by Chris Conroy

Thanks to all those high school missions into the Bronx for weed, I find Crescent Ave in a snap. Clockers are leaning up the huge rusted gates that surround what I guess are the basketball courts; to my right, directly across from the gates, is number 612. I circle the block a few times in hopes of finding a parking spot, but all I really do is stir up the dealers, so I double park Mike’s Jeep in front of 612. To play it safe, I secure the club and hit the hazards, but before I’m halfway out the door I’m confronted.

“What ya need, G?” A dark hood covers his head; where are his eyes? “Coke, crank, weed, X, tabs…smack, I gots the smack too?”

“I’m cool.” I slam the door, lock it. He’s still standing there and I’m waiting for something to go off. “I’m good,” I tell him, and head for the 612 entrance.

“Yeah, G…peace,” he says. “You know where to find me.”

I open the first door and step inside. The lobby’s small and smells like wet clothes and smoke. Hunter is not on the list of occupants so I search for a Lucy? Or was it Lilly? Lonnie? 532 Lucy Lombardi, sounds good. I press the security button and wait to be beamed up.

“Who is it?” The voice crackles.

“Travis,” I say, wondering if this is Sam.

“Travis who?”

“Hill. Travis Hill.”

“The actor?”

“The actor.” I feel like an idiot here.

The door buzzes and I pull it open and step inside feeling nervous about the Jeep? About Samantha? About not dropping some tears at the funeral?

Alone, I ride the shaky elevator to the fifth floor. Love is begging at my door at any price. I laugh and smile at my distorted reflection in the silver ceiling. “Funerals. Starvation. Time.” I smile again.

Inside I see Lucy for the first time. Sam kisses me hello and tells me to come in and meet Lucy.

“Lucy, this is Travis.” I walk over to Lucy who’s sitting by the window rolling a cigarette. “Travis, this is Lucy.”

“Hello, how are you?” A faded red bandanna, Aunt Jemima style, covers her head. She’s chunky, resembles Mrs. Claus. I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Travis, hello.” She finishes rolling and shakes my hand. A firm surprise. “Sam tells me you’re an actor.”

“Yeah, study at NYU.” I scan the apartment. “Nice place you have here.” Looks like a one bedroom. Where’s Sam sleep? Blanket and pillow on the couch, must be Sam’s room. Walls crowded with impressionistic paintings of oceans and sunsets and mountains, and paint supplies scattered in the corners with white sheets covering works in progress. “Who’s the artist?”

“Sam, honey, tell him.” Lucy sparks up the lighter, brings the tiny flame to her rolled cigarette. “She’s real protective of her work.”

“It’s me,” Sam says, blushing. “I’m the artist.”

Sam’s wearing a long black skirt, tight around her hips but loose around the knees, a white blouse, which kind of looks like the one my sister got only a different color, and a pair of suede platform shoes. She’s overdressed for what I had planned for tonight, but looks real sexy so I say, “wow…you look great,” and kiss her cheek, look at Lucy. “Ah, think that went out.” What did I have planned for tonight?

“Did it?” Lucy pulls the butt from her mouth and looks at it. “Oh, I hate this…my lungs aren’t what they used to be.”

“Want me to get it started?” I look out the window, blinking hazards are reflecting off the stop sign. STOP…STOP…STOP…

“Please!” She hands me the butt. “Please.”

“Lighter? My Aunt used to—thanks—she used to roll her own cigarettes.” I light it and take a few deep puffs to get her burning.

“What happened? Gave it up.”

“Ah, yeah…guess you could say that.” Sam’s giggling in the kitchen and I’m wondering what’s going on. Something’s strange. I exhale a cloud of smoke toward the rotating ceiling fan. “It can’t be.” I take another hit, exhale. “It is…this is…” I fan the smoke into my face. “…this is…weed? You’re smoking weed!”

“No,” Lucy says, holding her gut, laughing, “you’re smoking weed.”

Sam comes in laughing with two Coors light cans and hands me one. “I told her not to,” she says, smiling.

“Crazy,” I say and hand Sam the joint, look out the window.

She puts it to her lips, closes her eyes and inhales. She opens her eyes. “Why do you keep looking out the window, Travis?” She asks holding her breath.

“What?” I’m paranoid? “No, my roommate’s Jeep double parked outside.”

“Is it there? Can you see it?” She hands Lucy the joint and exhales.

“Yeah, got the hazards on…I see it.” Lucy takes a hit and coughing deeply, hands me the burning bud. “Just keeping an eye on it,” I say, and take another drag.

“We’ll go after this beer, alright?” Sam looks down and brushes some ashes off her chest. “Okay?”

I blow smoke in her face and think about tearing that blouse open later and putting my mouth on her nipple. “You’re the boss.” We pass the joint around a few more times until we’re left with a roach, and since no one wants to hit it, I pop it in my mouth and wash it down with the beer. “Yummy,” I say rubbing my stomach.

