Fingerless Gloves (11 page)

Nichole was in some type of trouble; there was no denying that much to be true. What would happen if I showed up and saw her, all coked out, half-naked and being roughed up by the police? I started fearing for the worst. I considered breaking my cardinal rule: no hot boxing the Escape. I considered, for a brief moment, not showing up at all. If I didn’t level out even more, totally kill the high and instantly become perfectly coherent before I got there, I figured that I’d be useless. I was close to achieving that Zen, but in my mind, I started having a breakdown. A few deep breaths later and things started to come into focus clearly. I had a very specific purpose at this very moment. I brought my foot down hard on the unforgiving pedal and knew I was more than equipped to handle this crisis. I’d been handling it all my life.

The entrance to Lifted Loft was marked by a sudden change in driving surface. The road went from choppy, bumpy and broken up, to suddenly smooth. Tires went from straining to stay aligned and in-tune with the road to gliding with relative ease. The next thing anyone starts to notice about the Loft is the size of the front lawns. The bordering houses, before the road changes, all have modest lawns, littered with trees and poorly kept shrubs and curbs. Some houses have small flower gardens or decorative planters. Once you cross over, the lawns become vast and exceptionally maintained. There are perfectly kept hedges, cut into neat rectangles. The grass is all one exact length, with well-trimmed trees and the occasional row of flowers. The front gardens are gorgeous. There are no children’s toys left out, no handmade tree houses or tipped-over bikes, just brick walkways with artistically lit paths and expansive driveways leading up to two or three brand new garage doors. The street lamps are different once you get into the Loft. They are more ornate and cleaned…they just seem to give off more light. The main street that leads into the heart of Lifted Loft is called Skyway Terrace and, as I drove along, I slowed down to admire the dark, set-back houses. I imagined Christmas spent in houses like this, with a classy tree, perfectly assembled and in three very fake pieces…decorated with gold garland and glass ornaments instead of shedding tinsel and popsicle reindeer made of red pipe cleaners. I imagined catered food and family members in suits and dresses and thick wrapping paper...the good kind…from the department store. I thought about all the extra bedrooms for in-laws, cousins and friends to come stay in. At this hour of the night, there was no celebrating; just armed alarm systems set to scream out should any intruders break their way into that serene paradise.

When I made the turn onto Crescent, knowing that there was only a matter of three short blocks before Ozone intersected, I knew something was wrong…I just got this feeling…started in my back and worked its way to my shoulders. It felt like erosion; like I was about to walk into something way beyond me. As I slowed the Escape down to 15 miles-per-hour, I started to see them. They started out as crossing shadows darting across the street… some in hoodies and jeans, some in skirts and sweaters, others in leather jackets. They revealed themselves as drunk party stragglers only when they stumbled into the streetlight’s glow. Some of them were still holding Solo cups and beer cans as they tried to walk on curbs and straighten themselves up on the sidewalks. My headlights, weak as they were, still managed to trap some of those wanderers like deer. I knew I was getting close to the epicenter. As I rolled forward, there were many pairs of curious eyes peering into my driver’s side window to assess exactly who I was. The drunks started raising their cups and cans in the air, and yelling at me to pull over. Some flicked cigarette butts at my car while others narrowly missed the windows with half-full bottles. Glass shattered on the ground, creating the alarming background audio for a riot. This was absolutely violent. I remained nothing close to remotely confident that I’d make it out of there. I just kept driving forward. I had to get to the Ozone intersection. I could see the green and white sign reflect against my headlights. I began turning the wheel.

That’s when Nichole came into view. Well, I should say, came into the range of my sensitive ears. See, when I made the turn onto Ozone, there were even more kids walking down the street. The whole block was lit blue and red by the five or six police cruisers parked in front of the Rannie house. A few yards away from the police, there were only two people visibly not walking away from the scene. It was a girl and a guy, standing off to the side of the street, just off the curb. As people slowed to watch them, I began to hear the girl screaming. The scream sounded all-too-familiar…deep-pitched (for a girl)…and absolutely littered with profanity. It was Nichole. She was waving her hands in front of her, gesticulating like she was having a spasm. The guy, about a foot taller than her, had his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed to be taking the (mostly) incoherent insults in stride. Nichole moved closer to him and, as I stopped the car on the side of the street, I could see just how angry she was. Nichole got nose to nose with the guy.

