Chapter 8

A man has needs, there’s no question. Take sex, for instance. If Preston had a nickel for every time he desired sex with the college girl down the hall, he would have been a millionaire by now. But the college girl, he sensed, was not interested in him, and this was because he represented, in her eyes, another lonely, washed-up piece of white trash slumming in the ghetto due to his inability to compete in the white world. Fair enough. It was a free country, and a free market, so girls could think the way they wanted to about him. But what the women didn’t quite know about Preston involved his abrupt change of luck. No one knew this but him, and he decided it was high time to let these gold-digging women witness his brash ascent from the depths of his peculiar brand of failure to the uncommon, selective mountaintop every civilized man craved. Say goodbye to the bad clothes, the body odor, the unkempt apartment, the reliance on public transportation, too much booze, not enough dough for a call girl, unpaid bills, and the new short and choppy street lingo that replaced his once-regal elocution. No more, he decided. With the book deal pretty much sealed and Claude Carolina under the tutelage of his ex- wife, he would soon be rolling in money, and it was high time he spent some of his future earnings. No, not some but a large chunk of it, so that he could laugh at these women with derision as he soars to the top of his game, reclaiming his throne as a wealthy, successful poet, the kind the other poets envied, the kind of poet they invited to read at workshops and seminars and conferences and conventions, all expenses paid to international cities such as Prague, Paris, Rio, Amsterdam, and Tel Aviv, lecturing to a bunch of bright- eyed wannabees on how to pen a sestina or even discuss his new collection of poems and what each blood-curdling line meant. Oh glorious day! Let wealth and the non-stop party be thy guide!

The man had needs. First he would buy a property near the university to keep a keen eye on Claude whom he now considered his most lucrative investment. He would mortgage the property with a ten-percent down, no- doc loan and graciously pay the closing costs and high taxes as a tithe to the town. And who cared anyway, because once Claude made it to the top, so would he. Why not bank on a rosy future? And then came the few instant gratification items that he needed right away, and right away meant this very instant, without delay.

He donned his rough canvas coat and fled his apartment like a prisoner on parole. He took the train into Penn Station, New York and then a cab to an office building on Fifth Avenue across from the Plaza Hotel. He didn’t shower, nor did he shave, just put on his coat and defiled through Penn Station like a man on a search-and-destroy mission. It didn’t matter that the foliage in Central Park turned apricot and copper-orange or that women on the street covered their bodies in contrast to the summer months when they wore skimpy dresses and half-tees and mini-skirts. These things didn’t phase him. Only his needs pulled him to a Fifth Avenue office on the thirtieth floor where he faced a young female executive just out of business school monitoring his account and making trades.

Preston took a seat on a cushioned chair in front of her, the wide windows beyond her desk inundating him with a sun-drenched view of the Manhattan skyline. To him it was just another scene as opposed to a remarkable tribute to man-made architecture and construction, or an ant-like microcosm that spread its network for miles in all directions. The view might as well have been the brick wall of his apartment. He had very specific intentions.

“I need a new car, a new apartment, a new wristwatch, and a new wardrobe,” he said to the junior executive, her expression as numb as a sheet of ice.

“Let me pull up your account, Mr. Whitcomb.”

After looking the figures over, she said:

“It really depends on what type of car, apartment, wristwatch, and wardrobe you can afford.”

“I was thinking a Mercedes-Benz, CLK series, a two-bedroom South Orange condominium, a Rolex Presidential, and a new suit from Barneys.”

She typed into her computer and said finally:

“Well, Mr. Whitcomb, how about a Geo Prism, a rental in Newark, a Timex, and some pants from K-Mart.”

“Unacceptable,” he said. “I need the afore-mentioned items immediately.”

She again typed and said:

“The only way you can buy those things is if we leverage fifty-percent of your account. It’s not recommended. In fact, you’re likely to go broke if your portfolio dips below a certain percentage.”

“And what is that percentage?”

“Twenty-five percent, and you’re done. If this is all you have, I would strongly recommend that you set your sights a little lower. I mean, how will you pay us back?”

