thinks he’s too good for group projects. So Jimmy didn’t bother showing his face either. He’s never around, I might add. Really, Mitch is kind of a bully. Skip says—”
“Whoa, tranquilo.” Lorenzo put out a hand to slow me down. “You gotta stay out of that shit.”
Right. Mr. Also-Never-Around. “Seriously,” I insisted, “Mitch is so high and mighty, what’s the point of living in a squat and being all superior like that?”
Lorenzo frowned. “I don’t think he’s someone you want to piss off.”
I got up and looked into my dryer where the blankets I’d found on the street rose and fell. Lorenzo was right, though in reality none of this was what was really upsetting me.
“You wanted a house, right?” Lorenzo said. I could see his reflection in the dryer, his arms stretched casually along the plastic seat backs. “Now what you want?”
My dryer stopped and I stared into it feeling close to tears. What I wanted was for him to be here with me, doing this together, but I couldn’t say that. What right did I have? I was scared I’d only push him away.
“Here, give me.” Lorenzo bundled the blankets together and led the way outside. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. We crossed the street dodging puddles.
“I thought I’d hang the blankets in the doorway,” I said. “Keep the chill out when it gets cold?”
“Good idea.” Lorenzo studied the faded letters painted on the brick while I unlocked the bolt. Sunshine Crust Baking Factory est. 1944.
“The Crust Factory,” he said. “Where’s the crust punks at?”
“I guess that’d be us,” I said and sighed.
“Gotta represent.” He gave me that smile that made everything better.
Inside, I saw he had left a new toolbox by the door.
“Will you look at the window? I can’t get it open.” We went through the maze of crap all the way to the back. The window faced a courtyard next door where a retired cop lived. He was cool, Skip said. He’d told Skip and Eddie about when our house used to be a bakery. He said truck drivers would pull off the BQE at dawn for fresh donuts.
“Was just you and Skip at the workday?” Lorenzo asked.
“And Eddie. But he just stood around like he didn’t want to get his pants dirty. He told us stories about this junkie squat he lived at in Harlem.”
“Yeah?” Lorenzo had WD-40 in his toolbox and big pliers.
“They couldn’t afford nails so they built walls by cutting wood too long so it would just hold wedged together with the tension.”
Lorenzo laughed. “Oh man. We live with the Loony Toons, huh? It okay staying upstairs?”
“It’ll be better when we can move down here.”
“Look, I been busy with my band.” Lorenzo glanced over his shoulder at me. “We got a show in a coupla weeks.”
Here it comes, I thought. He’s bailing. I chewed my lip. Why had I said we like that, like I was depending on him? Why was I complaining about the guys here and making it sound bad?
“After that,” he went on, “I be around more. But man, you kickin’ ass down here.”
“Really?” I breathed out.
“You done a lot. It’s cool.”
It was all worth it. We were going to be together here. Lorenzo grunted with effort and the window opened. There was nothing to look at, it faced a brick building, but a gust of air came into the dank room and we leaned into it.
IV
Skip asked if I wanted to go to a poetry slam with him and I dropped the broom I was pushing around and ran to get ready. I had to laugh at myself while I dug in my bag for a clean shirt. I always said poetry was for beatnik throwbacks, but I really needed to get out of the house. Over the last few weeks I’d gotten the first floor livable and moved in, but it wasn’t the fun, friend-filled world I’d dreamed squatting would be. Lorenzo was home one night out of three, Jimmy even less. I avoided Mitch because he was so judgmental and Eddie because he was vacant and weird. I wanted Veronica and Raven to come visit but they both acted like Brooklyn was on the other side of the moon.
On the L train into the city, Skip seemed nervous. He was muttering to himself, distracted. We transferred to the 6 at Union Square and got off in the 30s. I followed Skip up Third Ave. and into some place that looked like an Irish sports bar. It was air-conditioned and full of men with crew cuts. I wondered if we were in the wrong place until a skinny guy with a pencil stuck in his hat came rushing from the back.
“Skip! Tell me you’re ready.” He slapped his clipboard. “I only got the Prozac girl and the angry banker tonight, I’m freakin’ out.”
“I’m gonna do it,” Skip breathed.
The guy clapped Skip’s shoulder and snapped his fingers over our heads at the bartender. “Drinks for these two,” he cried, spraying me with spit. The bartender served us without carding me.
In a little room in back where chairs circled a microphone, people seemed to know Skip. They held up their drinks or nodded but Skip didn’t introduce me to anyone. We found seats and I looked around. Adults with jobs in summer clothes. The kind of squares I wouldn’t normally notice. Skip seemed too nervous to talk to me. He sucked on his Corona and studied a piece of wrinkled paper from his pocket.
By the time it was Skip’s turn to read, his anxiety had rubbed off on me and I was stiff with embarrassment. He recited with his eyes squeezed shut, intense and weird. At least he didn’t rush. Actually, his voice was clear and confident and he knew how to pause for laughs. Laughs! I’d thought he had no sense of humor at all. I looked around and saw that everyone was listening and smiling. His poem was about selling books on the street. That’s what he did for work. The refrain was, “I’ve got books,” and at first it was funny, with all the characters passing by who don’t care or don’t speak English or are in a hurry. The narrator loves his books and calls out his refrain with defiance, but the day is cold, he gets hungry, lonely, bored, yelled at, and by the end, “I’ve got books” came out tragic—that’s all the guy’s got and it’s not enough. Skip’s shoulders dropped in relief when it was over and everyone hooted. He nodded around the room with stiff jerks of his neck and he gave me a shy smile.
* * *
A couple nights later it was Lorenzo’s turn to be on stage. Everyone I knew in New York was at his band’s first show, even though it was just an early spot at the Spiral. People were curious. Lorenzo’s old band from Mexico was notorious and the new singer had been in Five Knive, legendary New York punks. While Lorenzo had been practicing for this show, I had gotten our space together by myself, but watching him play I felt elated. I’d had a tiny role in making this come together and I was proud of it. It was raw, old-school, three-chord punk. They only had twelve songs so it was over in twenty ferocious minutes. Then everyone stood around with their ears ringing saying, “Holy shit!”
“They
