Patty and I ran off the train and up the stairs of the PATH station. We found ourselves on 9th and headed to
Washington Square Park. It was
late but not graveyard late; about eleven or so. There weren't many people around for a Saturday. I guessed
they were all still inside doing whatever it is they do on date night. The dealers were out in force, though -
having a smoke against a tree, checking their watches for when the cruiser
drives by, quietly hiding where the street lamps don't shine.
“There he is! That’s Davon.” Patty's gait changed. Her long legs went from slow strides to
longer, quicker bursts - back to her track days, kicking towards the
finish. Leaning on a bench, across
from the NYU library, was a man in a mid-thigh trench. It was just before Thanksgiving so I
didn’t think the coat was out of place.
Still, warning signals went off, conjuring images of a sawed off forty
gauge hidden in the lining. I
hesitated briefly but, whether it was due to concern for Patty's safety or a
surge of my own excitement, a broad smile came across my face. I ran after her. He stood tall as we approached.
“Wassup? I thought it was you, Red.” He caught her as she pulled up,
almost fell crashing into him, the heels of her boots clicking loudly in time
to her breathy laughter.
“Not so loud,” Davon added, glancing
around.
He brushed Patty's hair out of her
eyes. They stood arm-in-arm before
embracing. Either she’d bought
from him several times before or their relationship was more than supply and
demand. Davon asked who I
was.
“My boyfriend,” she said. He responded by letting her go, looked
me up and down. I decided that
he’d been definitely more than just her dealer. After a moment of sizing each other up, Patty jumped in and
kissed us both on the cheek.
“Okay,” she said, still panting. “Now that we're all acquainted, can we
do this? My buzz is starting to
fade.”
“Babe, are you sure about this?" Patty turned to me with frustration and
embarrassment on her face. I could
hear her smoky, sexy voice telling me off in my head. Don't embarrass me.
Stop being a boy scout.
Lighten up. Can't we just
have some fun for once? “Righteous type, huh?” Davon kept his eyes trained on me.
“A little bit, maybe.” She smiled, put her hand on his
chest. Winked at me. “He's cool, D.” His chest rose and dropped as he
contemplated my trustworthiness.
“All right. Just watch the
names. Dunno who’s around.” Davon put his hands into his coat
pockets. The sirens in my head
went off again. Dime bag or firearm?
My right foot slid back and my knees bent slightly. My center of gravity
lowered. With my body ready, my
breathing automatically slowed and my eyes narrowed.
“How much?” Davon raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.
“Couple ounces? Just enough for some fun.” Patty had a suggestive
grin on her
face. She turned to me, eyebrows
raised. I didn't respond. Davon opened his coat and reached
inside. I readied myself to
pounce. When he didn't whip out anything dangerous I lowered my
defenses. Just. He produced a small plastic bag of weed, about the
size of a
credit card, and handed it to Patty. “Pay him,” she said. I hesitated and took a couple of deep
breaths. Uneasy thoughts of
disgracing my master and my school and fears of getting arrested or worse - killed
- came to the fore. Was I really
doing this?
“Well, come on man. You buyin' or not?” Davon looked around. “All this standin' around is gonna turn
customers away.”
Patty gave me a stern look of
encouragement.
“What's the deal? Your boy in or out? This some kinda set up or
somethin'?” He turned to Patty,
his chest inflated, scowling.
“What the fuck, bitch?”
“Davon, calm down.”
“Shut the fuck up! Stop sayin' my name.”
“It's cool. I promise.” Patty implored me with a stern
look. “Give him the money.”
“Really, it's cool. It's my first time. That's all.” I spoke softly, trying to reassure him as I reached for my
wallet.
Without fanfare, two masked men
appeared out of the shadows. They
carried handguns, pointed straight at us.
A Cadillac with tinted windows screeched to a halt at the curb. The windows came down and the barrels
of two shotguns peeked out. The
loud rumble of gunfire erupted to a deafening pitch. Patty screamed.
In seconds it was over. I
was looking up at branches and street lamps, dorm buildings and grey clouds
when I heard doors slamming shut and tires wailing on the blacktop. The sour aroma of burnt rubber drowned
my senses in their hurried getaway.
*********
Patty? How's Patty?
When I came to, I was on a gurney being lifted into an ambulance. My
side ached. Breathing was difficult, painful. A numbing IV stuck out
my arm. I heard muffled voices. It was a hit. A drive by. Drugs or turf? Who knows? Probably both. From what else I could make out, Davon was
alive but wounded. Patty was
dead.
I wanted to scream, get up and find her
but I didn't budge. Letting pain
and sadness take over me, I pounded on my wound wishing I would die as
well.
One of the paramedics yelled, “Holy shit!”
They held me down and stabbed me with another
needle. I gritted my teeth and
squeezed my eyes shut. No tears
came out but I screamed a silent vow.
*********
I walked into the Tae Kwon Do school
ready to resume my training. A
class was in progress. It had been
weeks since that night. I was
still sore from the bullet wound.
“Hana, Duhl, Seht, Neht! Hana, Duhl, Seht, Neht!” The instructor was yelling out numbers in Korean, keeping everyone in
cadence as he kicked with them.
Without breaking his rhythm, he nodded and waved. I nodded back. Pressed my lips.
I made my way round to the reception
area, where I fingered through a stack of cards with black tape at their
corners. I placed mine in the same
metallic green box, at the middle of the short brown table, that I had put it
in everyday I came to class for the last twenty years. My master’s office door was
closed. There was a click. A rush
of adrenaline surged through me.
“You back.” His voice was deep and had a distinct Korean accent. At the
end of the 'you' there was a slight 'ah” sound that followed. It was something he did, in spite of
his more than thirty years of America living, with the first word of every
sentence. Its familiarity embraced
me, comforted me. Brought me back
to my first class: to when I was sixteen and a white belt.
I turned and bowed. “Hello, sir.”
“You okay for training?” He asked pointing to my side. “You don’t need come back if you not
ready.”
“I'm okay, Sir.”
He walked closer and put his hand on
my shoulder. He moved his hand
from my shoulder to the side of my face and took a deep breath. It was fatherly. He patted my cheek
lightly.
“How are you?”
“Okay, Sir. Really,” I said.
“No, no. Not you body.”
His brow crumpled. He waited for a sign that I understood. I nodded. “How are you?” “I'm fine, Sir.” I exhaled. “I can't stay home and sit around anymore.” That night's
reel played in my head. Fragmented
images of Patty and Davon and of Washington Square Park flashed through my
mind.
“Sir, I'd better get changed.”
He nodded and made his way for the
training room. As he walked off, I
discovered that in the weeks I had been away he’d become old. His glide was gone, traded in for a sad
but oddly befitting amble.
Watching him go, a thought infected me that I never imagined would or
could. It was his fault that Patty
was dead. He hadn’t trained me
well enough. And he's going to
have to pay for it. The thought
whispered at me in a haunting echo.
I knew I had to fight it - throw it out - but something inside prevented
me from doing so. When I turned
into the corridor and passed the ladies' changing room I stopped. I spun back then around again so I
was facing the men's changing room door.
Handwritten, in red and black ink, “PRIVATE” floated over “MEN'S
ROOM.” I did another three
sixty. For a second I was lost and
didn't know where I was. Or where
I was going. A kihap came from the training room. It brought me back. I walked forward, slowly opened the
door and went in to change into my uniform. I dropped my bag and, head in hands, broke down
and cried.
