Chapter Three
The setting sun was in its period of rapid descent. The bottom edge of the sphere was just touching the horizon as I crossed the slow-moving brown waters of the Hackensack River. Somewhere along the road, the confidence inspired by the midday sun had given way to the reality that soon it would be night. I had no shelter from the elements, no protection from my fellow humans and a strongly held belief that blowing money for some motel room on the very first night of my adventure would have been a sure sign of weakness.
To the north, there was a pleasing bend in the river where trees and lush greenery grew on both banks up to the water’s edge. Was there a hollow tree or even a small cave of some kind that might offer the shelter I now instinctively sought? To the south, after flowing beneath a low railroad bridge, the river cut between the old industrial buildings that lined its banks. These human-made structures might be more appropriate for my needs but they were likely locked or guarded by vicious dogs. I wondered to where the river flowed but was too tired to pull out the atlas. Maybe the city of Hackensack would unexpectedly offer me some kind of solution. If not, I decided, I’d come back and try to get into one of those buildings.
Hackensack was different from the other places I’d encountered since setting foot upon the mainland. I felt more at ease in this seemingly working class city that had its healthy share of immigrants. The chain stores did not find it worth their while to set up shop here, so Main Street had a mix of independent stores, ethnic shops and ethnic restaurants including, to my delight, an Indian restaurant. I needed food. How foolish to have continued my fast on a day when I had walked further than I’d ever walked in my life. This was a time to live.
The scent of blended spices entering my body like some spiritual anodyne, I stood outside Bombay Dreams and studied the menu. Chana Saag scooped up with flaky pieces of Paratha would be a delight. But first, a bowl of Mulligatawny Soup would bring me back to life. I could feel my insides moving at the thought of it. Then I began to do the math. Eating what I wanted, even eating only an entrée, would cost far more than a person in my position should spend. How accustomed I’d become to these bourgeois comforts. Like so many others in America, I would now live in poverty. I had to change my habits, though I was determined to do so without resorting to the inexpensive fast food option. I had to demonstrate to my fellow poor Americans that there was another culinary path that might be followed. Fully conscious of the fact that the extremity of my sorrow was irrational, I turned away from the restaurant’s menu and walked away.
There was no time to mess around. Gradually I’d come to acknowledge that I was feeling a bit dizzy. A pizzeria glowed a warm red in the twilight. Pizza offered me the possibility of both hot food and economy, so I decided to go inside. The place was just what I needed. The red vinyl booths looked cozy and inviting. Mercifully, they’d never bothered installing harsh fluorescent lighting. Most of the light inside seemed to come from the neon signs in the window, the pinball machine and the old jukebox. They even had one of those games where one used a joystick to control a claw within a Plexiglas case in an attempt to grip and win some impossibly heavy and ungraspable crappy toy or stuffed animal. The wood paneled walls were decorated with a few plaques and photos of local sports teams the pizzeria had sponsored. Most of them were from the 1970’s. Walking into such a place was like returning to the womb.
Before eating, I thought I should have a look at my toe in the bathroom. It wasn’t hurting too badly. Maybe the problem had somehow taken care of itself. The bathroom unfortunately did have fluorescent lighting, all the better to see the horror inside my shoe. The sight nearly killed my appetite. The edge of the toe had swollen like a shiny little red balloon over the toenail. Gently, I pressed it with a piece of brown paper towel, and an unnatural looking combination of blood, thick pus and a clear, yellow-tinted liquid oozed from the trouble spot. Festering, gangrenous fantasies filled my head. I held my foot awkwardly over the filthy sink and ran some hot water on it. Could I kill the infection this way, or was it too late? I had no idea. Wrapping my toe in a piece of paper towel, I put my shoe back on and told myself that I’d have to decide what to do by the time I finished eating.
Under the circumstances, there was no way to enjoy the pizza. How difficult would it be to walk if my toe were amputated? My body always turned on me. What a burden it was. In my moment of extremism on the George Washington Bridge, I had dropped my insurance card into the Hudson along with my credit cards in a rejection of America’s health-for-profit system. Maybe Hackensack had some kind of free health clinic. Did such things even exist? I wasn’t sure. I doubted it.
Missing my cell phone, I looked around for a pay phone. The old green and black box was near the bathroom. Surprised by what I was doing, I slid out of the booth and asked the pizza man for four quarters for my dollar bill. He expressed his contempt by never once looking directly at me and tossing the quarters down on the counter. I had to catch one as it rolled off the edge.
I first called information, not knowing the name of the town she lived in but with a vague sense that it was somewhere in the area. There were three listings for Tamara Charles. I took them all. The first I tried just rang and rang. It was one of the loneliest sounds I’d ever heard. The second number rang only once before someone picked up. It was she.
“Tamara?”
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Jean!” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Jean?” she said as if she knew no one by that name.