“I’m coming into some money soon.”

“Really? How soon and how much?”

“Let’s just say that I’ll be dealing with upper management fairly soon, and not someone who’s a little wet behind the ears.”

“That’s a nice dream, Mr. Whitcomb, but your account history shows you haven’t deposited anything into this account since you opened it five years ago. You’ve only made withdrawals.”

“I’m aware of that, but things are about to change.”

“You’re going against all of my advice if you leverage this account. You realize that, don’t you? I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“And you also understand that the leverage will cost you five percent?”

“Yes.”

She tapped on her keyboard as though she were fishing for something deep inside the company’s database. It took several minutes. She could have been writing an essay for all he knew. Finally a round of forms on the firm’s letterhead spat out of the printer behind her, all of which needed his signature. He signed his name several times to paragraphs he didn’t comprehend. When all was done, he said:

“Twenty-five percent, right?”

“That’s right, Mr. Whitcomb. Pay careful attention to your stocks. Let’s hope they go up or that you deposit funds as soon as possible. The money will be wired to your checking account in twenty-four hours. Good luck, Mr. Whitcomb. I sincerely hope the market takes a liking to you.”

“What’s not to like?” he smiled.

He could have kissed the young yuppie but decided instead to skip his way to the elevator and, once at street level, purchase a couple of hot dogs with sauerkraut and onions from the nearest vendor. He wolfed down the two hotdogs, only a couple of bites each, and rejoiced in the middle of the street by throwing his hands up high into the air and cursing himself for not taking out the loan sooner. Most millionaires live on loans anyway. The logic followed that he should live on loans too if only to own assets that appreciated. Over time he could sell them off, make plenty of money, and live the life of his dreams. Granted, the loan was only a drop in the bucket, but the newly discovered lake of capital he waded in ultimately became the baptism that exorcised all of those unruly ghetto demons, like wondering where the next meal would come from, lying awake at all hours of the night as ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks raced down the stretch of boulevard that led into the heart of inner-city Newark, or better yet, not knowing if the rent would be paid on time and always confronting the stark possibility of being homeless, if not right away, then maybe a few years down the road. He said goodbye to these fears, which were by now stubborn relics, and he returned to Newark determined to pack up all of his things and move to the nearest hotel.

Once he got to Journal Square, though, he realized it would be a colossal waste of money to move into a hotel right away. It would be better to buy the car first and find a safe garage nearby. At least he could drive in style while initiating the home-buying process. Besides, he just paid a month’s worth of rent to the landlord. Why leave now when he could leave a month later and capture the best possible price for the condo?

Since there were no Mercedes dealerships where he lived, he took the train a stop further to South Orange station, and from there he called a taxi for a short ride to Blair Motors a mile or so away from the town’s center. The dealership sold Benzes, Volkswagons, and Porches, their lots stocked with brand-new shining vehicles. He didn’t care how much the vehicle would cost or what kind of deal the salesman would give him. He only imagined the sex he would have after picking up some girl from a bar in nearby Millburn, the engine revving, a hotel room waiting for them, and his private garage protecting the car like Fort Knox.

To his delightful surprise, an unusually pert and attractive saleswoman greeted him by the front door of the dealership. The showroom glistened and gleamed with mint condition sports coupes, sedans as lengthy as the saleswoman’s legs, sparkling chrome wheels, and technologically advanced Xeon headlights that were more expensive than his last automobile. Even the saleswoman’s smile sparkled. She was a young, educated woman, probably in her early thirties who wanted nothing more than to lure him in.

‘So what turns you on?’ he was tempted to ask, and he could have asked her that had he dressed properly for the occasion. Instead he shook her hand like a gender-blind professional and saved the booze-soaked pick-up lines for later that night.

“What type of vehicle are you interested in?” she asked.

“It’s either a Benz or a Porsche. I’m undecided between the two.”

