Brooklyn Noir Part 5

Practicing here, jumping off Canarsie Pier into Jamaica Bay, to simulate the worst potential payout of our gamble with gravity-falling together off a bridge into deep water, which he risked every day, just not while toting me along-required forbidden primary contact recreation. Immersion in Jamaica Bay "violated Federal rules," Dad warned, voice somber, conspiratorially soft, "As in, the Feds the Feds You get it?" You get it?"

"I got it."

"Good."

Bench-pressing hadn't been practicing; it was pre-training, basic conditioning, a barely callisthenic, chicken-feed beginner's warm-up leading us to this. To Canarsie Pier. For the for-real practicing for-real practicing-if those particular words, strung together and placed next to each other, made sense. Which they didn't.

Dad started when he was fourteen. Until his death at forty-five, every workday of his life, he was scared. Two kinds of work were obtainable in the world: the safe and the dangerous. Experience and practice never made Dad unafraid. Silently, without fanfare, he tolerated extreme fear-states and accepted the probability of grave injury or death as standard workaday inevitabilities, like lunch with the gang or alone up on a scaffold, like fatigue, like fumes. His morning routine: get into whites, shave, shower, s.h.i.t, like a military man, brush teeth, drink pot of coffee, slap on boots and cap, drive to site, start working, get crushingly, heart-stoppingly, fittingly fittingly panicked about dying in the coming hours. Dad did frightening things that other people didn't want to do; other people didn't have to do them, because people like Dad did. Blood poisoning did him in after twenty-four years of exposure to industrial chemicals, mostly paints containing an odorless, oily, poisonous benzene derivative, absorbed through skin: panicked about dying in the coming hours. Dad did frightening things that other people didn't want to do; other people didn't have to do them, because people like Dad did. Blood poisoning did him in after twenty-four years of exposure to industrial chemicals, mostly paints containing an odorless, oily, poisonous benzene derivative, absorbed through skin: aniline blue. Aniline blue aniline blue. Aniline blue sounded like a song t.i.tle or poem, the name of a daughter or lover. Lyrical, sing-song sounded like a song t.i.tle or poem, the name of a daughter or lover. Lyrical, sing-song aniline blue aniline blue killed him, but before that happened, I'd planned on his dying in a bridge fall. killed him, but before that happened, I'd planned on his dying in a bridge fall.

There were laws against it.

Child protection laws with tucked-in bylaws that defined bringing children to dangerous workplaces as criminal offenses. Take Our Daughters to Work Day wasn't designed for the daughters of pile driver, jack hammer, or forklift operators. Taking kids to perilous worksites violated child endangerment laws, laws ratified and upheld-lackadaisically, since the continuance of selected human genera wasn't a big deal, even when specimens were found in bulk-for protection I didn't want.

The laws against it didn't stop us. Did laws ever stop anyone who wanted to do something really bad from doing something really bad? A failure of nerve stopped us. His His All his. He, the adroit, well-built, well-practiced man, who did it daily, for real, chickened out. I, who hadn't yet mastered long division or my dread surrounding it, was ready to jump right in. All his. He, the adroit, well-built, well-practiced man, who did it daily, for real, chickened out. I, who hadn't yet mastered long division or my dread surrounding it, was ready to jump right in.

Upon starting work at a new job, Dad would half-promise and half-threaten to cart me along to the worksite, fix me in place around his tough neck, my legs parted, one leg dangling off each of his shoulders, and lug me around the job all day, up and down the tiers of the bridge, everywhere work required him to be while he painted. A regular workday, but with a Beth on his back. He'd try not to let me fall. He'd do the best he could. His six feet and three inches-a tall Jew!-guaranteed me an even better view than his of water, sky, skyline, land, of the whole place that Mark LaPlace, a mixed-blood Mohawk, who, along with many Indian ironworkers, drove in every week from the Caughnawaga reservation near Montreal, called the City of Man-Made Mountains.