She had on one of those micro black dresses. The kind that are stitched with just enough spandex, buttons and zippers to cover a girl’s ass, provided she didn’t make any extraordinary movements or mistakenly attempt to sit down. Over this dress was a short faux-leather jacket with gold accents over the pockets and zipper. Her hair, at least from what I could see from the car, was dyed a deep shade of red - blown out and sprayed. I watched from maybe ten feet away. Nichole was in such a zone that she didn’t notice my car or my face as I rolled the window down. She couldn’t hear me call her name over her own yelling, spitting and foot stomping. That was when the situation reached a crisis level. Police were close, but preoccupied assumingly rounding up various minors and confiscating vast quantities of high-octane drugs or 1000-proof bottles of liquor. The spotlights from their cruisers spilled light into the sky like the grand opening of the long arm, used car-dealership of the law. A small group of fearless kids, no longer worried about getting rounded up, had begun to form a circle around Nichole and this monstrous guy she was yelling at. He looked like a wild animal wearing a pre-frayed hoodie.

When Nichole moved closer, I thought the boy would just stand there and take some more verbal abuse. Logic told me that any sensible male, when getting yelling at by a bite-sized girl, should just nod and try to walk away. Instead, he took a step forward as well. They were even closer - now directly nose to nose, like two heavyweights at a weigh-in. To her credit, she never backed down, although severely undersized. When he pushed her to the ground, it took me a minute to register exactly what was happening. I wasn’t quite stoned, but in a daylight-savings-time-adjustment sort-of-way, I was confused by all of it. Things were going on, presumably in real-time, but it took some processing to figure out how to react. When Nichole hit the ground, hard on her tailbone, the guy immediately knew what he did. He took a few steps back and looked around, as if to double-check if anyone saw his action…the answer was that at least 25 people had seen my cousin get shoved down on the street. There was no going back now, at least for him. Surprisingly, perhaps out of shock or fear, the circle of people barely jumped in to put a stop to anything. They served no purpose…they howled into the night, shoved one another and appeared preoccupied. I played back the imaginary way I saw the next moments going down: She was on the ground, and he kept kicking her. Nichole would end up futilely shouting out for help as the circle of shadowy youths did absolutely nothing about it. When the man-beast was done kicking her bloody, he would simply walk away. He would get behind the wheel of a BMW and speed off, never to be heard from again. On the way to his car, he would pass me…as I stared out of the open window helplessly. He would look at me. I, in turn, would look down at my steering wheel, too scared to face him.

I’d be damned if I was going to let my terrible imagination materialize into reality. As that scenario played out in my head, obviously faster than the events that were actually unfolding, I decided it was time to actually man up and do something. My spinal cord took over. Acting on straight reflexes, I opened the door to the Escape. For the first time in what seemed like all night, I actually felt the cool air…I had known it was there, but this time I actually felt it. In fact, I was feeling everything. I felt my feet inside of my Pumas as they touched the ground, the sleeves of my sweatshirt itching my forearms. I realized just how underdressed I actually was for the changing weather. There was no question about it, I should have worn my fall jacket or a blazer over the hoodie, or a beanie, or something. These thoughts were animated like a Christmas special, awkwardly climbing and trying to communicate to one another inside my head. I snapped back to the present when I felt the cheap car door handle in my hand, then heard it click closed behind me.

Things were clear. The air was clear, as was the sky and the lights and the debris blowing down the street. The red and blue swept over the ground again and again. I knew exactly what I was doing...or, had hoped that I knew. Nichole was still on the ground, clutching the shoulder she landed on and performing a combination sniffling/holding back tears in between her continuing rant. The boy in question, as I got closer, was standing a cool six-foot-one. His hair was cropped close in one of those trendy, shaped fades. It was not blown back but there was product in it. His jeans and jacket, without a doubt, were designer. His white V-neck t-shirt, although it was probably expensive, still looked rather plain. I was covering ground quickly as photographed the whole scene using the camera built into my head, right behind my eyes. I was standing right in front of the guy who had violently tossed my female cousin to the ground without thinking twice. He smelled like cologne and liquor, even outside.