“Did you just swallow that?” Sam asks, holding her throat.

“It’s good luck,” I say and look out the window again. “Still there.”

Lucy gets up and waddles over to the record player.

I grab Samantha from behind, around the waist, and move slowly to Sinatra’s ‘Summer Wind.’

“I never heard that.”

“What! You never heard Summer Wind?” Damn, she smells good. “You’re kidding.”

“No, no. That swallowing a roach is good luck.”

“I missed you.”

“I thought you disappeared.”

“You smell good.”

“Really!”

“What’re you working on?”

She looks over her shoulder. “Huh?”

“That.” I point to the white sheet. “What’s that sheet in the corner covering? Can I see?”

“No. Nothing, it’s not finished.” She pulls away from me. “Are you done with that beer yet? I want to leave. Are you done?”

“Lighten up, Monet.” I check the Jeep again. “Yeah, you?”

Lucy wedges her plump butt back in her seat and begins shuffling cards. “So, Travis, did you get your hands on my granddaughter yet?”

“What?” Great weed! “Say again?”

“Travis, don’t listen to…to her.” Sam sneezes. “She’s trying…” She sneezes again. “She’s trying…”

“God bless,” I say.

“She’s trying to…”

Lucy interrupts. “Someone has to watch her.” She holds up a Joker, smiles and flings it at me. “I know all about you actor types—first hand.”

She holds up the other Joker and Sam snatches it from her. “Lucy, you’re embarrassing him,” Sam says, laughing. “Now stop it, really.”

“Oh really.” I grab Sam, kiss her cheek. “Then you know…we never kiss and tell.” I kiss her lips, slip in a little tongue for good measure. “Right, Claude?”

“That’s it,” Lucy says. “Samantha, I’m calling your father!” She jumps up and storms into her bedroom.

“She’s nuts.” I take Sam’s beer. “Let me help you with that.”

Sam’s still laughing. “Now you’re in trouble,” she says, getting in my face. “My Daddy’s gonna kick yo ass, boy!”

Lucy returns violently coughing and rubbing her large eyes. “Look at this.” She hands me a photo. “Know who that is?”

I examine: stocky guy holding young girl in bikini on beach. “Ah, looks like…ah, is that…you?”

“Nineteen, prime of my life. And all my stuff’s real.”

Damn! “You look great! Who’s the guy holding you?”

“Can’t tell?” She looks on with me. “Guess!”

No way…can’t be. “Looks like…like, like Stanley Kowalski.”

Lucy gets excited. “What! Who’d you say?”

I look at her. “Stanley Kowalski—Marlon Brando.” I look back at the photo. “Is it?” I turn it over. “Holy Shit!” I look at Sam, then read the back: “1949 Jersey Shore, Lucy and Marlon.”

“Told you…told you I knew you actor types first hand.” She goes back to her seat by the window, starts shuffling again. “Told you.”

I follow holding the photo. “No way, that’s so cool…how’d you know him?”

“I’m finished,” Sam says. “I want to leave. You ready?”

“Hold up.” I hand Sam my empty can from the table. “Really, how’d you know him?”

“I knew him in just about every possible way you could know a man.” She turns to Sam and me and puts her fingers to her lips. “We were, shhhh…lovers.”

“No way, awesome. What happened?”

“Well, what happened was…” She goes back to cards, deals out solitaire. “What happened was—fame. Fame happened. Once Bud got big, and believe me he did, well, he simply forgot about me.”

“You’re serious.”

“It took me awhile to get over it, but then I met Augustine—Samantha’s grandfather, and well…well he made me forget about everything. When I see Bud in the movies now I just have to laugh. I think what if, what if I married Bud, but then I would have never met Augi. Oh, how I loved that man.”

I feel really strange and I’m at a loss for words so I utter an intelligent, “wow.”

Sam breaks the silence by telling Lucy we have to go and I check the Jeep again and tell Lucy it was great to meet her.

“Yes.” She gets up and hugs Sam, then me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Travis…and take care of my baby.”

“I will, she’s in good hands.”

“He’s the perfect gentleman,” Sam says and pinches my ass.

“Samantha, when are you coming home?”

“Ah, late…don’t wait up. I’ll be fine.”

Lucy hugs Sam again and tells us to be careful ‘cause there’s a lot of crazies out there and we say we know and then we leave.

 

Chris Conroy‘s fiction has appeared in several online and print publications, including Whetstone, Word Riot, Ward6 Review, 6S, and Zingmagazine.  His new fiction is forthcoming in the inaugural print issue of The Wanderlust Review. Conroy holds an MFA degree from Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville NY.  His folks were born and raised in the Bronx. Contact Chris at conroy18@hotmail.com