Earthbound, at home or school, the world was scary and too big as it was. High on a partially completed bridge, higher yet on Dad's shoulders, the world would swell to unmanageable dimensions, awesome frights, sickening beauties. The antic.i.p.ation of visual sublimity wasn't what thrilled me at every promise-threat. I thrilled to Dad's singular power to scare me, to his correspondingly exclusive power to soothe me. Dad could rea.s.sure me; I'd believe believe his rea.s.surances, trust in them, because he knew, the cells that made him his rea.s.surances, trust in them, because he knew, the cells that made him him him understood how bad fear could get. Climbing together, he'd have his rope, hook, muscle-meat, and deeply treaded, break-a-leg boots, acting on behalf of his physical integrity and safety. All I'd have was a perfunctory pat on the head, understood how bad fear could get. Climbing together, he'd have his rope, hook, muscle-meat, and deeply treaded, break-a-leg boots, acting on behalf of his physical integrity and safety. All I'd have was a perfunctory pat on the head, knock 'em dead, kiddo knock 'em dead, kiddo, and his body. I'd be terrified and love it, love him for terrifying me, for his unique capacity to a.s.suage terror he'd auth.o.r.ed himself. If some evening, he'd casually, pa.s.singly mention taking me up-maybe tomorrow ... you never know, do you?-the next morning, suited up in my dungaree overalls, prepared for action, I'd park my tush on his lunch pail, so he couldn't leave without first reckoning with me, as a housecat might tuck her body within the lining of a suitcase her owner was packing for a journey, not-so-subtly notifying her master, You're not going anywhere unless you take me, too. You're not going anywhere unless you take me, too. As if the cat, no matter how well-loved, had any say at all in the matter. As if the cat, no matter how well-loved, had any say at all in the matter.

Every day he left without taking me, until I was twelve and G.o.d d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l G.o.d d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l he died and stopped he died and stopped no no taking me. taking me.

Before he pulled that stunt, he kept on pledging and daring me to go. I'd dare him back with a fiercely incautious, You'd better believe it! You'd better believe it! As if I, no matter how well-loved, had any say at all in the matter. As if I, no matter how well-loved, had any say at all in the matter.

Every one of New York City's children grew up in the shadows of bridges. A smaller subset grew up or died in the penumbrae of bridge deaths. Child endangerment was a Cla.s.s A misdemeanor, as naughty as a misdemeanor could be before it graduated up a grade to felony. So it was one crime, child endangerment, if I hung around bridge bases when school was out so Dad could half-look after me-babysitters and summer camp didn't exist in our economic cosmology, the unfeasibility of camp accounting for my never learning how to swim-and it was another crime, child neglect-which was often a felony, not to mention a big fat bore-if he left me alone at home.

An outlaw either way.

Even when school was in session, most of the guys in all the gangs brought their sons to work, where they received their real education. Bridge-building was existence itself, what their fathers before them had done, what their sons after them would probably do. Ironworkers formed multi-generational lines of risk-takers, cold-nerved men bonded together like the high steel it was a life's a.s.signment to connect. Those burly, balletic men-who took chances only circus acrobats, suicidal souls, Wallendas, or bridgemen would take, who p.r.o.nounced me cuter than a b.u.t.ton cuter than a b.u.t.ton, who bear-hugged me till the guacamole would come outa them ears till the guacamole would come outa them ears, who gave me quarters just because I was Lefty Tedesky's girl-were criminals? Plain as day, it couldn't have been a crime when Chicky Testaverde, who spun cable, brought his fourteen-year-old, Danny, to a job, and it couldn't have been a crime when a tall ladder caught Danny's curious eye, and the boy asked, "Can I climb that?"

Chicky replied, in a resigned, benumbed, oh-no-here's-where-it-all-begins oh-no-here's-where-it-all-begins voice, "Awright, but don't fall." Could Chicky authoritatively have refused, without Danny laughing in his face as father and son stood right there on a bridge-construction site, where Chicky was now working iron, where both might have been remembering that Chicky's father, Danny's grandfather, had worked the Williamsburg Bridge, lifting steel beams with derricks pulled by horses? voice, "Awright, but don't fall." Could Chicky authoritatively have refused, without Danny laughing in his face as father and son stood right there on a bridge-construction site, where Chicky was now working iron, where both might have been remembering that Chicky's father, Danny's grandfather, had worked the Williamsburg Bridge, lifting steel beams with derricks pulled by horses?

Danny climbed that ladder higher and higher, until he stood alone on a slippery top beam-a beam much higher than Chicky had bargained for or would have allowed if Danny had asked-and looked around, taking in the world's magnitude, and marveled at how extraordinarily far he could see from that height, and instantly decided that ironwork was what he'd someday do. Down at the base, Chicky went all-out ape. "Get down, Danny, you crazy f.u.c.k, d.a.m.n you! You'll kill yourself up there. And if you die, Danny boy? You know what'll happen if you die?" Danny smiled down at everyone, smiled what the men called a s.h.i.t-eating grin. s.h.i.t-eating grin. I couldn't see how eating s.h.i.t was anything to grin about, but I figured adults knew things I was too young to understand. "If you die," Chicky screamed at the sky, "I. Will. f.u.c.king. Kill. You." I couldn't see how eating s.h.i.t was anything to grin about, but I figured adults knew things I was too young to understand. "If you die," Chicky screamed at the sky, "I. Will. f.u.c.king. Kill. You."

