Part 3: New York City
Friday night at The Rooster; Jesus meets bartender John and Stars; Joe and Scott use cocaine, Jesus declines; agrees to attend a demonstration.
On Friday, Jesus worked the opening shift with Joe and Scott again. Andrea was scheduled for the evening shift, so they would see each other for a short period of time during the changeover. Already, they had fallen into a steady, predictable rhythm of work. Luke paid Jesus cash in advance to cover their cost of living. O’Neil hadn’t come by to check on them.
Jesus would have liked to call Winston, but he had no way of contacting him. He decided that next time he talked to O’Neil, he would try to find a way to contact Winston. In the meantime, he kept working diligently.
“So what’s the deal with you and that Andrea chick at the front?” Asked Joe. The kitchen was hot, and Jesus was shoveling out pans of dough. The lunch rush was coming to a close, and all three of them were drenched in sweat from the oppressive summer heat amplified by the radiating hotness of the oven. Scott was hastily throwing toppings over three pizzas at once. Joe was folding boxes.
“We grew up together. Now we’re dating,” He said.
“You guys live together?” Joe asked.
“Yeah.”
“You should invite her to the bar tonight.”
“Can’t. She works the evening shift.”
“Then tell her to come after,” Joe said.
“Nah, I don’t want to be out so late.”
“Come on man, ask her,” Joe said.
“Hey man, you go easy on it now,” Jesus said.
“Whatcha going to do about it?” Challenged Joe. Jesus picked up the long paddle used to take the hot pizzas out of the oven, holding it like a sword in front of him. Joe adopted a fighting stance and tested Jesus’ reach. They play-fought until Luke interrupted them “Hey, I’m not paying you guys to play with each other’s hair. Get back to work, and get that damn paddle off the floor.”
Before long, it was half past four, and Andrea showed up to work second shift. They snuck a kiss behind the counter when no one was looking.
“I’m going out to a bar with Joe and Scott tonight. Courtesy of our friend O’Neil and this fake ID. You can come meet us there after your shift.”
“Let me guess, it was Joe’s idea?”
“You guessed right.”
She laughed, “No, I don’t think I’ll be going out tonight. I just want to be at home with you,” She said, placing her finger on his chest. It was a provocative gesture, a promise of good things to come.
“Don’t be too late,” She said.
“I won’t.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” He said, clasping her hand into his chest.
“I gotta go wrap up. I’ll talk to you later, babe.”
“Okay, my love,” She said.
Joe and Scott were cracking up at some joke in the back. Jesus guessed it was something at the expense of him and Andrea, but didn’t mind.
“Alright Romeo, Leo and Evan are here, and we’re set. You good to go?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Scott drove them in his car across the bridge into lower Manhattan. They parked at a squat office building.
“Ridgeland Post,” Jesus read from the sign, “Doesn’t seem like much of a bar.”
“That’s because it’s not. I park here because there’s space, and they don’t mind. The bar doesn’t have its own parking lot,” Scott explained.
“Gotcha,” Jesus said. He took a long look at the door of The Ridgeland Post before he followed Scott and Joe across the street, down a flight of stairs into a lower level where they entered through an unmarked door. There were no signs advertising The Rooster. In fact, if one didn’t know its exact location, it would be impossible to find. An athletic looking man in his late thirties with short red hair, a square jaw, and deformed cauliflower ears checked their ID’s wordlessly. He paid special attention to Jesus, sensing that something was amiss with this impossibly young fella, but let him in regardless, dissolving Jesus’ fears.
The Rooster was a small, dark enclave of diverse individuals. A white man with dreadlocks and a gold earring sat on the closest seat to the door, having an animated discussion with the bartender, a young, curly headed man with a permanent five O’clock shadow and thick rimmed glasses.
Beyond the deadhead, two businessmen dressed in suits sat with mixed drinks. There were a series of tables, each placed into a carved inlet in the wall opposite the bar. Scott and Joe led them to the middle table. Besides them, there were maybe six other patrons at the bar. Two black men were playing pool and an older white woman sat alone at the bar.
