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David Prete
August and Then Some
Epigraph
Datta: What have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
T. S. Eliot
Vengeance and hate, well, they’re both very bad emotions.
Kurt Vonnegut
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
June 28
Rain
June 28
July 5
July 6
Purple dress, red painting
Frostbite
July 12
Wherever they stood
July 13
An offering disguised
July 20
August 1
After the sound
August 8
Nothing left to do
August 8
The move
August 8
The plan
August 9
The buyer
August 9
Called it a game
August 9
The job
August 9
The job
August 10
The job
August 10
The job
August 15
The job
August 16
September 1
About the Author
Other Books by David Prete
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
June 28
Jake Terri Savage is awkward, I know. Mostly they call me JT—skips off the tongue right. No one calls me Terri. That was my grandmother. But right now an old lady’s name fits me because I’m hurtin like one. Even with this dolly there’s no easy way to lug an eighty-pound slab of slate down seventy blocks. I feel like a father lifting his deadweight kid out of bed, and with every step the kid’s insistence to sleep gets heavier. I got a system though. I hold the slate between my palms, balance it on the dolly, and take short steps until it starts falling to one side and the dolly kicks out. Then I stop, straighten it out, and start from scratch. That’s it—that’s the whole system. But hey, it’s getting me through the rush hour hoard of Upper East Side commuter motherfuckers. And even though this thing has the weight of an unearthed tombstone, I should make it to the East Village before dusk.
But this summer heat, man. After eight hours of working outside I’m glazed in the kind of New York summer sweat an air-conditioned store would turn to rock candy. I’ve been on a demolition job the past month breaking up an old lady’s Upper East Side patio. They would have hauled this piece away with the rest of the broken slate and concrete, but I swiped it for free furniture. Chipped edges aside, all four feet by four feet of it held up under construction. I got milk crates (whose misuse can lead to my prosecution) waiting on the floor of my studio. I’ll lay this on top and voilà: table. What my fine home decor lacks in price it makes up for in weight. I’m not gonna say this for the entire seventy blocks, but this thing is a pain in the dick to maneuver.
At 68th and Lex near Hunter College, summer students line up at a smoking halal meat truck for curried shish kebab. Flies zigzag around the garbage next to them casing grease-stained paper plates. Across the street, suits, slackers, and in-betweens file down the stairs of 6 Train entrance. They squint at the five-thirty something sun until they dip below the sun line into the station’s darkness, and their faces relax. Nobody, not even a fly, notices the gloveless guy rolling a huge chunk of slate down the street. But hey, invisible works for this cat. Shit—I can’t clench my hands. My fingers feel sculpted to this slate. I guess I could make it down those stairs without this stone slipping away from me and landing on an innocent New Yorker. But fuck it. I’m walking. For possibly twisted reasons, wheeling this thing home is now a quest.
What sucks about the city are things like this neon sign on 64th Street blinking about shoe repair. They come at me too fast to defend, and instead of ‘gum up your sole’ my head sees the dashboard in Nokey’s ’91 Volkswagen GTI—the burnt red glow of his dashboard. My sister in the back seat. I whiplash my head away from the neon sign to find a nice ass or something better.
Lex and 42nd, Grand Central. My shoulders and back burn, and thousands of people loop from their suburban homes, to their city jobs, from their city jobs to their suburban homes, a daily cycle that equals some of their life. I wonder what ordinary feels like. Or if it’s real.
In a coffee shop on 23rd and 2nd a woman looks out the window. I stop. Balance my slate on the dolly. She lifts a cup to her expressionless face, too deep in her head to notice me or the passing crowd, and stares through us like we’re water. Seems she’s picking through thoughts she’s yet to share over a table of friends and martinis. Thoughts she’s afraid will make her sound desperate or just weird. My sister Danielle’s face imposes itself over hers. Slit-like eyes seemingly impossible to see out of, pouty lips, and a potent sadness pinning down her smile. But these moments have the life expectancy of a flame in a bottle. Someone bumps this woman’s chair and startles her out of her head. She smiles at their apology then turns away. Now she sneaks a look around to see if anyone noticed the haze she was in. No. She’s safe. She fondles the button on her cuff, checks her watch, and takes another sip.