“It’s really a question of your personality. These are not utility vehicles but luxury automobiles, so I know you don’t need the car but want one, as every man wants an elegant, first-rate luxury automobile to drive in.”

“That’s a pretty keen observation.”

“I always know what men want. Come, let me show you some of our latest models.”

She led him around the showroom like a dog on a leash, perusing each glossy car. He found a red one that he liked. Once seated in it he was immediately swallowed up by the cool leather and captured by the ubiquitous factory smell that said the car needed a good driver to break in the engine. She opened all the doors for him. First a Benz, then a Porche, alternating between these dream cars like eating from two different gourmet meals. It tasted wonderful, an exhilaration like no other.

“Are you married?” asked the saleswoman.

“Divorced,” said Preston, “but I’m looking to get back in the game.”

“That explains a lot. I think you’re definitely a Porsche man—a little adventurous, fast, and powerful.”

After sitting in a red Porsche for several minutes, toying with the CD player, testing the strength of the steering wheel, changing gears, checking out the many knobs and buttons that made the dashboard a virtual cockpit, he knew he had found the one car that would not only get him laid that night but a car that would get him laid whenever he wished.

“Would you like to take a test drive?” she asked, her tongue running over her teeth.

“You bet I would.”

“The Carerra GT is one of the finest sports cars in the world. No car has ever come so close to what we use on the racetrack. A ten valve, six-hundred- and-two horsepower engine, zero to one-twenty-five in nine point nine seconds. A real thrill and top of the line.”

A near-empty highway abutted the dealership, and once on it Preston floored the car in the left lane, the wind whistling in his ears and electrifying his hair. The beauty beside him wore a scarf and sunglasses. He went from zero to sixty in four seconds, his body in total control of the engine which zoomed ahead and then slowed at his will. He couldn’t hide the exhilaration, passing by other automobiles like they were part of antiquity. The kids in the other cars waved, and the wives in their minivans turned their heads and marveled at this sleek race car on the road as two celebrities in the front seats laughed at their own, unabashed flaunting.

“I love this car,” yelled Preston above the wind.

“There hasn’t been a customer who hasn’t,” she yelled back. “The question is: do you want to take this toy home with you?”

“I’d like that very much.”

He could have driven the car all day. He didn’t necessarily feel at home in it, as though the car were much more valuable than his own life, but for about twenty minutes of driving, he couldn’t shake the vigor and the youth the car sent through him, not to mention the status on the road. Everyone on the highway turned their heads at this space-aged juggernaut hugging the slight contours of the road.

Considering what he had been through, however, the esteemed position of superiority he held over the common-folk on the highway didn’t suit him. As he slowed the car he noticed an old broken-down Chevy Impala, circa 1980, in the right lane, its skin rusty, its wheels without hubcaps, a family of three inside. They were from Newark, he figured. What was fun for the first part of the drive doused him in shame for the final part. He couldn’t get over how excessive the entire adventure was, and sure he would love to own the vehicle, but where would he park it? How many other people would shake their heads in condemnation of his excess? He didn’t live in South Orange anymore, and the streets of Newark sunk its sharp claws deep into his irreparable psyche, the psyche that said ‘shame on him for living so well when children are suffering and there’s a war going on,’ the heavy wooden crucifix attaching itself to the slacking sinews of his mind, and after they returned to the showroom, he had mixed feelings about driving a car so expensive, and dare he think, useless to him. He had no idea what caused this sudden turn, this unbearable crisis of conscience just at the time the world, with all of its luxuries, opened to him and beckoned him to taste instead of taste if only to spit out.

He eyed the gleaming automobiles in the showroom for the last time and knew it was too much, understood that lives somewhere were being sacrificed so that some fat-cat could own these automobiles, not a mere trade but a blood sacrifice taken from vast pools of blood-money funding the most devious kinds of human deviance and failures, monstrosities and cruelties, catastrophes and massacres. He could do nothing to stave off the power of the guilt, a guilt more powerful than the charms of the machine he so badly wanted to take home.

