“Descent”
June 1996:
The man was sitting in the corner of the kitchen on an antique mahogany chair, smoking a cigarette. He’d been thinking about his job, and the boss, Bill, who always said he was a hard worker, slow maybe, but good with a roller and even better at cutting under foundations and around windows with a small brush.
Shaped like a half-moon, the ceiling light glowed dimly in the late-afternoon sunlight that beamed through the kitchen. As he reached for the vintage black rotary phone mounted on the wall, the ashes from his cigarette fluttered in the air and onto the yellow linoleum beneath his feet.
He listened to the dial tone. “Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try the call again,” eventually came on.
He hung up, picked up the phone again, and dialed the number. It rang and rang.
Finally, a voice on the other end said, “Hello.” “Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth with Money in My Hand” by Primitive Radio Gods played in the background.
“Nicky? Where are you?”
“Home,” the boy said.
“Do me a favor please and go see what your father is doing.”
“He’s away on business, Uncle Rob.”
At the nearby stove, the man set down a small pot, halfway filled with water. Then he put on the burner. “He still selling fake promises? I’m supposta’ talk to your mom. Where is she?”
The boy said to wait and then when he returned, the man said, “I know, you got a girlfriend, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Bring her here so I can meet her.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Your brother — ” The man word’s suddenly softened. “What’s your brother, twenty-five now?”
“Chris? He’s twenty-two.”
“I remember how big he used to be. He still playing football?”
“He only played for a season. In high school.”
“One season? How come?”
“Dad made him stop. He was worried about Chris getting injured. You know how he is.”
“Uncle Rob, I hafta go. Sorry, I’m meeting my friend soon.”
“Did I tell you I ran into Tim Nelson the other day? He always said you reminded him of me. Remember when he came to your party with your fat Aunt Carol? And she fell in the pool.”
“She just missed a line drive to the face.”
“You hit it hard.”
“I was in the field.”
“I think you hit it.”
“That was our neighbor Dominic. The kid who used to wear orange sweatpants.”
“You know,” the man said, “those kids down at Hitchings Field got great swings, just like you. Why don’t you come by tomorrow— ”
“Don’t think I can,” Uncle Rob.
“Why not?”
“I’m supposed to do the lawn on Saturdays.”
“What do they have you doing the lawn for?”
“It’s part of my chores.”
“Get out of here with chores. You can take the bus to Chestnut Street.”
“I know where I can take it, Uncle Rob.”
The man held the phone away for a moment like it was contagious. “Nicky,” he said, pressing the receiver close to his lips now, “when I was on the high school varsity team, I played center field. I had a glove that could stick any ball in my direction. But my batting was another story. I used to take these big, giant swings but would never go yard. Always just grounded out or popped out, mostly. When I stopped trying to hit a home run, though, and just focused on putting a good swing on the ball, that’s when I started to hit bombs. Just a good swing — ”
The call got disconnected. The man called back and, with his free hand, wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Hello?” the boy repeated.
Adjusting the phone cord now, the man said, “Can you come after eleven tomorrow? We’ll go to Gino’s for lunch afterward.”
“I’ll ask my mother,” the boy said.
“Nicky, you know, you were always my favorite.”
“I know, Uncle Rob. Hope to see you tomorrow, OK?”
“Good,” the man said. “Good,” and they hung up.
Unfazed by the stench that treaded the stale air, the man walked into the bathroom. His mouth agape, he looked in the mirror.
The beard on his face had grown thicker, extending high up on his cheekbones. A broad, biblical-like stature, his physical presence dominated a contrasting life led of aimlessness and misgivings about women.
On his way over to the refrigerator, barefoot, he stepped on the cigarette that fell from his hand, like it was part of the floor.
In a sudden moment, he got down on his knees and, hand outstretched, started drumming his right palm off the floor, which mimicked the sound made when she hurried down the stairs and left him for good.
The following day, after taking the bus to the Chestnut Street stop, the boy walked three-quarters of a mile to Hitchings Field. He arrived a few minutes before one o’clock.
At the far end of the field, he took off his backpack and laid it carefully on the ground near a bench. Then he sat down and waited. Unlike a typical teenager, he always showed up early.
Outside, on the back porch, the boy’s uncle wondered about the new one. She used, too. And when turning tricks, she didn’t have to steal from him. He saw her no more than one sees a friend at the tail end of a friendship. The rolled-up brown paper bag had been perched on a shelf in the linen closet. Removing its contents, the man told himself that it would be his last.
His mouth, slightly drawn while securing the rubber band around his arm, accentuated the hint of purple in his lips; dark, impressionable lines overwhelmed the areas around his eyes.
In a few seconds, he would enter his element. Nothing could ever feel this good.
He injected the syringe into his arm. Sitting, with his back up against the porch railing, he began to nod out.
Within seconds, the man went unconscious for the final time, his body hitting the ground.