The Delivery (4 page)

Chapter 5

M
ozey’s hug follows me around all day long like a big, friendly, stray dog that’s impossible to shake off. I keep returning to the feel of his arms around me and beat myself up for being too pissed off in the moment to even have savored it. Jarel Hopkins loses his case and gets twenty to life. I hug
him
on the way out of the courtroom because no one else showed up to support him. He thanks me for Pathways and all the skills he learned. I sign him up for our mailing list so he can still feel connected to something on the outside while he counts away the years in prison. Sometimes there is success to be measured even in the failures.

I get a falafel sandwich from a food truck outside the courthouse and sit on a bench in the sun while I eat. I call my dad to tell him I received the summons and I’ll be there in February for the hearing. He tells me my mom has been taking in tailoring and he’s been delivering papers and this month they might be able to swing at least half of the mortgage.

I hang up depressed, wishing I could magically whisk away all of their financial troubles. The kids in our program are no strangers to poverty, at least now I can relate to them on a fundamental level. I, of course, won’t turn to crime, but I can see how feelings of desperation can turn into desperate measures. I lick a drop of hummus off my finger and stare at the sun.

I fanaticize about what I would do to Mozey Cruz if he weren’t a client. I wouldn’t even have to fuck him; I could just smell him and hold him and endlessly make-out with him. I don’t harbor any fantasies about being the dominant one and deflowering the young stud. I’m sure Mozey’s no virgin. I’m just dying to touch him. And what almost unnerves me more, I’m dying to know him, to understand how he runs.

I hop off the bench, feeling a little buzz just from thinking about him. I blast the car radio on the way back to Pathways and sing my heart out to pop songs even though I can’t usually stand a single one of them.

I go from Tuesday to Friday without a spotting of Mozey. That’s not to say I’m not thinking about him or I’m immune to the buzz of what he’s been doing. It appears I’m not the only idiot who finds him attractive.

Jennifer has been forced to terminate two female candidates for inappropriate behavior. Apparently they were upping the ante from exposure all the way to lewd acts trying to win his attention. Jennifer swears Mozey behaved in accordance with the rules, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s biased toward him—letting him get away with murder.

Either for his looks or his talent, Mozey has been gaining attention. A reporter for a prestigious magazine doing a piece on Chicano art in LA came to interview him. He’ll be in the magazine as well as featured in a spot for TV. A little part of me is jealous, and I feel like he’s escaping, like he no longer needs me. The little part I should probably refer to as “the selfish jerk.” I want him to succeed; I really, really do. I guess I also want him to crush back on me like I’m crushing on him. Or erase the all the years and the professional distance between us. I would love to actually hold him instead of holding onto invading sexual fantasies of him that are distracting me from my work.

Jennifer came to see me after his interview. She knocked timidly on my already open door and skirted in sideways like a nervous crab.

“Hey Jen, what’s up?”

“Oh I wanted to speak to you about the interview. Did you get a chance to look those street artists up?”

“Oh yes! I started to, but then I got sidetracked. I saw the pictures of the backpacks and hoodies. A lot of hoopla over some political art.”

“They’re pretty serious about their movement. A lot of their work is anti government and against the drug cartels. They have some felony charges, mainly for
where
they place their art. The Dibujeros are kind of a big deal.”

“Are you still thinking Moisés is a member?”

“I’m pretty sure he is. I mean I’ve all but confirmed with out directly asking him.”

“Let me ask you this, does it affect his candidacy?”

“Not if no one finds out. I thought maybe we could curtail the media. That way he can do his work under the radar.”

“I see what you’re saying. Then, yeah, let’s do it. I’m not concerned about art as activism. It’s not like we’re talking about drugs or violence.”

“I printed out some good articles about what they do and who they are. Read the “Portrait Project,” it’s really fantastic,” Jennifer scurries over and drops some literature on top of my desk.

“I appreciate you looking out for him, Jennifer. He’s obviously extremely talented and a special person.” I feel like a loser qualifying him with those words, but I really don’t know what else to say. Jennifer leaves my office with an apologetic smile and I go through the articles she’s left on my desk.

“The Portrait Project,” is in essence, the painting of many portraits in large scale and on conspicuous surfaces. The idea behind the endeavor is a powerful one—that it’s the killers face that stays with society at large, from the Columbine shootings to the movie theater massacre, it’s the perpetrators face we most often remember. The project attempts to immortalize the victims, by eulogizing them in their spray painted likeness, out in public for all to see. The magnitude of the project is mind-boggling as the artists are currently undertaking portraiture of those killed in the drug war on the Mexican-American border. Those numbers reach almost into the hundreds of thousands and that doesn’t even begin to count in the research of identifying the victims and finding pictures to paint from. My head starts to spin with the scope of the project.

Then I see him in the article. I can’t be sure, but somehow I am. The shot is taken from behind at an angle. Black pants, black sweatshirt, arm lifting the can. Something in the way he holds his shoulders, you can almost see the profile of his face. I stare with so much longing at the printed-out copy of a blurry, mediocre picture that I wonder if I’ve fallen into a trance. I like him even better because he does this. He’s an enigma and I’m obsessed.

On Friday morning, as I come down the hall that leads to my office, I find him standing outside the door with a large canvas wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. He’s wearing his standard uniform of jeans and a t-shirt. He’s got no hat on today, and his hair is up in a topknot while the sides are neatly shaved. A beautiful cut of jade stone hangs around his neck on a long leather chain.

“Do you make your own jewelry?” I ask as I dig in my purse to find the keys to the office.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and adjusts the brown package.

