mind wandered back to how I could get myself back to Pennsylvania. Back home.
Looking across the car, I found Mike staring at me. When our eyes met, he soundlessly mouthed the word, “Package.”
“If you go back to Pennsylvania,” Carter was saying, “you won’t have any support.” A murmur of assent rose up from our little group; a small ring gathered in the empty cafeteria. Tonight was my night.
I nodded.
“You won’t be able to attend outpatient aftercare at Rockford.”
I inhaled deeply.
“You won’t have your peer group to rely upon.”
Sweat beading on his forehead, Carter leaned forward in his chair. As he spoke, he used his fingers to tick off all the reasons he felt my return to Pennsylvania was a bad idea. He was on his thumb.
We had been in group for an hour, most of the time focused on me. I knew the trick to getting through a group like this was to look each man in the eye. Listen. Never cross your arms or legs. Appear open, attentive, receptive.
As Carter leaned back in his seat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, I nodded my head. He appeared to be finished. Clearing my throat, I briefly summarized what Carter, and then each man before him, had said over the past hour. I spoke clearly. Looked each man in the eye. I acknowledged particularly perceptive points. When I was finished, I paused.
Leaning forward, I addressed the entire group.
“Never-” I said, pausing, looking around the room, “the-less.”
There was silence for a beat. As the group put together what I had just said, groans rose up from our little ring of chairs.
“I am not staying in New York City after treatment,” I continued. “That would be foolish.”
Mild cursing started. Someone said, “Fuck him. Send his hillbilly ass back to Pennsylvania.” I felt amused, but I did not grin, for I did not want to risk being misunderstood on this matter.
Terrance Tyson sighed. I thought he was going to curse me out, or rally one last argument to change my mind, but instead he chuckled. “You one stubborn motherfucker,” he said. Somehow he made it sound endearing.
I shrugged.
Looking at his watch, Terrance closed the group.
At the front of the classroom, Mr. Parker looked uncomfortable in his collar and tie. He wore his hair in a short, irregular afro, speckled with grey. He stammered when he spoke.
Mike sat to my left, his long legs folded under the desk. Mr. Parker had wobbly hands, which he tried to hide by stuffing them in his pants pockets. New to teaching, he admitted being unfamiliar with the course he was presenting.
Pointing to a small pile of lumber in the corner of the room, Mr. Parker asked us to build the framework for a wall with a window and then excused himself. We pushed all the chairs and desks to the walls.
Pablo had a quick smile and curly dark hair. He wasn’t a client at Rockford, but had signed up for this Bronx County training program. Pablo and Mike were natural leaders, taking charge of our little group as everyone started sorting the wood in the lumber pile. The studs were already cut, so assembling the wall was more puzzle then building project. The ring of our hammers broke the early morning quiet.
When Mr. Parker came back into the room, we were raising the wall. He leaned over my shoulder to get a look at what we were doing, and I could smell the pungent odor of whiskey.
“Jesus,” I said, waving my hand in front of my face.
Mr. Parker grinned and moved to the center of our group. He extolled our building prowess. Mike and Pablo stood by the little pile of lumber. Everyone stopped building and looked at the unfinished wall we had just raised. Mr. Parker continued to praise our work. Mike offered Mr. Parker a piece of gum and suggested it was time for morning break. Mr. Parker agreed.
Pablo and I followed Mike to a playground across the street from the school. As we entered the yard, Mike wheeled around and said: “We have to help Mr. Parker.”
“He’s an alcoholic,” I groaned. “A loser.”
“What the fuck are you?” Mike’s tone was sharp.
I rolled my eyes.
The only alcoholic I had ever known had been Maryanne’s father, who had died a nasty death from his own out-of-control drinking. I had never been much of a drinker myself and had a hard time seeing my own limitations reflected in the cravings of an alcoholic.
After morning break, we finished building the framework for the wall and then attached sheets of drywall. Mr. Parker said he didn’t know how to do the drywall seams, but I told Mike I knew how to tape. I spread the joint compound over the seams, laid down the tape, and then wiped it clean. Everyone cheered.
When we broke for lunch, Mike poked his head into the administrator’s office. I went to the swing to eat, and Pablo sat on the merry-go-round. Mike came over in high spirits. He said he had put in a good word for Mr. Parker with the program administrators. Adjusting his utility belt and hammer, he said he felt like a superhero.
Mike said all his friends in Brooklyn called him Black. “But in the Bronx,” he said, “I’m Blackman.” Pablo laughed and said he was Blackman’s trusty sidekick, Puerto Rican Bird.
I chuckled. Mike looked at me expectantly, but I couldn’t come up with my own nickname. It wouldn’t be right.
“You be Rem Ram,” Mike said.
“Rem Ram?” I asked.
“You’re an artist,” Mike said. “Look what you did with that tape.”
“You mean like Rembrandt?” I asked.
“You can go old school, if you want. . .” Mike chuckled.
I was a sucker for a nickname and it felt good to get one from Mike. He might have been five years younger than me, but Mike felt like an older brother. Once, a few months earlier, when we were riding the Lexington Avenue line back to Rockford, Mike had asked me to follow him between the cars. I did, and we stood on the short lip outside the cabin as the train raced north, me looking expectantly at Mike and him motioning for me to be patient. I perched next to him on the precarious ledge of the rocketing car, looking down at the tracks speeding past in a blur beneath my feet, letting the damp tunnel air rush over my face, feeling the car pitch to-andfro, and listening to the clickety-clack of the tracks. The car thundered from the tunnel and we were suddenly bathed in warm sunshine and fresh air. Mike grinned at me and craned to put his whole head into the sunshine beaming down between the cars. A few minutes later, he pointed to the left, and we saw the sudden emerald green of Yankee Stadium’s outfield, glimmering like some hidden verdant treasure as we rushed to the Mount Eden Avenue station.
Mike showed me things in a way I wasn’t used to seeing.
I