He ran his hands over his face a couple of times, begging to be free of his divided mind, his thoughts of gratitude and contempt so polarized that they made it difficult to concentrate or even stand on his feet, his expression grim after he announces to the saleswoman that he has to think about his purchase before diving into it. There was never any ‘seize the day’ or a full-tilt desire to be free that would lead to any action on his part. It became the struggle within, the inability to be at peace with anything he did, and the struggle made him, what he considered to be, a failure getting used to failure. If only he read some Ayn Rand the night before. Instead he walked along the shoulder of the highway, amidst the tall weeds that withstood the rubble of the highway, and wondered what on God’s good earth had held him back, the train station a half-mile up the road and the sky darkening with heavy clouds. Perhaps his failures, the idea of being a little less than a man, provided enough freedom for him to get by. He didn’t want to disturb things.

The Porsche may not have been so important to him, now that things balanced correctly. Somewhere between a grain of dust and a creature larger than life he became, by dint of whatever adversities were thrown his way, more of himself, and even though Newark wasn’t the best place on the planet to be, he was indeed stable there. Certainly he wanted more, but why rock the boat?

In the train car on his way back to Newark he looked into the reflection of himself staring out the window. He watched as the darkness of a tunnel unleashed its grip when the sunshine hit and then passed again through the darkness of yet another tunnel, if only to balance things, he supposed. And in the city one cannot find light so easily. Maybe he would end up staying in the ghetto, even if his scheme yielded treasure. He became a captive of a particular place that now confused him. He couldn’t say the ghetto was less civilized, because to remain so poor and bunched up, without the gifts of space and sunlight, and add the mere fact that there isn’t a crime every few seconds or at least a bomb blast every few minutes, at least meant that civility was still around and, in his opinion, still running like the cheap wristwatch that always delivered the right time, or the shitty cars parked on his street that no one stole, or the apartment that kept him close to the underground and the attractive college co-ed down the hall. He figured living in Newark was the only real thing he ever achieved on his own, the whole kitchen sink thrown at him as he managed to stay alive. It wasn’t mere environmental conditioning. More the case that he had contributed to his environment, and so made the environment his own.

He never thought of things like this before, and maybe he could see the world a little better while farther away from it: the suped-up turbines of survival lighting more cities and more ghettos, until no one could stand to live anywhere, and suddenly an exodus, a flight if only to avoid fighting like the generation before. And it continued, the irritation and the stress, but it was his stress and his irritation, he said to his reflection in the train car, his self that must swallow, endure, and not show the slightest bit of his conscience to anyone or else forfeit a position of advantage. Oddly enough, the only blights of the ghetto he saw on a continual basis did not concern bad neighborhoods and crime, drug wars and stolen cars. The ghetto rested primarily in the hearts and souls of those who wandered it aimlessly, slept on sidewalks, braved the cold and had nowhere to run home to, because they understood both stories and had been on both sides of the tracks and were somehow lost within the tumult of constant change and flux, a new war to fight every day. And for what? For whom?, he wondered. Why in the midst of ever-strengthening prosperity is there always this constant flux that sentences some people to victimization or to homicide or to homelessness? What the hell kept this fire lighted such that it not only destroyed both sides of battle but every side, even the poor buggers like himself who wanted nothing to do with it? He, who wanted only to sleep in something as worthy and magnanimous as his own imagination?

‘Not on this earth buddy,’ he said to himself as the train conductor collected tickets. Even simple thoughts had nowhere to go. Someone always had to be paid. He forked over train fare, almost forgetting where he stood financially.

Luckily he avoided purchasing the Porsche. He no longer would deal with regrets and missed opportunities. He made these decisions himself and refused to cry over them anymore. There never was a right answer to anything. Just keep moving forward like the train and stare at the gutted factories and burnt-out buildings and scrawled graffiti beyond his reflection in the window. And he used to love looking at these artifacts due to his belief that he would never have to deal with them. And this belief no longer held true, and the junk heaps and the stripped cars along the train tracks no longer fascinated him as they did scare him. There was no way to return to any particular time unless he believed in his imagination to transport him there. The decisions he made were poor ones, but that’s how he learned. That’s where his maturity came from. The streets were where he paid the price, hobbling into the constant flux. No matter how many Carerra GTs he bought he would never be able to show this valor to anyone.