Wearing an aw-shucks-I'm-caught-but-I'm-cute aw-shucks-I'm-caught-but-I'm-cute mug, Danny climbed down. Everyone, high and low-physically, up on the bridge and down at the base, and professionally, at every station within high steel's complex system of ranking its men-applauded and cheered. One after another, ironworkers thumped his back hard; sometimes truly to hurt him, because he'd done wrong, he'd gone against his father, and sometimes to congratulate him, as a display of respect, because he'd proven himself bridge-worthy. Danny had demonstrated his pa.s.sion for and merit within his family's legacy precisely by defying it in its current incarnation: Chicky. Mostly the men's back-clapping extended both-contempt and admiration-through the infliction of pain. Just a little pain. mug, Danny climbed down. Everyone, high and low-physically, up on the bridge and down at the base, and professionally, at every station within high steel's complex system of ranking its men-applauded and cheered. One after another, ironworkers thumped his back hard; sometimes truly to hurt him, because he'd done wrong, he'd gone against his father, and sometimes to congratulate him, as a display of respect, because he'd proven himself bridge-worthy. Danny had demonstrated his pa.s.sion for and merit within his family's legacy precisely by defying it in its current incarnation: Chicky. Mostly the men's back-clapping extended both-contempt and admiration-through the infliction of pain. Just a little pain.

Or a lot. But a lot usually happened at home. Like what they did in public was practice for what they'd do at home. Like they saved a lot a lot up during the day. For later. up during the day. For later.

Chicky played at grumbling and grousing but couldn't persuasively beat down his smile-crooked-lipped, prominently lacking some teeth, but jam-packed with filial pride-when he submitted that Danny's ascent had earned Danny his first beer. Chicky kept a cooler with sodas and beers in his Buick's trunk on days when the walking bosses weren't around. He called, "Little Tedesky!" I jumped to attention. "Couldja make yourself useful? Shake a leg? Get my boy here a beer?"

Chicky tossed me his car keys and threw me an approving nod when I caught them no problem. Keds crunching gravel, I ran toward the parking lot, delighted to have a task to fulfill for the men. Danny, overjoyed with his big day's second distinct launch into masculine adulthood-his illicit, under-age drink, perhaps not his first, as Chicky chose to think-jogged close behind me.

"Today's your day," I said, palming the clutch of keys off to him. "You get to do the whole thing." He unlocked and opened the Buick's trunk, pried off the cooler's squeaky Styrofoam lid, retrieved a Rheingold, took a long pull. He offered me a sip.

"Just don't tell." Immediately following the initial sip, my arms and legs felt heavy and achy, but they ached good. Another sip, and they ached real good. Another, and I became unsteady. I grabbed Danny's arm so I wouldn't skin my knees stumbling to the gravel.

I'd never seen so hairy an arm on someone so young. Up close. With my free hand, I touched the hair on the arm I held hostage, mussing the hair against the whorls of its natural growth configuration, then smoothing it back, as I'd done at home with the wall-to-wall s.h.a.g. Back and forth, up and down his arm. I was simultaneously lost in and intensely concentrated on the beat, the rhythm of cyclically creating swirling arm-hair chaos and then returning it to tidy normalcy He didn't stop me. His breath was raggedy. I continued stroking, ruining a pattern, restoring a pattern.

Distantly, Chicky hollered, "I said one beer, not the whole six-pack." Danny neither responded nor registered hearing his father. Now he had gooseflesh, his soft, young, black arm-hairs standing straight up, a phenomenon I'd later learn was scientifically called piloerection. piloerection. Chicky shouted, "You writin' a book or somethin'?" Danny, who got to see his arms and their hair every day, was as transfixed as I was. His breathing steadied, slowed, deepened. Nearly but not quite rupturing my reverie, from afar Chicky yelled, angrily, "Danny? You deaf or just not listening to me today? If I have to come over there ..." Wordlessly, Danny stared at my hand gliding along his arm's shaft. Touching his arm-hair, and the arm-skin underneath, was awfully pleasant and vaguely disturbing, a brand new, unnamable inner commotion that started to spook me. I didn't want to stop petting him, but I thought I should mention what I'd half-heard. "You're dad's mad. You're in trouble." Danny didn't hear me. Chicky bellowed, "Hey, Lefty. People's gonna think your girl's the type who hangs around parking lots. See what's doing over there, will ya?" Chicky shouted, "You writin' a book or somethin'?" Danny, who got to see his arms and their hair every day, was as transfixed as I was. His breathing steadied, slowed, deepened. Nearly but not quite rupturing my reverie, from afar Chicky yelled, angrily, "Danny? You deaf or just not listening to me today? If I have to come over there ..." Wordlessly, Danny stared at my hand gliding along his arm's shaft. Touching his arm-hair, and the arm-skin underneath, was awfully pleasant and vaguely disturbing, a brand new, unnamable inner commotion that started to spook me. I didn't want to stop petting him, but I thought I should mention what I'd half-heard. "You're dad's mad. You're in trouble." Danny didn't hear me. Chicky bellowed, "Hey, Lefty. People's gonna think your girl's the type who hangs around parking lots. See what's doing over there, will ya?"