“Jesus, you drink beer?” Scott asked, then answered his own question. “Of course you do. I’m going to get us some drinks, ” He emphasized the word drinks and stole a glance at Joe, implying something that Jesus couldn’t pick up on.
“So how long did you say you lived in Mexico?” Joe asked.
“My whole life.”
“And how long have you been here in the greatest godamn country in the world?”
“Wouldn’t know, I’ve never been to Canada.”
Joe laughed, “Canada ain’t shit but America’s.”
“America’s boot.”
“I thought all your shoes were made in China.”
Joe smiled, “You speak Spanish pretty good for a beaner. Maybe you can teach Scott.”
On cue, Scott showed up with three tall pints of amber-colored lager. He managed not to spill any setting them down onto the table.
“Cheers, buddy! To America’s boot!” Joe said, the three cheered and drank.
“Now what did I miss?” Scott said.
“We were just discussing the finer points of communism,” Joe said, adopting a fake highbrow, snotty, British accent, “I do believe that it is my contention that, indeed, it is the best way to deal with communists to tie them to a tree and light them on fire. However, there are those who contest that the preferable method of the disposal of these undesirable creatures is through hanging by their toenails.
What would be your stance on the matter, Mr. White?”
“First of all, I’m black,” Scott said, adopting the same phony accent.
“Your name, Mr. White.”
“Oh yes, I forgot,” Scott said. It seemed this was a regular bit for them, “I do believe that the Commw1is1 Shitfackitus, better known by its common name, Communist, is best disposed of at the hands of trained professionals,” Scott said, “And you, good sir, what do you think?”
“I think I need to go to the bathroom,” Jesus said. He slid out of the booth and made his way to the men’s room. He didn’t really have to go; it was just an excuse to exit the discussion.
“Hey, don’t I know you, man?” Said a voice from the direction of the bar. Jesus turned to find the bartender facing him.
“I don’t think so. I just got into town,” Jesus said.
“No, I definitely know you from somewhere.”
“Probably not, unless you live in Brooklyn.”
“That’s it! The march! I saw you there.”
“What march?” Jesus said.
“You know, a protest march. Protesting the war,” The bartender said. Jesus realized in a moment of epiphany that the man sitting at the far end of the bar was also the man that he had seen dodge a coke bottle during the demonstration he and Andrea briefly witnessed on the way back from their first day at Lucardo’s.
“Yeah, I think I saw you there with some girl,” The bartender said, “I’m John, by the way,” He stuck his hand out and smiled warmly. Jesus took it and found his handshake to be surprisingly strong.
“Remember that!” Jesus said, “You were protesting?”
“Yeah, I was … I was in the army for four years. A lot of my friends went over there to ‘Nam.
There’s no reason for us to be there. It’s a lost cause if you ask me.” “Why?” Asked Jesus.
“For one, it’s an unwinnable war. I’m not going to bore you with all the tactical information, but what it comes down to is that the way we’ve been fighting wars won’t work in this context. Secondly, we are doing some horrible things over there, things you wouldn’t believe. Entire villages burned, families separated. It’s hell out there, man, it’s unbelievable,” John said.
“But, the real reason is that we have no business being there. It’s just a civil war between the North and the South. We have no business being there,” He said.
“That makes sense. There’s no need for senseless killing and violence.”
“Exactly! I’m glad you see it that way. Where are you from?”
“I’m from Mexico,” Jesus said, “I’m new in New York.”
“That’s interesting, man. Your English is really good for a second language. It is a second language, I assume. Anyway, would you be interested in coming out in support of our march for peace?”
He said, “It’s this upcoming Sunday. I could introduce you to some people here in town. It could be a good chance for you to make friends. Being new in town and all that.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to. Mind if I bring someone along?”
“Not at all. It’s open to the public. You can meet me here at eleven if you want. By the way, what’s your name, man?”
“Jesus Castillo.”