From the ground, Nichole said, “Anton, what are you doing? Help me up. Can we go please? Anton, what the fuck?!”

I didn’t turn to look at her. There was something tight in my right hand, my strong hand. It felt like a good-sized rock, or a baseball or an unripe piece of fruit. While I looked up at the broken out skin caked on this animal’s face, I knew what the sensation in my hand was: the tightest, most numbing fist I had ever formed.

From beyond what appeared to be glossed lips, came the words, “Bro, is this what you…”

His sentence never resolved itself. I reached back and, using everything I’d ever learned from every action movie I’d ever watched; I threw a punch. Looking back, there was probably less behind that punch than I had originally thought. When I first threw it, I felt every ounce of power I had in it. It grazed off his cheek, achieving far less than maximum impact. Immediately, I was taken back to Little League, when I’d hit the ball off the bottom part of the aluminum bat…you know, the part a few inches below the sweet spot, right before the handle of the bat starts. The vibration and sense that the whole side of my body was comprised of one giant funny bone came immediately back to me. The sensation started in my fingers and went through my hand, then back up through my arm and down the right side of my body. I winced and clutched my fist. The crowd was silent. For a minute I could actually hear the moisture in the air. I felt and understood everything. The world had come into absolute and vivid focus, and my life had switched over to electronics-store-demo high-definition. That’s when I noticed the closed hand coming directly at my face.

Turns out, in connecting back with the universe and the tangible world around me, I had overlooked the fact that my “punch” was merely brushed off. I hadn’t noticed the maniac turn back to face me, set his feet, and then cock his fist back. The shock of the blow brought me back to a very three-dimensional, cold reality. It landed square on my cheek, right above my jaw. Good thing, because any lower and I would have undoubtedly been knocked out, and probably lost some teeth. I landed hard, hitting the pavement on my back and on the same vibrating arm. I came to my senses just in time to hear “That’s what happens! Just walk away. Shoulda just walked away.”

The shit-talking continued and I got to my feet. Fortunately for me, the police were coming closer and closer to the scene. I saw the spotlight on the side of one of the cruisers sweep towards me and begin to settle on the circle of kids. My head was pounding. Nichole had gotten to her feet and was dragging me by the sleeve of my hoodie back towards my car. Her voice seemed to be in time with our footsteps. “Anton, are you kidding me? What the hell was that?…Christ, you got punched in the damn face. Let’s fucking go.” I felt every single step we took in the side of my face.

A quick glance over my shoulder and I realized that the circle of people had scattered, heading off in all directions. The police cruiser was slowly rumbling towards where we’d been. There was no sign of my assailant or, rather, my opponent in the fight I’d promptly lost. When I turned back around, I almost walked right into the side of the Escape. Nichole had let go of my arm and was already heading towards the passenger’s side, waiting for me to unlock the door for her. In my pocket, I fumbled for the oddly rectangular remote attached to my keys. I found the button, pressed it twice, and Nichole jumped in the car. The cop spotlight was reflecting off the exterior of my SUV. We had overstayed our welcome. I turned the car on, performed a half-assed k-turn at a normal speed, and we were back at the intersection of Ozone and Crescent. I kept checking my mirrors for the police behind me. I made the turn back the way I’d come. My face was on fire and I could feel my heart beating in my cheek. A look up at my face in the rear view mirror reaffirmed what I was still coherent enough to figure out: I was going to have a purple and green bruise, covering my whole cheek and right under my eye, that would draw weeks worth of double takes and questions. There is a fine line between sexy grittiness and foolish swelling. Needless to say, I could feel my body providing a healing cushion at the expense of my soft, boyish facial features. I had been punched in the face for the very first time but, before I could bask in my epic achievement in masculinity, Nichole began to talk at a speed no recreational drug user should ever encounter.