My father approached us, boots grinding gravel. Once the beer can came within his eyeshot, his face became a blade of disapproval, features finely sharpened and narrowed. And it cut. I'd done bad. I scrambled for a strategy to fix it.

Perhaps for the first and only blessed time, being a child spared me something. Still young enough to play innocuous tickle-wrestle games, without pulling my hand from Danny's arm, I wiggled my fingers, ten desperate, panicked worms, deep into Danny's belly, like I was tickling him, "Cootchie-cootchie-cooo." Quick-footed, quick-witted Danny followed my lead, doubling over and laughing maniacally, then cootchie-cootchie-cooo-ing my armpits. I shrieked, too, with crazy-person laughter. Although Dad seemed relieved that all Danny was doing was tickling me-the man had no idea that I I was doing all the doing, or thought as much-I knew right then that it was officially and indelibly safe to say that I really had a problem, that I was disgusting, that there was poison in my putrefied blood, that I'd been born bad. was doing all the doing, or thought as much-I knew right then that it was officially and indelibly safe to say that I really had a problem, that I was disgusting, that there was poison in my putrefied blood, that I'd been born bad.

A bad seed. A bad egg. Three hundred million bad seeds in a grand hurry toward a head-on collision with one bigger bad egg. The blood-script of a messy but astonishingly idiot-proof recipe for bringing into being a being born bad born bad An accident-a statistically improbable accident-waiting to happen. That would be me. An accident-a statistically improbable accident-waiting to happen. That would be me.

For decades I'd awaken with a start, sweatily, those two words in my mind, on my tongue. Born bad Born bad When Dad first warned me that taking kids up on bridges was against the law, he'd explained, in his serious-man voice, "Here's the tricky thing, Beetle. The laws weren't made for People Like Us. Mostly, People Like Us have to obey obey the law, but we don't have to the law, but we don't have to respect respect it. And we sure as h.e.l.l don't have to like it. Ain't one law says you have to respect the law." I was proud. We were tough. We meant business. Me and my bad Dad. A tough team. Once pledged to the team, there's no getting off. Ever. it. And we sure as h.e.l.l don't have to like it. Ain't one law says you have to respect the law." I was proud. We were tough. We meant business. Me and my bad Dad. A tough team. Once pledged to the team, there's no getting off. Ever.

Even after death, there's no quitting the team. Danny loyally stuck by the Testaverde team, as the team did by him, long beyond his death-his premature payment of the ultimate union dues-two years after his transcendent ladder-climb. Violating child labor laws, and working illegally, without papers, Danny had quit high school to work iron. The walking bosses had looked the other way at his age, because Danny was a crackerjack cabler, skilled beyond his years, until the day he'd slipped and fallen off a too-slippery beam.

The men, as Dad recounted the story, struggled to catch him, nearly falling off themselves, but they only managed to grab hold of his shirt. His Alexander's-boys'-department polyester shirt. In a wakeful nightmare, a day-mare, the men watched impotently as Danny plummeted, and his shirt flew off, and his naked back looked so startlingly white against the black water. Water as hard as concrete, water harder than steel, water that murdered bodies falling from such heights by breaking them into many pieces, even if the lungs managed miraculously to carry on functioning during the descent.

No one could bear to look at Chicky.

Finally, the men watched as, from deep within him, Danny's intestines sprung pyrotechnically out of his insides and into the open air, unfurling like some kid's birthday-party streamers, launching skyward, as if powered by a spring-loaded catapult. The remnants of his body sunk heavily into the water, piece by broken piece. His guts were the last part of him anyone saw. His guts-up, up, up-as they soared.

All the men removed their hard hats, tacitly arriving at a collective mandate that the workday was over-and not just for Danny. Most of them immediately headed down off the bridge, but some were immobilized, stunned still, including several who required hours of humiliating, never-to-be-mentioned-again coaching and hand-holding from other men. Three guys were physically incapable-it wasn't emotional or anything, they swore, but sheerly, physiologically impossible-to unbolt their locked-shut eyes. The three had to be embraced and carried down the whole way.

