American Skin

Steve-O.

Tommy’s term of affection for me.

An old joke, combining Hawaii Five — O and care. After the army, we moved back to Galway, I tried teaching but couldn’t hack the normality. It was to Tommy, on one of those endless winter evenings, when it’s raining, cold, dark, fucking primeval, I proposed,

“Let’s go to America.”

In jig time, we were in New York. I got on the building site straightaway but Tommy joined Kinney’s, the cleaning contractors, and ended up scraping chewing gum from the floor of Radio City, — he couldn’t believe such a job existed and it nearly killed him, he said,

“You cannot imagine how difficult it is to get that shit off a carpet, and man, the places they stick it.”

So I put in the word and he got to join me at the site. We’d a year of wild and wildest abandon.

The cab stopped and the driver intoned,

“Dino’s, that like new?”

“You’re asking me?”

He was already on a different track, fiddling with the radio, heard the sports, hit the dash, shouted,

“Goddamn Jets choked.”

I paid the freight and laid a five on top, then on impulse, added the nun’s Padre Pio, he said,

“Caramba, He is the man.”

Then, as he placed the relic beside yhe Virgin, added,

“Watch your ass.”

He was already firing up another menthol as he burned rubber outta there. The Madonna had her work cut out, is how I figured it. I took a moment on the sidewalk, what we call footpaths. Get my face in gear. Truth was, Juan was an arsehole but Tommy rated him, so, so I’d gone along. They had dope in common. I never quite figured if Juan was Mexican, Puerto Rican but he affected characteristics of each and was big on the macho bullshit.

I opened the door of the place and stepped in. A bar ran along one wall and then ten to fifteen tables scattered around. Right down at the end was Juan and not alone, a blond woman beside him. He raised his arm

“Stephan, amigo, hombre.”

His lean on my name was a pain but I let it slide, walked to greet him, already regretting I’d made the call. He moved, threw his arms round me, intense hug, going,

“Muy bueno, muchacho.”

I think.

Some Spanish shit anyway. Over his shoulder, my eyes locked with the woman. And wallop, my heart did a jig, as fast and unexpected as that. A very pretty face, like Virginia Madsen in her early twenties. It was the look in her eyes that snared me, consisting of... amusement, heat, smirk.

As if she’d known me and knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking I’d sell my soul to have her, Jesus. It came totally out of left field, I loved Siobhan with every fibre of my being, she was the love that passes all understanding. I just couldn’t imagine life without her. This heat, this... I hate to admit it, this pure lust was something I’d never experienced. And didn’t want.

Juan finally released me, stood back, said

“Hombre, you look good.”

He was wearing a loose shirt, bright red over white combat pants, boots, very worn, very scruffed. The stacked heels brought him to my chin. His skin was sallow and he had a soft face, almost feminine till you saw the eyes, something lurked there, cautioned you to move with extreme care. When he hugged me, at the base of his spine I felt the outline of the gun. Weapons were always a feature with him. I guessed him to be my age, a year off forty, yet when he smiled, which was often, he could pass for early twenties. The smile had never been connected to warmth, he extended his hand, went,

“Amigo, meet my ol’ lady, Sherry. Babe, get your ass up, meet my soul bro.”

Dolly Parton memorably said,

“You know how much it costs to look this cheap?”

Sherry had the same idea. About five feet five and all of it trouble. Wearing a tight black halter neck that barely contained her breasts, it didn’t so much cling as hang on for dear life and who wouldn’t? A short black skirt of some shiny material that I swear glistened. Sheer black nylons that couldn’t be hose, too goddamm sexy and the “come get me” heels. My breath was caught in my chest, Juan said,

“Go woman, give him a big one.”

Yeah.

There was a mocking tone in his voice, he knew the effect. She leaned over, kissed me on both cheeks, the aroma of her perfume was dizzying. Beneath it, something else, raw sexuality. She whispered,

“Poison.”

Then moved back, gave me that smile, said,

“The perfume.”

Juan clapped me on the back, said,

“I’ll get us some drinks, yes?”

He moved along to a swarthy guy in an Armani suit and they began an intense conversation. I sat opposite Sherry, she had a pack of Virginia Slims, slid one out, put it in her mouth, waited. I picked up a book of matches, struck one, leaned over, a slight tremor in my fingers, she cupped my hand, said,

“Easy.”

Caution or encouragement?

She blew a perfect ring, watched it curl above us, like an omen of very bad karma. Her accent had hooked me, it was trailer trash with a hint of hillbilly and a hard nasal underlay to edge it along. I asked, like I gave a toss,

“Isn’t it illegal to smoke here?”

Now she let her whole face smile, from her eyes to her even small perfect teeth, said,

“If it’s fun, it’s illegal, yeah?”

Argue that.

I said,

“You’re not a New Yorker.”

The question irritated her, saw it wipe the smile from her eyes, as if she expected more, better, she said,

“Yo, bud, newsflash: Ain’t nobody from New York, I’m from Tallahassee.”

She lingered on the name, drawing it out then rising on the last syllable, I said,

“Like the song?”

Blank look, then,

“Song?”

“Sure. Bobby Gentry, Billy Joe McAllister jumped off that bridge.”

Didn’t register, she indicated her empty glass, said,

“We drinking, or what?”

I looked round and Juan had disappeared, she said,

“He’s got a jones.”

