoyed spending the day working with Mendy, and wouldn’t mind spending more days on the street. As I spent more time on Alojzy’s turf, around people he knew, I would find out more about him. Maybe someone even knew where he was, or could get a message to him. Maybe that wouldn’t end up being necessary. Assuming Alojzy was hiding out somewhere, he was bound to return when things blew over. When he did, he would find me here, working. I would save the money I made from his stock for him, and I would be able to show him that I was capable of taking care of business.
I WOKE UP TO the sounds of street vendors beginning their days. Unoiled wheels creaked as heavy carts rolled over the concrete floors. Carts banged against metal doors. Someone was tossing boxes from a ladder to the ground, and each landed with a heavy thump. People argued in different shades of English and French. Occasionally I heard a burst of Russian, and the same language I hadn’t been able to identify at night. It sounded South Asian. Maybe Urdu or Bengali? It hadn’t occurred to me that a storage facility would be filled with so much activity. While the upper stories housed regular long-term personal storage, the majority of the ground-floor units were occupied by street vendors.
I took a drink from the plastic water jug, hid the gun under the air mattress, and stumbled over Alojzy’s boxes to the door. In the corridor, three Russian girls were arguing over a stack of T-shirts. I recognized one of them as the black-haired girl I’d seen get smacked the night before. If her face had been bruised, her makeup concealed it. A shirt fell to the ground as I passed by, and I picked it up. The shirt had an image of a woman with her finger to her lips. “Nee Boltaee,” she said—no gossiping. Handing it to the girl closest to me, I pictured my father flirting with these girls and wondered if his Polish schoolboy innuendos translated smoothly into Russian, if the girls giggled and blushed. A dreadlocked woman pushing a cart piled high with African wood carvings came up behind me and yelled at me for blocking the aisle.