Criminals. All of us.

"If we're gonna climb a bridge together, I have to teach you the right way to fall off. Into water. When you know how to fall right, we can go up and know what to do if G.o.d forbid something goes wrong. But remember: None of these things are allowed. There's rules against it, so you can't tell anyone what we're doing. Afterwards, you can't tell anyone what we did."

"If it's not allowed on Canarsie Pier, let's skip it. It's rinky-d.i.n.k anyway. We could jump off a real bridge in Jamaica."

He grinned amusedly. "You think it's legal across the county line? In Queens County, but not Kings County?"

I stood awhile, crossed and uncrossed my legs, which locked at my stiffened, k.n.o.bby knees. I lost my balance a little during one crossover, caught myself, and swallowed hard. I hadn't meant Queens. I'd meant the island. From the commercials. Ocean waves. Palm trees. Sunsets. And that music. I folded my arms across my chest. "I meant the beach."

"Forget Bergen Beach. We're good enough right here. Anyway, how's stepping from flat sand into the ocean like jumping off a bridge? 'Slike taking a walk, not a fall." I hadn't thought through the spatial aspects that far-although secretly, antic.i.p.ating our trip to the bay in for-real Jamaica, I'd packed my knapsack with my bathing suit and two towels and placed toothpaste, toothbrushes, shampoo, suntan oil, soap, and snacks in my Fonzie lunchbox. Peering down into this Jamaica's bay, I saw that these logistics weren't a.n.a.logous to a work situation either. Canarsie Pier's setup didn't provide the slightest simulation of the long-distance free-fall from those heights to those depths, and that that was what I'd wanted him to show me. The distance between Canarsie Pier's cement banks and Jamaica Bay's foul water was a matter of sad little inches-nothing compared to the vast expanses of absolute nothing between a bridge's tensile steel and the suck of rushing, fluctuating open water. My stomach sat low, depressed with the first signs of was what I'd wanted him to show me. The distance between Canarsie Pier's cement banks and Jamaica Bay's foul water was a matter of sad little inches-nothing compared to the vast expanses of absolute nothing between a bridge's tensile steel and the suck of rushing, fluctuating open water. My stomach sat low, depressed with the first signs of starting-to-be-sad starting-to-be-sad stomach syndrome. stomach syndrome.

"First off, when you're falling more than twenty feet, you don't know diddley-squat about what's floating around you. You could hit Jimmy Hoffa for all you know. You don't know how deep the water's gonna be. Make like you're blind. A leap of faith."

I got quiet. I got cold, even though the night was hot, and when I shivered, poking through my Danskin, my nipples mortified me. He wore only pale, unpatterned blue boxers. No shirt. No one was around, so it was okay, he said. He figured cops wouldn't ha.s.sle us at 1 a.m., so we went then, in the small hours. It was to be our secret.

The distinction between secrecy and privacy. A tough one.

The sky was yellowish and bearing down, pressing the low roofs of the attached houses with green awnings beyond Seaview Avenue, closing in on the Pier's hot concrete. He asked, all sympathetic and paternal, "Getting cold feet?"

"What are you? High as a kite on drugs?" The question had been popping out of Canarsie's parental mouths.

"Then pay attention. I'll explain it as many times as you need, but I'll only demonstrate once."

"Why?"

His features cl.u.s.tered to a pinch of nose and lips-a disgusted look, I thought, standing with my squinched-raisin nipples and ignorance. "I'm not allowed to jump in even once. I can't go twice. They'd cart me to jail if they knew you were doing it, too." I was dry ice, frozen and burnt. "Learning how to fall is the most important thing you'll ever learn, and they won't teach you that in school. The trick is to do exactly what doesn't come naturally. When you're falling, you won't be able to see or even think, but if somehow you can, try to fall wherever the water's deepest."

"But then I'll drown."

"Drowning's always a risk, but that's a swimming problem, not a falling problem. And if drowning is your main concern, you lucked out big time, because you can only drown if there's a miracle and you survive the fall and the hit. The deepest water is furthest from sh.o.r.eline. a.s.sume the water isn't deep enough to stop you bashing yourself against the sh.o.r.e bottom. Hit bottom with your head, you break your skull. Hit bottom with your legs, they snap like Pick-Up Sticks. Go for the deepest part. Stay away from all objects, especially anything that supports the bridge."

"Then there's nothing to hold onto. To help me. Float."