He could have purchased the entire dealership, and people wouldn’t so much as care as they would want test drives and loaners and the status that came with them. Perhaps a woman would understand, but his battles were much too painful now to show even the most intimate of souls. He had an urge to confess everything to people he never met before, as somehow the strangers would understand, always the strangers. They were unassuming on the street as the only color that mattered was green. Sometimes his white skin came attached to it. But no one ever mugged him. No one ever wanted money from him. No one ever suckered him or betrayed him. These terrible fears never materialized, and he sometimes wondered if the good Lord put an X on him to keep him safe.

‘Yes, God loves poets,’ he thought to himself. ‘Poets always fuck up, but God likes that.’

He longed to see Amanda too, and suddenly this bothered him. He still needed a woman, now that he relinquished the idea of buying the Porsche, and Amanda remained the only person he really knew. He missed being in bed with her, her velvety skin like butter as they lay on their backs in the old South Orange home, his fingers roaming and tickling her breasts, her legs, her tired arms. He tried to mute these images of her, but they were past scenes that wouldn’t tire no matter how hard he tried to forget them.

On the train he decided to stop by her office again. It was, in fact, a school day, and if he could get through the platinum-haired secretary, he could see her and check on Claude in one swoop.

The college girl down the hall wanted nothing to do with him either. He searched, and the women frowned, expressions that said ‘leave me alone you gutless wonder,’ or ‘are you really going to defend me? You’re too fat and passive.’ The self-criticism went beyond the occasional lately. He reached down and felt his gut, the extra flab hanging over his belt, and he understood that he was no longer the same man—the handsome, dashing man he had been in his youth. Getting older and fatter, lazier and lunatic. He needed a woman indeed, if only to prevent his slow disintegration. A man can’t do it on his own. Women, probably, but not men. And the caliber of women he had been used to would never have him now, money or no money, Porsche or no Porsche. Amanda, though, knew him better than anyone, or at least knew of him, understood his desires, and they went beyond poetry. He actually thought it possible to find Amanda again through the thickets of their divergent lives. If only he could find a way back to her.

The divorce had made her a stubborn woman, a woman way ahead of herself, trying to be tough like him. He smiled at this idea, because he remembered when she wasn’t so stubborn, when she lay under him like an open flower, and he longed for the taste of her, and at times he grew tremendously impatient waiting for a mystery-woman to fall from the sky, as though there were still a part of him that believed in the fantastic or the ability of God to furnish a very simple requirement, no, a right, in fact, as a woman was no longer a privilege or a miracle, but his right to have, regardless if she loved him or not. Of course he never considered how the mystery woman would feel about him, and perhaps his intense need blinded him to what women desired in a man. Even in Newark women didn’t desire him. He looked, and they turned away. He couldn’t understand it. A conspiracy of women, perhaps, or maybe their clairvoyance that Preston wouldn’t suit them as a mate, because of his flab, because of his mediocrity.

He finally arrived home and did the unthinkable. He collapsed on the lime-green sofa and made plans to hit on the college co-ed next door. He could borrow some toilet paper from her, no, not toilet paper, but paper towels, no, not paper towels, but sugar, because he’s baking a cake and he just plumb ran out. Not a bad plan. Maybe she would invite him in. Maybe he could forget about Amanda that way.

He waited until after dinner. He didn’t eat anything. During dinnertime he smelled flavorful foods in the hallway, the scents of cooked meat and lemon pepper invading the floor. He waited until after these scents had dissipated before making his move. He reasoned that the college girl would be much happier after dinner than before, and he also hoped that she didn’t have anyone to share her dinner with.