My heart pounded. I wanted to hang up. This was a joke.
“Oh, Jean!” she said.
“From work.”
“I’m sorry, banna! I thought it was this Haitian brother I knew once!” She giggled her little girl giggle.
When I told her that I was in Hackensack, she acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. All I wanted, I said, was to see if she knew where I could get my toe examined without my insurance card. Immediately, without asking for an explanation of what the hell I was doing in Hackensack, she offered to come pick me up. The foot doctor where she went for her corns was open late, and she was sure she could sweet talk the receptionist. She’d be at the pizza place in twenty minutes. My toe would be saved.
Although she had emigrated from Guyana more than twenty years before, Tamara’s voice still had a pleasing lilting quality. It was just what I needed to hear right then. To my surprise, I found myself looking forward to her company. Finishing my second slice was a pleasure. It was strange for me not to be dreading an impending social interaction. Some survival instinct was forcing me to rise to the occasion. I still didn’t know where I’d sleep that night, but everything was just going to work out, I sensed. Although I was rarely that person myself, I’d long believed that those who simply don’t worry too much almost always ended up fine.
A young Latino boy was begging his parents for fifty cents to play the game where you try to win a toy by properly positioning the claw. They weren’t going for it. Both of them looked broken and depressed. Something bad must have happened to them that day. Perhaps they’d finally come to the realization that life in America was not at all like the myth that must have brought them here. It was likely they were both working every day to the point of absolute exhaustion and were still finding it nearly impossible to lift their small family out of poverty. Working hard was not enough, they’d probably learned. The system depended upon people like them but never lost an opportunity to remind them that they were replaceable.
The boy had given up on his parents. He just stood silently with his hands pressed against the Plexiglas, staring at the treasures within. This game was like America. The material rewards seemed so close. There was an illusion of control, but the joystick and the red button on top of it were really just props. The only consolation was that most of the prizes were crap.
This was an ideal opportunity to impart this bit of wisdom to a young boy before he’d been brainwashed by the clichés and false promises of the public school system and the advertising industry. I had two quarters left. I stood and approached the boy, feeling as if I were the hero of a film.
“Young man,” I said, taking the two quarters from my pocket.
He looked up at me as if I had pulled out a knife. With patience, I thought, I will be able to shatter the imaginary wall that has been erected between our classes, our cultures and our generations.
“You and I are equals,” I said to him. “But I believe I am in possession of some knowledge that might be of use to you.”
I held up the two quarters as if offering him communion.
“You have demanded this money. You believe in your heart that you are entitled to it. In a nation as wealthy as this one, such stubbornness will probably be enough to get you a share of that wealth. On this day, at least, that is true.”
His eyes said that he’d heard about people like me. Surely, I thought, no one had ever spoken to him as a cognizant being before. I dropped the two coins into the slot myself, and the claw within the case jerked to life.
“Play the game,” I said, “but be sure to learn from it, as well.”
The boy’s face contorted like a demon’s before my eyes.
“Noooo!” The fear-fueled scream came from deep within him.
The boy’s parents were immediately by his side. The woman pulled the boy against her, pressing his face to her stomach as if to keep him from witnessing some horrible sight. The man held his shaking finger up close to my face.
“Pervert!” he said just under his breath, jabbing his finger at me as the word shot out of him. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” He spoke English with no accent.
The woman dragged the weeping boy out of the pizzeria. The man grabbed their belongings and hurried after them, giving me one last glare. My heart was pounding hard. I felt guilty, for some reason.
Avoiding the critical gaze of my fellow diners, I grasped the joystick and moved the claw around within the case. From the other side, someone was watching through the glass. I felt pressured to succeed. Deciding to go for it, I carefully positioned the claw over a GI Joe doll, clearly the most valuable item in the case. It wasn’t quite right. I adjusted the position of the claw a fraction of an inch and then hit the red button. The claw dropped and opened wide. The positioning was perfect. The claw closed around GI Joe’s box and then paused for a dramatic moment before beginning its ascent. For that moment, I had hope. Then the claw dragged up the side of the box. The box hadn’t even budged when the prongs came together and rose into the air, empty.
The physical sensation of defeat washed over me. I leaned against the case and played with the suddenly powerless joystick.
“Don’t feel bad,” a girl’s voice said to me.
She was standing right next to me, but I’d not noticed her until she spoke. She must have been the one who was watching me. The girl was barely half my size and likely not out of her teens. But she exuded some kind of wisdom or worldly experience that immediately got my heart pounding for reasons I couldn’t quite understand. Maybe she just had a lot of confidence. Despite myself, I returned her smile, staring into her tremendous dark eyes. She rapped her fingers against the Plexiglas. Her fingernails were chewed down, with pink and red wounds in the flesh surrounding them.
“No one ever wins,” she said.