"This is true. Nothing to help you out, but also nothing to smash yourself into. All kinds of garbage collects near bridge supports. Sure, a little raft would be nice to find, but you're more liable to find something a lot bigger and a lot harder than you are. Then you'll pay." He turned around, looked behind himself. "Checking for John Law. Coast's clear. Okay now. Jump feet first. Stay straight. If you aren't perfectly straight, you'll break your back when you hit." I was trembling, and not because of the extreme temperatures my skin had touched. He said, "I thought you wanted this. What's with the Gloomy Gus punim?" punim?"

"I'm just listening."

"Totally vertical. Feet first. Squeeze your feet together tight. And your b.u.t.t cheeks."

"b.u.t.t cheeks?"

"If you don't squeeze your cheeks, water's gonna rush in. Screw up your insides. Internal damage and such like."

"Rush in where?" What fun, to watch a big strong man squirm. I knew where he was talking about, that it embarra.s.sed him to talk about it. I knew that things could go inside that place just as things could come out of that place. "Rush in where?"

"Into your insides. Your tummy. And you'll get one h.e.l.luva stomachache. Always make sure to cover your privacy real tight." Outside his boxers, he cupped his hands around his parts, like I was some guy at a row of urinals.

"Why? Why should I? Why should I cover my privacy?"

"You just have to." I wanted to watch him wriggle out of this one. I remembered how one winter, when we'd gone to see the human polar bears go swimming at Brighton Beach, I'd asked him why men had nipples. He'd blushed and changed the subject to his favorite: ironwork. And a few years earlier, I'd asked him where babies came from. Fl.u.s.tered, pink-faced, without a trace of levity or irony, he said, in a voice possessed of an untainted, artless sincerity never heard out of grown-ups' mouths, "Ummmmm, you should ask your mother." My question was sufficiently stress-provoking to make him forget that I didn't have much of a mother to ask, and that if I did ask the mother I came from, he and I wouldn't have been having this conversation. This situation.

"Just do what I tell you and remember to protect your privacy."

The thick yellow sky pushed down on my skull and brain. "First you said I couldn't think or see straight. Then you said to remember to cover my privacy. How'm I gonna remember if I can't think?"

"Trust me." To trust someone who kept checking behind his back did not come easy.

"Explain why you did that." I pointed, accusing his shorts of something. The idea of his parts poked out; the idea of his sheltering hands obscured the idea of the bulge. "Izzat fair? You said you'd explain it however many times, then you don't explain it, not even a tiny bit?" He looked around frantically. "Dad, we're alone, but it doesn't matter anyway, 'cause everything's all wrong."

"Wrong? What's wrong? I'm steering you wrong?"

My talking-out-loud voice said, "No," but my thinking-inside-myself voice bawled, You already did. This was supposed to be something else. You're pulling a change-up on me and you don't even say you're sorry. You already did. This was supposed to be something else. You're pulling a change-up on me and you don't even say you're sorry. I started crying, then I stopped myself. I started crying, then I stopped myself.

"I know it's scary, b.u.t.terfly," he cooed, all kissy-face-buddy-buddy. "I'll demonstrate. Better to learn by example." He plopped onto the concrete and lay flat, flat everywhere except for the forcefully un-flat, trace afterimage of the ghost in his shorts. "Another thing to know. Remember how we make snow-angels?"

"That's winter. In the snow. It's summer now. Everything's different."

"Pretend with me. As practice." He spread his arms and legs apart, wide. His pectorals and deltoids emerged, tauten-ing, hardening, and his boxers gapped, puffed, and puckered in places I thought would've worried him if he hadn't been busy trying to get in good with me-after he'd rooked me, no less. His arms and legs described arcs on the concrete. "While you're falling, making snow-angels in the air generates resistance and slows down your plunge." He flapped his limbs like a dying bug, too stunned to flip from his back onto twitchy, kicky legs.

I was done. No more pretending. No more practicing. I wasn't lying down on hot concrete, no way no how, to make fake snow-angels in the summer. I was done bench-pressing, too, because falling lessons, and all the practicing building up to it, had always held zero promise. For me. I said, "This is C-R-A-P c.r.a.ppola."

"I don't like that word."

"Well, tough t.i.tties. I don't like this. I don't even think I like you. I'm going home." As if it would work this time, I said it again-I'm going home-as if I had any say at all in the matter. He appeared embarra.s.singly eager to scuttle like a caught c.o.c.kroach off the Pier, but if he hadn't been ready to leave, if he'd wanted something else, somewhere else, or something more, I would've been stuck. I had no keys. I wondered whether it was accurate to call it our house our house if only one of us had keys. if only one of us had keys.

