\u201cGet me my fucking room, bro, just do it!\u201d Troy screams into his phone. His right leg is twitching. It\u2019s four hours into a last-minute train trip and Troy is not spontaneous. Or he can be, but within geographic limits, like that time he was drinking Bud Light but ran out so drove 40 minutes from West Pawlet to the Walmart in Rutland to get another 12 pack. He put Troy, Jr and L\u2019il Markie in the back of the blue Chevy Nova. They giggled when they crashed into each other, pushed to the right and left by the force of a turn as their Pops sped down the winding roads. It was like bumper cars at the amusement park but the state trooper who stopped them did not find it funny.<\/p>\n
Neither did Troy\u2019s wife. \u201cFuck her, bro,\u201d Troy says when he thinks about it, and he still does 23 year later, which is why he called L\u2019il Markie Thursday night, beer having kicked up the residue of nostalgia, though he\u2019s only seen this boy a handful of times since he was 8. L\u2019il Markie is Mark Pisano, co-owner of Sunshine Siding in Ft. Myers, Florida. He\u2019s in New York City for a trade show, with his wife and two kids. Troy, Jr. took his mother\u2019s side, understanding, at 11, the evidence she presented on that one-way drive south that Pops was no good. L\u2019il Markie could not be persuaded. So now he shouts into the phone, \u201cCome in and meet us, Pops! I\u2019ll get you your own room!\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
L\u2019il Markie arranges a round trip ticket and Troy does show up for the Ethan Allen Express, tossing his army green duffel bag packed with one pair of jeans and boxer shorts, a light blue button-down shirt, four Bud Lights and a pack of Camels, on the empty seat next to his. \u201cI gotta wear this mask the whole fucking ride, bro?\u201d he inquires. \u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d<\/p>\n
Troy has a habit of talking to no one in particular, although his mutt Luther, now white around the muzzle, is a regular audience member. So is Heath, Troy\u2019s neighbor, who he enlisted to check on Luther. \u201cMy boy\u2019s done real good,\u201d Troy explains. \u201cHe\u2019s getting me my own room, bro, none of this sharing shit.\u201d And so are women, this time Rachael, who calls Troy to explain why she did not come by on Thursday. \u201cIt\u2019s all right, you know me, I\u2019ve got nothing but love for everyone, bro,\u201d Troy says.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cSo he told me to pack a bag and come down!\u201d Troy has called his mother. \u00a0\u201cNo! It won\u2019t be like last time, Ma,\u201d he promises her. He\u2019s getting angry. \u201cThat uptight bitch can\u2019t keep me from my grandkids! Hello, hello?? Fuck this cell service!\u201d The call is lost to the Catskills.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s the best woman in the world, my mother is gold, bro,\u201d Troy mutters, wiping away tears. Day drinking makes him weepy. He calls L\u2019il Markie. Voicemail again. \u201cGet me my fucking room, bro, just do it! I\u2019m almost there!\u201d he yells. He looks across the aisle at this girl with a sweet smile. Wouldn\u2019t it be nice to spend a weekend in a hotel room paid for by L\u2019il Markie with her?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Troy exhales smoke. \u201cThat\u2019s better, bro,\u201d he says as he looks at his phone. Nothing. \u201cWhat the fuck, where am I supposed to go, bro?\u201d He is on the corner of 8th Avenue and 33rd Street. A small woman is tottering towards him on black heels, one broken so she has a dissymmetry to her gait. \u201cShe looks like a kid, bro,\u201d Troy says as he catches her moist eyes. Her short red dress has inched up her thighs and she\u2019s pulling it down as she maintains eye contact with Troy.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey, you need a cigarette?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did you know?\u201d<\/p>\n
Troy places the filter end into her slightly parted lips and holds a flame as she inhales.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Troy\u2019s fingers explore the tender lump on his upper right cheek. \u201cWhat a night bro,\u201d he says, looking around the train, \u201cWhat a goddamn fucking night!\u201d A young woman in the seat to his right looks up; his fidgeting has caught the corner of her eye. He smiles at her. \u201cYou\u2019re lovely, you know?\u201d he says. She has headphones on and cannot hear him.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHe had problems, I know that<\/em>.\u201d We are in line at Trader Joe\u2019s and Ruth is 98. When I ask if she\u2019s doing okay, she says, \u201cWhat choice do I have? I make<\/em> myself okay.\u201d I comment that she has so much energy and she says, \u201cI\u2019m so tired<\/em> but I force myself to do things, cook matzoh ball soup, vacuum my apartment. If I don\u2019t, they\u2019ll put me in a home!\u201d<\/p>\n Ruth lives in the Seward Park Co-ops in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. I do now too. She is telling me about Shraga Pivovoz, the man who lived in the studio I recently bought from his estate. A few weeks after I moved in, I met Ruth as she sat in the building\u2019s courtyard. \u201cAre you a strong woman?