My turn to blank, so she sighed, made the gesture of a needle into a vein. I noticed her nails, black polish. Should have been ugly but worked. ’Course, I was already sold and would have appreciated any shade. Juan had always been into dope, him and Tommy, bags of grass, moving up or down to coke. I was riveted by her eyes, flecks of green in there, I asked,

“How serious is his habit?”

More derision, as if she couldn’t quite get how dumb I was, dissed,

“You’re shooting up, how the fuck serious does it get?”

The obscenity hung in the air, like a bad news flash, to ease it, I stood, asked,

“Wine, right?”

She nodded, stared at me, said,

“Nice buns.”

Threw me, I countered,

“The Girl with Green Eyes.”

Blank again so I explained,

“It’s a novel, by an Irish writer, Edna O’Brien, she...”

Her hand was up, said,

“Like the wine? Before Tuesday.”

An Italian guy at the till, I asked,

“Bottle of wine.”

He looked past me, at Sherry, said,

“Bottles.”

Handed me two, another glass and I headed back, I’d been tempted to ask if he’d seen Juan but if he’d gone,

“Juan who?”

I’d have decked him. Jet lag, new city, Juan, had combined to make my headache start up again. When I sat down, it must showed as Sherry asked,

“You hurting?”

The “hurting” made it sound like a country song, I said, “The miles catching up.”

She held my gaze, then,

“Got some ludes, fix you right up.”

I poured the wine, said,

“I’m not real gone on dope.”

She took her glass, said,

“Juan said you were a tight ass.”

Showstopper.

Then I felt her toes touch my left thigh, a light caress then withdrew, said, “Juan catches you messing with me, he’ll put a cap in your skull.”

“What?”

“We’re married, yeah, so you know what you’re getting into big guy.”

She was insane, no doubt about it, she was your out-and-out lunatic. I figured I’d give it five minutes, then get the hell out of there. I’d fulfilled my obligation to Tommy, met Juan and that was it, deal done.

Juan returned, an energy burning off him, you could almost reach out and touch it, a manic fire. He said,

“More vino, bueno.”

Whatever his origins, Juan dived in and out of accents like a demented seal. When he was high, which was most of the time, he’d spin from Spanish to English to Pidgin at a blistering pace. My headache moved up a notch. I poured him a glass and he said,

“To Tommy, mi amigo.”

We clinked glasses and he drained his. Dopers, they’re cruising on some junk, they’ll take whatever else is to hand, especially your cash. Tommy telling me one time, you go a cokehead’s apartment, the first thing you see is tons of dry cleaning, all on hangers, in cellophane, ready to rock. No waiting. Juan asked,

“Qué passé Stephan, where is Thomas?”

I looked at them, two hyped strangers, my head pounding, said,

“He’s dead.”

Sherry was filing her nails and for a moment, Juan sat absolutely still then grabbed my wrist, demanded,

“What is this... this sheet?”

I stared at his fingers, the nails bitten to the quick, said,

“You want to let go of my wrist... amigo?.”

He released it, sat back and I said,

“He didn’t suffer.”

What a crock that is, as if it gives some sort of closure. A bleakness filled Juan’s face then his eyes were hardass, asked,

“How?”

“An accident.”

He began flexing his fingers, cracking the joints, Sherry said,

“Yo, guys, lighten up.”

Without looking at her, he said,

“Shut up, bitch.”

Then to me,

“You are his friend, you watch his back, how can he muerto, dead?”

I could do hardass, welcomed it; he pushed, I’d push back, said,

“Shit happens.”

Just like that, he let it go, shrugged, made the sign of the cross, asked,

“Tell me your plans, amigo?.”

Had fully intended laying out my Tucson project, meeting him now, I way backtracked, lied,

“Thought I’d hang out, you know, like chill.”

Before he could respond, his cell trilled, he flipped it open with such casualness, I knew he’d practiced it a hundred times in the mirror, went,

“Diga me.”

Listened, then followed with a volley of spitfire Spanish, chewing the words in a flurry of facial grimaces I could only half understand. Went like this:

“Dinero, mucho dinero, trabajo, carambe, muy bueno.”

And a litany of obscenities. Slammed the phone on the table, shouting,

“Maricón.”

His eyes were crazed and he jumped to his feet, said,

“Amigo, gotta vamoose, some business to fix.”

He pronounced it bidness. I said,

“No problem.”

He indicated Sherry, not looking at her, asked,

“Can you see my woman gets home, maybe catch a cab?”

And he rooted in his skin tight-jeans, spilled a mess of bills on the table, said,

“We hook up mañana, have us a time.”

He was reaching out to make that black gesture, knuckles touching, then palms over and more cool shit, I ignored it, said,

“You bet.”

We all looked at his palm dangling in mid air then he recovered, leaned over to Sherry, got his tongue half way down her throat. Took a time as he made slavering noises, as if he were eating her, then withdrew, made a gun of his finger, cocked the thumb, said,

“See you, slick.”

After he’d gone, I said,

“Bidness?”

She was applying lipstick, a shiny pale gloss, said,

“Thinks he’s a player, grew up in the goddamn Bronx.”

“And is he... a player?”

She adjusted her skirt, not that there was a whole lot to fix, but gave us both the opportunity to stare at her legs, then she said,

“He’s a goddamn prick is what he is.”

No argument there.