Chicky Testaverde came by a couple of times that summer to have grief-drinks with Dad after he'd already been at the bar, talking ironwork, having several after-work drinks with the guys. He never confessed to suffering days so stricken it took five after-work drinks to calm his once-nervy nerves. He never confessed to icing over with bone-seizing fear while on bridges now, unable to move in any direction, sometimes hugging a girder or a beam, eyes crushed closed for five minutes. But he spoke like a man indicting himself for murder, which implicated us as coconspirators, when he wept, "I shoulda known to keep my kid off the bridge."

Later during the summer of the Pier business, the three of us-Dad, awkwardness, and I-got in the car, tooled around, listened to AM radio and the wind roaring through the open windows. The drives were probably his uncomplicated method of getting through the hours. His directions and destinations were always questionable and unquestioned. One night he'd gotten lost, maybe missed an exit if he'd had one in mind, near the Belt Parkway's labyrinthine, accident-p.r.o.ne Ocean Parkway intersection, a snaky Mobius-mess of ramps, exits, merges, under- and overpa.s.ses. Traffic was slow.

He drove the Olds below an overpa.s.s on whose brick someone had spray-painted in darkest black, Hi Sc.u.mmy. Hi Sc.u.mmy.

We noticed it, read it, and looked at each other. Hi Sc.u.mmy Hi Sc.u.mmy jetted us into laughter so belly-felt it was unbearable, like being too-tickled. Our hysterics were a relief, too, the discharging of something that needed letting out. Laughter was going to kill us, because Dad was losing control of the wheel, swerving like an alkie. He pulled off at the nearest exit and parked. We genuinely could not stop laughing. We were having An Episode. I was scared I might wet my pants, but I also didn't care if I did. jetted us into laughter so belly-felt it was unbearable, like being too-tickled. Our hysterics were a relief, too, the discharging of something that needed letting out. Laughter was going to kill us, because Dad was losing control of the wheel, swerving like an alkie. He pulled off at the nearest exit and parked. We genuinely could not stop laughing. We were having An Episode. I was scared I might wet my pants, but I also didn't care if I did.

When he could talk again, Dad asked, "You think the guy who wrote Hi Sc.u.mmy Hi Sc.u.mmy was p.i.s.sed off at somebody who drives under that overpa.s.s-thing every day? To make sure the other guy really gets the message?" was p.i.s.sed off at somebody who drives under that overpa.s.s-thing every day? To make sure the other guy really gets the message?"

"How would Sc.u.mmy know the guy's handwriting? And would Sc.u.mmy know to look up there for a message?"

"Hmm. Smart one. Good point. Also, how would Sc.u.mmy know that he he was the exact was the exact Sc.u.mmy Sc.u.mmy that the that the Hi Hi was meant for? 'Cause for sure there's more than one person who takes this route and fits that description." He paused, changed tone, adding a grim voice to his voice. "That's if we used words like that, Beth. And we don't. Those words aren't allowed, so we don't use them." was meant for? 'Cause for sure there's more than one person who takes this route and fits that description." He paused, changed tone, adding a grim voice to his voice. "That's if we used words like that, Beth. And we don't. Those words aren't allowed, so we don't use them."

"Oh," I said, earnestly. "What about words like Dummy-f.u.c.k-o?" Dummy-f.u.c.k-o?"

"Beth! Brat! Enough! You know the rules about words."

"Rules schmules!" I waved away his admonition. Laughter was lots better. "What about this? Maybe the person who wrote ... that thing ... that Hi ... Hi ... is mad at the drivers." is mad at the drivers."

"All of 'em? In every single car?"

"Well, not mad, exactly, he just thinks they're, you know, that they're sc.u.mmy!"

"What did you just say?"

"Sc.u.mmy!" I hooted. I hollered. I spat a few spit-bubbles out my mouth, not on purpose, but a couple hit him, which was nice. "I can say that! You can't stop me! I'm Sc.u.mmy! You're Sc.u.mmy! Everybody's so Sc.u.mmy, Sc.u.mmy, Sc.u.mmy!"

He tried to paste his I-am-stern-and-strict I-am-stern-and-strict face onto his face. "Cut out the c.r.a.p, Beth! What did I just-?" Mid-scold, he gulped, gagged, as he tried to swallow back laughter, quacking glottally at the precise moment he was trying to play the part of an face onto his face. "Cut out the c.r.a.p, Beth! What did I just-?" Mid-scold, he gulped, gagged, as he tried to swallow back laughter, quacking glottally at the precise moment he was trying to play the part of an I-know-what's-best-for-you I-know-what's-best-for-you type Dad-"What did I just tell you?" type Dad-"What did I just tell you?"