\u201d she asked and when I said \u201cOf course!\u201d she informed me that Shraga killed himself. He jumped from his, now my, window. He was 65.<\/p>\n \u201cBut he was from a good family, you must believe that<\/em>,\u201d she says. We have picked the conversation up five months later.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat kind of problems?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, he scared people,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n \u201cScared them how?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, nothing dangerous,\u201d Ruth says. She assures me that \u201chis father was a respected rabbi, his mother was lovely, his sister. He was just a little strange.\u201d I make plans to go to Ruth\u2019s apartment. She is going to tell me all she knows which I suspect is a lot.<\/p>\n \u201cHe was stunted,\u201d Paul tells me. He is the middle-aged artist who lives on my floor with his wife and their small black dog with a rust-colored face who barks at me when we meet at the elevator. \u201cStunted how?\u201d I am trying to piece together this life that fell apart 6 floors below my window in the building\u2019s playground at 7:47 am when paramedics found an unconscious Shraga. \u201cBy his religion. He was orthodox. He had no guide for how to be a man in a secular world.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n I have a lover. That first awkward kiss on St. Marks Place and 2nd<\/sup> Avenue, I pulled away, \u201cI\u2019m not ready for this\u201d I stammered. \u201cI need to go slowly.\u201d The next morning, I wonder what slow means when we may have so little time left. \u201cI\u2019m much less awkward with my clothes off\u2026.\u201d I text and we\u2019re now in a world that doesn\u2019t have rules. No plans for marriage or co-habitation. We are so light. I am 52.<\/p>\n My lover is reading me a story he wrote called Kol Nidre<\/em>. This is the Jewish prayer that is said the night before Yom Kippur, a day dedicated to introspection and atonement. An appeal to outcasts, it invites them to return and grants the community the opportunity to repent for casting them away. Shulkham Arukh<\/em>, the code of Jewish law, says that there are to be no mourning rites for a person who commits suicide, no eulogy, only comforting of the mourners out of respect for the living. It is a sin to spill one\u2019s own lifeblood.<\/p>\n I recently had brunch with a second cousin who informed me that the great aunt I was named after, the one who my father told me tragically died of pneumonia, actually killed herself when her family forbade her to see the married man with whom she fell in love. \u201cYou should know that I am an atheist,\u201d my lover tells me.<\/p>\n \u201cYou should know that I believe in a god,\u201d I answer.<\/p>\n \u201cYou believe in God,\u201d my lover says, \u201cAnd I\u2019ll believe in you.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Shraga gets letters in my mailbox from the same person, I can tell by the handwriting on the card stock envelope. I now have six, sent priority mail, the most recent labeled \u201cReturn to Sender. Unable to forward.\u201d It was sent back to Tel Aviv but inexplicably re-appeared in the mailbox for M602. The mailman regularly takes his break in the hallway. He sits on a small portable chair and watches soap operas on his phone. When I show him Shraga\u2019s letter, he shrugs as if to say, \u201cI\u2019ve done all I can.\u201d Barrington, a towering Jamaican man who is part of Seward Park\u2019s maintenance crew, recently cleaned my windows. When he finished, he called me over to admire his meticulous work. \u201cI know everything that went on here m\u2019am,\u201d he says, squeegee in hand, as we both stare out the window. The glass is clear now.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Troy\u2019s fingers explore the tender lump on his upper right cheek. \u201cWhat a night bro,\u201d he says, looking around the train, \u201cWhat a goddamn fucking night!\u201d A young woman in the seat to his right looks up; his fidgeting has caught the corner of her eye. He smiles at her. \u201cYou\u2019re lovely, you know?\u201d he says. She has headphones on and cannot hear him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":18509,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18179","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","writer-rebecca-tiger"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18179","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18179"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18179\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18510,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18179\/revisions\/18510"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18509"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18179"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18179"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18179"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}