He cracked open his apartment door, and with one eye scanned the hallway. With one ear he listened to the squeaks and creaks of the hardwood floors to determine if she had any visitors. There were no muffled voices, only the footsteps of his neighbors moving through their respective apartments. He tiptoed into the hallway. The walls were thin, so he knew that whatever disturbance he caused in the hallway would doubtlessly radiate into the apartments on either side. He knocked on the door, and when the college girl opened it, a soft flood of what he believed to be hip-hop music greeted him, along with, what was that scent? Marijuana.

It had been a long time since he smoked it, or even smelled it, but whatever accouterments attacked his senses at the time could not distract him from the elegant figure standing in the doorway: perhaps the most beautiful African- American woman he had ever seen, her hair touching her bare shoulders in glistening, relaxed curls, her skin soft and shiny as though she had just applied lotion to it, a slim, athletic body that curved like an hour glass. While all of this fascinated him, the woman didn’t look too happy with the interruption. He immediately ended his investigation of her body and sputtered out awkwardly:

“I’m your next door neighbor.”

“And?”

“And, I was wondering if I could borrow, well, you’re not going to believe this, but I need a spoon.”

“A spoon?”

“Yeah. I ran out of spoons.”

When he got nervous, he fixed his hair by patting it down a bit. He did this with a slight grin, hoping she would get the hint. She smiled and said:

“Is that all you need? Or is there something else you came here for?”

“There may be something else you can help me with,” he said, his hair looking worse than before. “I thought I’d come in for a cup of coffee.”

“And you think I’d let a total stranger in for a cup of coffee?”

“I’m your neighbor, and besides, I do need a spoon anyway. C’mon. I don’t bite. Honest.”

She looked him over from head to toe and invited him in after a moment or two.

“Just for a cup of coffee,” she said. “This is not the right building to be neighborly in.”

He entered a spacious living room with a futon and lighted candles. Textbooks and notebooks were strewn over a faux Persian rug. The walls were painted maroon, all except the kitchen which had nicotine-stained walls and an equally unattractive dull yellow light that seemed to hover from the ceiling. Dishes were piled up in the sink, and on the counter adjoining the living room and cramped kitchenette sat a stick of incense in its cradle, curls of smoke spiraling from its tip. He smelled pot and wondered if the girl were some new-age hippie or even a lesbian or maybe a liberated woman with a chip on her shoulder. She was cute enough, sure, but he couldn’t pretend that he knew what world she came from. Her living room was disheveled, and as he scoped the picture frames of family and friends affixed to the wall behind the futon, he got the eerie feeling that this woman had rebelled just a short while ago, perhaps while studying the great authors and simultaneously deconstructing them.

“I see you’re a student.”

“Yeah,” she said, taking out a cigarette. “I go to Essex Community.”

“Really. Where is Essex Community by the way?”

“It’s on Society Hill on the black side of town, which makes me wonder: what’s a man with your complexion doing around these parts? You must either be slummin’ or doing research on how poor this place is, because I know I haven’t seen white skin around these parts for some time now.”

“I’m a poet,” he said. “May I sit down?”

She straightened out the blanket on the futon before he took a seat. The futon was comfortable enough to sleep on, and he figured she used it as her bed at night. As the candles flickered and dripped flame into puddles of wax, he couldn’t help but notice how wonderful she looked. He tried to be as objective as possible in his review of her. She had brown discs for eyes, and she wore a white tee-shirt that hugged her body and accentuated her perfectly formed chest and the thin strip of skin between her navel and waistline. A pair of tight denim jeans placed her as someone acutely aware of how good she looked. He tried his best to hide his attraction, although somehow she already sensed it.

“A poet, huh? You mean like Langston Hughes and James Baldwin.”

“Well, I’m not exactly in their league just yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Ah-ha! So you are studying us.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant that I am neither as revered nor as gifted as they were. I hold my own, though. You read poetry?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “I’m taking a class on it. I like Sonia Sanchez the best.”

“Definitely heard of her too. I’ve met her a couple of times.”

“Get outta here,” she laughed.

“No, I’m not kidding. I used to teach at NYU, and she read there several times, at least when I was there.”