"You told me not to say sc.u.mmy sc.u.mmy But you also said But you also said c.r.a.p c.r.a.p and before that you said and before that you said sc.u.mmy sc.u.mmy a million-zillion times, so you can't be mad. Nuh-uh. The rule is phony baloney. Like you." He gunned the engine again, and we went quiet, listen-ing to the Olds' hum, meandering on small streets toward wherever he and I were headed, that night, that summer. a million-zillion times, so you can't be mad. Nuh-uh. The rule is phony baloney. Like you." He gunned the engine again, and we went quiet, listen-ing to the Olds' hum, meandering on small streets toward wherever he and I were headed, that night, that summer.

Then, I Eureka!- Eureka!-ed. Out my mouth, before I knew it was coming, I shouted, "But maybe it might be a nice thing! Think about it. Maybe the person who wrote Hi Hi to Sc.u.mmy isn't a mean Dummy-f.u.c.k-o. Like it's the opposite. Maybe he and Sc.u.mmy are bestest best friends, and Sc.u.mmy doesn't mind. It's only a bad name if it hurts Sc.u.mmy's feelings, but Sc.u.mmy likes him, so he likes it, he likes his name, so it's nice to be Sc.u.mmy." to Sc.u.mmy isn't a mean Dummy-f.u.c.k-o. Like it's the opposite. Maybe he and Sc.u.mmy are bestest best friends, and Sc.u.mmy doesn't mind. It's only a bad name if it hurts Sc.u.mmy's feelings, but Sc.u.mmy likes him, so he likes it, he likes his name, so it's nice to be Sc.u.mmy."

Dad shook his head hopelessly. "I've been around a lot longer than you, kiddo, and I've heard all sortsa nicknames, but I never heard anyone call a good buddy Sc.u.mmy. Nice try. Close, but no cigar."

My hands fluttered up dismissively, then flopped in my lap as I kept myself from sighing, "Some people just don't ever get it." I twisted, faced him head-on. "Dad, will ya use the noodle G.o.d gave you? This guy went to a h.e.l.luva lotta trouble. He walked on those highways, with the cars and trucks zooming by. Look! There's no road shoulder. He must of been scared."

"You got that right. He was s.h.i.t-scared."

"But we don't use words like that, do we?" I inquired, all innocent. He reddened. I let him sweat that one out a minute, then continued, "This guy climbed up the walls, and he had to tiptoe around those No Pedestrian Traffic signs just to hang upside down, like bats do, off that overpa.s.s. It's high up there, especially to be upside down, and the bricks are crumbling. That's scary."

"Well taken," he said. "Go on. Argue your point." His gaze burned a dimple into the side of my face.

"I'm tellin' you. All that tsuris? tsuris? Why bother with it? To say hi to some sc.u.mmy stranger-type of person who wasn't his friend? It doesn't make sense. Not unless he likes Sc.u.mmy." Why bother with it? To say hi to some sc.u.mmy stranger-type of person who wasn't his friend? It doesn't make sense. Not unless he likes Sc.u.mmy."

He added, in his dropped-register, this-is-cautionary-so-pay-attention this-is-cautionary-so-pay-attention tone, "But Beth-Bug, a lotta times people like things that aren't so good for them. Especially small people like you." tone, "But Beth-Bug, a lotta times people like things that aren't so good for them. Especially small people like you."

"You call me Boll Weevil Boll Weevil all the time. A lot of people think boll weevils are icky and gross, and they would say you're being a big Dummy-f.u.c.k-o by calling me by a bug-name, but we know you mean it nice. Same with Sc.u.mmy. Personally, I think Sc.u.mmy and his best friend have these private names. Sc.u.mmy likes being Sc.u.mmy." all the time. A lot of people think boll weevils are icky and gross, and they would say you're being a big Dummy-f.u.c.k-o by calling me by a bug-name, but we know you mean it nice. Same with Sc.u.mmy. Personally, I think Sc.u.mmy and his best friend have these private names. Sc.u.mmy likes being Sc.u.mmy."

Leaning in toward the windshield, my father peered at the sky through the streaky, dirty gla.s.s. Refusing to look at me, he smiled. Then he tried to quash the smile by contorting his face, cranking his jaw around to set his lips in their man-who-means-business-no-kidding-for-real man-who-means-business-no-kidding-for-real arrangement. Then his whole face relaxed, forfeited its struggle against its own mouth, and he smiled like he was the man who'd invented the light bulb. He touched my cheek. "And you, Boll Weevil. In my book, I'd have to say that arrangement. Then his whole face relaxed, forfeited its struggle against its own mouth, and he smiled like he was the man who'd invented the light bulb. He touched my cheek. "And you, Boll Weevil. In my book, I'd have to say that you you are one terrific allrightnik." are one terrific allrightnik."