“Well, Jesus, I’m glad you’re here in New York. We need more people who think like you.”
Jesus returned to his table to find his friends had all but finished their drinks. He had barely touched his.
“What do you like to do for fun, man?” Asked Scott.
“I don’t know; I like to write and listen to music.”
“You smoke, man?”
“Marijuana?” Jesus asked.
He laughed, “You don’t have to say it like that. Just call it weed.”
“Ok, then, weed?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. You sniff?”
“Cocaine?”
“Yeah man, that white girl,” Scott said.
“No, I’ve never tried it.”
“You want to?”
An image of Rodrigo’s crazed gaunt visage behind the orphanage flashed in front of his mind.
“I’ll pass. But, I don’t mind if you guys do it.”
The two looked at each other and shrugged, “Works for me,” Joe said.
Joe began to discreetly cut up lines of coke on the table. Jesus drank his beer and began to feel increasingly isolated as his two coworkers cajoled and alternated taking lines. He finished his beer and went to get another. John engaged him again about the new political movement for peace.
“It’s all about understanding that we’re part of one being, man. Violence against another person isn’t any different than violence against yourself. We’re all connected.”
Jesus thought about this. It made sense to him.
“Love should be free, not locked in a cage. If more people experienced love, there would be less violence.”
Jesus told John about how his orphanage was burned down the previous Christmas. John expressed heartfelt sympathy. He was honest in a way that Jesus wasn’t accustomed to. Most people in New York seemed protected, cut off from their emotions. John’s words were genuine and rang true from the heart. He and Jesus quickly began to become good friends.
“This is Andy, but everyone calls him, ‘Stars.’ He was at the protest with me. He’s a writer, too,” John introduced Jesus to the young white man with dreadlocks and a multi-colored bandana sitting at the end of the bar. “It’s all about one-ness. The realization that we are just the universe experiencing itself,” He told him.
“Hey man, we’re headed out,” Scott said, tapping him from behind, “You want a ride back home?” Jesus just then realized that he had been talking to John and Stars for hours. He suddenly felt bad about abandoning his friends, but his conversations with John and Andy had turned him on to a whole new way of thinking.
“No, I’m going to stay for a while,” He told Scott, and returned to his conversation with Stars.
Then, he remembered Andrea. He looked at the clock. It was already almost nine. “Actually, I could use a ride home.”
“Alright, I’ll see you Sunday at the rally,” Stars said.
“See you then.”
“What were you talking to that hippie about?” Joe asked him later in the car.
“A little bit of everything. Life, the war, different things,” Jesus replied.
“You know you shouldn’t listen to anything they have to say. They’re a bunch of dropouts,” Joe said, “John is pretty cool, though. I don’t mind him despite the crowd he keeps.”
“They both seem alright to me,” Jesus said.
“In time, you’ll see. Those guys are bad news. I’ll tell you what man, all those idiots do is drop acid and pretend the world is all sunshine and fairies. I’ll tell you something, it’s not. The world is a cold, unforgiving place, and you gotta work hard to get ahead. You gotta make sacrifices sometimes. You gotta get your hands dirty sometimes. They want everyone to win. Well, that’s fucking communism, man. There has to be losers. That’s the way of the world. If you don’t think there are any losers, then you’re the loser. If you don’t fuck the world, the world fucks you. That’s what I think. You’re not from here, but you’ll see. You’ll see soon enough, I guarantee it.”
Later in bed, Andrea laid on Jesus’ bare chest. Smoke hung in the air like a light haze. Paul Simon sang something beautiful and haunting.
“I met some people today,” Jesus said.
“Mhmm … ” Andrea said. She was content just to listen to his heartbeat and feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage.
“They invited me to a demonstration Sunday. You should come with me.”
“Okay, my love. Anything for you,” She said. She turned and stared at him, then said, “I’m so in love with you.”
“I’m in love with you too,” He said, then gently kissed her face. They made love again and fell asleep with the record player still spinning.