Katherine’s downstairs with the baby getting coffee, getting MUFFIN, too many sweets, traveling bribes to keep him in his stroller until HOLDY, until I use my left arm, pick him up (his cheek, his breath enough for love), test him on nouns when he squirms, LIGHT, DOG, BIRD, PIGEON, CAR, BABY, BABY.
I move my notes from phone to Katherine’s computer, mine’s in NYC, look at some photos: Eben, Eben, Eben, enough stills for a movie, Katherine and Eben, some selfies with Eben, no arm long enough for good shots.
Push-ups, sit-ups, wash underarms, I showered last night after I ran La Rambla past the restaurant where we ate, he wanted PIZZA, and I knew going in (first place we saw), PIZZA, we shouldn’t, un-bused tables (detritus too poetic), busboy (nightmare new—he’ll be dreaming bus buckets, silverware, stacked dishes, crowds—and too old for a first day on the job) floundering, but we stayed, PIZZA, my son relentless while walking, while looking, Gaudi’s Casa Batlló, bone-shaped columns fairytale but not, nothing wasted, can’t dismiss as kitsch, Katherine said, not random but chosen like Picasso, like all the real ones do, and when the PIZZA was done (half-eaten) and Katherine and Eben were gone, I told the manager (worked least, watched most), This pizza was shit. He said, Sorry. In English. That’s all. I paid, not (wanting or tired of) starting like I do when I do in that mood, in that blur, in that bad that goes mean, loosening like anarchy (but too conscious too).
We walked.
They got ICE CREAM, more sugar-shit. He says SHIT, he says DAMN IT (slurred m-sound) and OH MAN, but I don’t call him little man, just baby, just boy, just champ sometimes.
They’ll come up from MUFFIN and coffee SOON so I’ll write some emails, start the day late, not much sleep with the drunks downstairs, and also maybe the shit dinner, or maybe the run uphill, up La Rambla to McDonald’s and back, that kept me racing, my body, my mind (STOP!). I ran fast (night and heat and no shirt and stride loose and long and fearless like a fighter) (they all fear) (the best use fear) (like Leo Santa Cruz, who lets his arms go, left hooks to the body so loose his arms seem unattached, space between scapula and humerus like air’s there). The fighter I’d most like to be these days is Gennady Golovkin (I’m Russian), who hits knockout hard, heavy-handed, who talks of big-drama shows too much, but on canvas fights forward, slit-eyed, and there’s me (body in mirror) (not a gym mirror), too easy, no punches coming back.
I walk him around for 30 minutes while Katherine gets ready. Then Eben and I sit on a curb, view of HOTEL, view of shop full of fake Spain, knives and cured hams. I make waiting fun, dramatic, hype the grand entrance of MOMMY to the street (Is that her? Is that her?! Is that her?!!) and there she is, eyes clear (dreamy too), hair wet, summer dress and smiling (too soon made glad by her boy, so okay), and I only followed through with her, past the others, drunken bursts of instinct, always stopped, until Katherine. He runs to her and she holds him, the born 1.
I ask a cabbie dropping off his fare, How long to the airport? (30 to 40 minutes)
His stroller’s gone.
I’m running.
A man’s pushing my kid’s stroller fast.
I see me knocking him out, his head hitting concrete, his teeth breaking to nerves.
My hand’s on his shoulder.
He gestures mistake (universal shoulder lift, universal wide eyes).
I say, No.
He puts out his hand. I tap his chest hard.
No. I’m speaking English, then French. Non. Don’t know why. We’re in Spain.
He asks if I speak French.
I don’t hit him.
I’ve hit some. I didn’t hit the 1 I chased after he threw dirt at Nilsa. I put him over the hood of a car. I heard my dad tell me not to hit him. I have bully tendencies. I didn’t hit the 1 who bothered Michele’s friends, his eyes red-drunk, hating 2 gay men and a woman he could never get. He dipped to punch and I pushed him hard, then watched his head, movie-slow, bounce off cement, knocked out, then a police van was turning the corner and slowing and we fast-walked to the subway and she kept saying (14th Street, 23rd Street, 28th Street), You killed him, You killed him, You killed him. I called a lawyer anonymously, asked what constituted self-defense, images of walls too close and smells of push-up sweat, bar-dip sweat, and microwave popcorn.
I’m pushing his stroller back to where they’re standing, DADDY, and the sun’s too bright in Barcelona.