“You mind telling me where you get off showing up, taking your sweet time getting out of the goddamn car, then getting yourself punched in the face? If you think I’m going to thank you, blow it out your ass. That was dumb as shit…and I’m drunk…or well, I was drunk. Not anymore. You killed whatever was left of my buzz. Congratulations.”

She sat back in the seat, pouted and turned to stare out the window. I could smell what remained of the substantial amount of perfume she must have left her house wearing. Her left leg was scratched up and I think, from what I was able to tell, the heel of her shoe was broken off. Her hair had begun to sprout little floating pieces, flying around with no direction and looking remarkably out of place.

I said, “Nichole, look at my eye…that was me defending you. My face feels like a corkboard…Next time you decide to get roughed up by some guy, try to let him be normal-sized. Punched…in the face…for some ungrateful girl. You’re lucky you’re my cousin.”

She glared at me over destroyed eye shadow from the passenger side of the Escape. I remembered her, as best I could, at her 13th birthday party. I had been at the age where remembering starts to actually count for something. The party was at her house, and all her friends were there, forming the inevitable friend/family divide. She was still Nicole back then. She didn’t need the “h” to hold court on that day. The giggling bubbling up from her and her friends drowned out the adult conversation and, for the first time, I felt truly excluded. I always had these notions of exclusion; the sense that something was not meant for me but, up until that point, I’m not sure it had ever materialized quite like that. Now that I think about it, I was probably shunned because one of her myriad of friends, teetering on the quickly-advancing first stages of puberty, thought I was cute. Said friend probably told someone who told someone who told Nicole. In their world, that was enough to keep me at arm’s length while I nervously watched ice cream cake melt on a confetti plate as the party happened around me. It would be the first time a party would occur while I happened to be standing in the room, but it certainly would not be the last.

Confronted with that night, my worst night, my face was throbbing for nothing. I was tired, not stoned, but miserable. Riding shotgun was a cousin that I hardly even knew. I had abandoned Streets and Weedman Tim was probably having sex with that odd girl sitting on his couch. What would James have done if he were here? Shit, I needed him there, to talk sense into the situation, to diffuse something, to be the bigger man. He probably wouldn’t have gotten punched in the face. If I had to guess, James would have ended up on good terms with the brute.

Nichole asked, “Can you just drop me off in front of my house? I have to walk around back so they won’t be able to hear me come in… I always tell them I’m home by midnight.”

The night was deep into its darkest hour - 2:45am. I used to stay up late just for the sake of staying up late. I would play Nintendo, some nights it would be
Star Fox
and other nights it would be
Madden Football
. I once started the
Rambo
trilogy at 10 o’clock at night and let it carry me deep into the early hours of the next day. I read magazines or jerked off to magazines, both activities sometimes causing me to lose track of time. Those were younger days…days of bullshitting through papers and watching
The Deer Hunter
for fun. Now that real life had started, I was lucky if I could stay awake to watch a band I liked perform on late-night TV. Things were different …slower.

Nichole was silent until we got to her house. When we pulled up, was not even a light on above the garage so she could see where she was going. The house was dark, as was the street. I could still make out the shrubs and the hand-painted mailbox…the mini van in the driveway and the hanging plants in the front picture window. On the second floor, I imagined her parents, my aunt and uncle, sleeping soundly even though their daughter was out. I wondered if there was a time when they tried to wait up for her, watching crappy infomercials and checking their phones. I guess, even as a parent, there’s a breaking point where you can’t suffer any more sleep deprivation. You learn to rest soundly while the hazards of youth burn themselves out at hours of the night you no longer understand. Nichole waved to me and mouthed a “goodbye.” She opened the door, picked her pleather bag up off the beige mat of my car, then gingerly pushed the door back in place. It wasn’t a long walk up her driveway, but it seemed to take her forever as she zig-zagged towards her house. In my pocket, my fingertips found the one-hitter again. As her micro-dress shuffled to the back gate, I thought how good a few hits would help me sleep. The gate opened against a perfectly black background, then her shape went through, and without seeing a thing, I heard the lock on the gate gently click closed. My car was running. I put it in gear and eased on the gas. I heard something large roll around on the passenger side. Judging by the clicking sound against the metal runners under the seat, this something was glass.