Everyday People Read Free Page A

Why lie—he’d like to see Vanessa give him another try, let him forget about the chair a little bit, just for one minute. Be a man. When she put that bra on, there was nowhere to look but the floor, and he felt beaten, couldn’t hardly breathe. He seriously thought right then about giving it up, going permanently on the injured reserve, just locking the bathroom door and scarfing down the whole bottle. He’s still not sure.
    But there’s nothing wrong, the doctor says. In your head, that’s where it’s at.
    Punches a button. Panel’s all scratched up, spots of gum on the floor. Bean liked grape, used to blow bubbles so the whole bus smelled.
    BEAN. Where would he throw it up? Kenny already did a piece on the bridge for both of them, like Crest is dead. Weak shit too, an easy hit, belt-high. He ought to get up there and cross that five-and-ten-cent clown out, slash that shit bigtime.
I’m alive,
that’s what it’d say.
    â€œShit,” Crest says, alone and going down, the cables singing like knives. “Fucking fly first.”
    He looks up at the light, round as an angel’s halo, the halide sun above an operating table. Nothing wrong.
    Yeah, Bean, beam me out this motherfucker.
    Elevator hits bottom and the door rolls open, but there’s no one to hold it. Never long enough, and he’s got to fight it, rubber part banging against his wheel grip, door jumping back and then bumping him again, stupid fucking thing.
    â€œHold up,” U says, “I got you,” and stops it with one hand holding his Bible, all dog-eared and full of Post-it notes. He’s got his hearing suit on cause he’s just coming back from his meeting. Shoes with tassels like little leather flowers, handkerchief in his pocket making three sails, clipper ship. Since he’s been out he wants everyone to call him Eugene, like he’s different now. And he is, Crest thinks. He once saw U thump on Nene with an aluminum bat. Put a dent in it so it hit funny, and Nene was one of his boys, his partner even. It made Crest proud, U being crazy like that; all the way growing up, it kept him protected. When it was just letters, Crest could make fun of the Jesus stuff. Now that U’s out,Crest doesn’t know how to talk to him. It’s like they say, God will mess a brother up.
    â€œU,” Crest says, and thanks him with a nod.
    â€œS’all right. Voyager tonight, right?” U says it like he’s proud he remembered.
    â€œYou coming down?”
    â€œGotta hit it.” He pats his Bible and gets in. “I’ll come down round ten and check you out.”
    â€œYeah, all right,” Crest says, busting, cause he never does.
    And it’s like being transported, U pushes a button and he’s gone, the motor going in the basement, all that grease covered with dust fuzz. Mr. Linney probably got his door locked, playing his 78s, pretending Mrs. Linney isn’t dead. A couple years ago, he and Bean saw Mr. Linney dancing with himself, shuffling around, one hand in the air, singing Darling this, Baby that. Everyone’s so fucked up around here.
    â€œYou oughta know,” Crest says.
    Outside a few earlybirds are parked on the stoop, couple of shorties riding their bikes under the streetlight. Across Spofford, two dudes are leaning against the fence, just hanging, splitting a Kool like a J the way he and Bean used to do. Used to, like U knocking Pops through the screen door that time, calling him a Tom. Crest shakes it off; all this memory shit isn’t good for him. It’s been six months, only two since he’s been home. U’s been out three, even got a job over Baierl Chevrolet, detailing. Puts on his jumpsuit every morning like he’s in the Marines, makes a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, stocks up on the free WheatThins Pops brings home Friday night. He’s clean, he goes to his meetings. Done is done, Moms always says. Pick it up,