“How’d you get in so early?” I ask him, dreading the answer. I’m constantly afraid he’ll do something to get kicked out, that I’ll never see him again, and that he’ll make the wrong choices and end up heading back down the wrong path. It’s such a delicate balance trying to encourage these kids. I feel so strongly about Mozey, it ignites an emotional spark in my chest. I
do
want what’s best for him.

“I volunteered to put out the stock for art supplies. I got here at seven. Pedro and Amir let me in. I already finished restocking the creative spaces.”

I nod my head at him as I turn on the lights and hang up my jacket.

“You could wear the jade piece if you’d like it, Lana. It matches your eyes.”

I look at him and feel weak at his offer and his sincerity.

“What did you need to see me about?” He looks surprised because I don’t acknowledge his offer. There are a million papers on my desk to look at so there’s no need to make eye contact with him.

“I brought you a painting like I said I would. It’s a new one. I did this especially for you.”

I stand behind my desk and blankly stare at him. No one’s ever made me any art before. I’m so touched I can’t move. I can’t act normal. I can’t even breathe with him in here. It makes me want to cry that he’s made something with me in mind.

“Let’s see it,” I say, my face revealing nothing. I try to quickly reference how my parents reacted when I was a kid and my brother or I made them art. That would be the correct response here, to meet it with pride and approval. Not throw my arms around his neck and kiss him passionately like I want to.

He tears away the brown wrapping with emotion I can’t define as either anger or excitement. I hand him scissors, and he cuts the string and the paper falls away.

“It’s a—I don’t know how you call them in English. We call them Tunas like the fish, but it’s actually a fruit.”

I wonder who
we
is. Is Mozey an orphan, or is he part of a large Mexican family?

“Prickly Pear,” I say and the words feel sticky on my tongue. I’m fighting with all I am to hold the emotions at bay. There’s pressure in my face, from the weight of tears building, eager for release. “It’s beautiful,” I say and sniff to keep my nose from running.

“Yeah?” Mozey says, his face blossoming with light. “The skin is thick and is covered in cactus spikes. You have to be careful and wear special gloves when you pick them, but even then sometimes you get stuck and those things fucking hurt and make you seriously bleed.”

The painting is a cactus in the desert, the sky is heavy with impending rain. The plant is in full bloom offering multiple prickly pears. The pears range from green like the color of their mother ship to a shockingly bright pinky-purple like the one in the forefront. If I look closely they look as if they’re covered in long silver hairs that glint off of the sun. But those are the spikes—the ones that draw blood. It’s stunning and simple and already means so much to me.

“Is it done in spray paint?”

“Yeah. Almost always, sometimes I do detail in oil. But I’m most used to the can.”

“Are you sure you want me to have it?” No one has ever painted me a real painting before.

“Are you kidding? I made it for you.”

“Is it supposed to be me?” This is his idea of a metaphor for Doc Finch, his prickly pear social worker.

“What? Naw! It’s my favorite fruit. Look, I brought some for you to try,” he says, opening his backpack. He pulls out a plastic bag containing eight or so tunas.

He disappears into Janey’s office, and I hear him rummaging through the silverware that sits in a mug by the microwave and coffee filters.

He comes back into the room with a plastic knife, paper towels and a smile on his face. He chops off both ends of the fruit and tosses them in the garbage. Then he presses the knife in to make one long cut along the side. The skin is indeed thick and the juice runs down his hand. He brings his hand up and licks the drip from his wrist.
Is it just me or is Mozey always licking things?

He unwraps the skin from the fruit, which is an almost transparent green. He hands it to me, and it’s wet, cold and dripping everywhere.

“Just take a bite?”

“Actually, no. You can bite it but you can’t bite down all the way. Here, let me show you.”

He grabs the fruit back and takes a large bite, but he doesn’t really chew it, he sort of maws it around in his beautiful, wide mouth. His lips are wet with the juice. It’s almost too much to take.

“You can’t close your teeth because it’s full of rocks. Then you just have to swallow it all to taste the sweet part.”

Bullshit, he’s not speaking in metaphors. Thick skin covered in spikes. Put up with the rocks to taste the sweet part. Guess what, fuckface, I’ve taken a literature class.

He offers it to me, his lips glistening with the sweet juice, expecting me to bite from the fruit he’s already eaten.
And God, how I want to. I’d love to taste it directly from his lips.

But this isn’t appropriate behavior from the director of the program. Truth be told, I shouldn’t even be in the room alone with him, let alone accepting personal gifts while daydreaming about kissing him.

“Can you leave one here? I just brushed my teeth. I don’t really want to eat fruit with my coffee.”

His face falls with my rejection, and I feel like a monster. I know how much bruised kids seek approval, but it’s just not safe for me to be the one to give it to him.

He crushes the fruit that was between us into the paper towels and tosses it into the garbage. He shrugs his shoulders and leans the canvas up against my barren wall.

“Amir said he’d come by after sign-in to hang it. I’d do it for you but participants aren’t allowed to use the drill.”

With that he walks out of my office.

I grab the fruit and study it in my palm. I run the tip of my finger over its smooth skin. I feel a painful prick and jump a little at the shock of it. A lone drop of blood balloons on my fingertip, and I watch it move from a pinpoint to droplet before I pop it in my mouth and suck it.

I slice the ends off of the tuna and split the skin down the side like he did. I peel it off by pressing my thumb under the thick flesh and it falls away easily. I bring the fruit to my mouth and bite with out closing my teeth. The fruit is so juicy that it drips down my face. I move it around on my tongue and savor the bright, and sweet, cucumber-fresh taste.

After lunch, Amir hangs the painting while everyone crowds around my desk in admiration and comments on his talent. I’m miffed that every time I look at the beautiful piece it will remind me of how Mozey sees me. I know I’m hard to reach.

But I tasted the damn fruit. It was delicious. It was well worth the pain it took to uncover it.