Page 4 of Assassin Anonymous
“Okay, Scrooge, I’ll be making almond cookies for my son and his kids on Christmas Eve if you want to stop by.” She raises an eyebrow. “I could use a strong set of hands.”
“Doesn’t matter how many times you hit on me, I’m not going to sleep with you.”
She laughs and reaches up to smack me on the chest. “Like you would be so lucky. Thanks for taking the trash, Mark.”
“See you tomorrow, darling,” I tell her, heading for the stairs. “And stop sneaking food to my cat.”
She calls after me: “Stop starving him.”
I hit the street and drop the trash in the bins, then point myself toward the Lower East Side. Normally I would walk but at this point it’s probably better to take the F, so I hustle over to West Fourth, then run down the stairs and manage to jump on a car as the doors are closing.
And of course, there’s Smiley.
Smiley is a regular in this neighborhood. Not always the F, I’ve seen him on the A and the 1, too. He may live around here, or else it’s just his hunting ground. As per usual he’s swaying out of time with the rocking of the subway car, clutching a half-empty bottle of Hennessy, oozing with mid-twenties bravado. His unkempt hair is greasy, and then there are those ever-present scars on his face. One across each cheek, lending him the appearance of a grotesque smile.
My tack has always been to ignore him. Most people causing a stir on the subway are homeless or mentally ill, and I have sympathy for them; the city spends billions on the NYPD, which doesn’t do much more than corral, harass, or beat them. And it gets that money by gutting the homeless and mental wellness agencies that could actually help them.
By and large, they’re more a danger to themselves. If you ignore them, they leave you alone, and you can always get on the next car or wait for the next train.
But that’s easy for me to say.
Right now he’s talking at a pretty young brunette in expensive leather boots and a white bubble jacket. She is not picking up what he’s putting down. Rather, her body is curled in on itself, like she’s trying to make herself disappear. Fear permeates the car, people looking away, like maybe if they don’t see it they don’t have to feel guilty.
I sit in the empty seat next to her, but I look up at Smiley. “Hey, bud. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”
The record in his head scratches. Then he says, “The hell are you talking about, bro?”
“Where’s the best place to buy groceries around here? I go to Dags, but they’re a little pricey.”
“We’re having a conversation,” he says, taking a swig from the Hennessy bottle, then staring at it in shock when he realizes it’s empty.
“Didn’t look like much of a conversation to me, but I saw how keen you were to chat, so I figured I would hop in. What’s the last good movie you saw?”
The barrage of questions does exactly what it’s meant to do—it confuses him and annoys him, but it’s not aggressive enough to make him angry.
The doors open at Broadway-Lafayette and I give the woman a little nudge. She waits a second and dives off the train. As she’s doing that, I get up, too, putting myself between Smiley and the door so he can’t follow.
The doors close and he pushes me. Not hard, but I move with it to create a little distance between us, so I can watch his hands. Guy who gets his face slashed like that probably carries a blade of his own to assuage the memory. It’s a safe assumption to make—I don’t lose anything by being wrong, but I gain a lot if I’m right.
Such as: not being stabbed.
“You know who I am?” he asks.
“I don’t,” I tell him. “My name is Mark. What’s your favorite color?”
“Red,” he says. “As in, what I’m gonna see in a second if you don’t back down.”
“You’re right, we don’t want that,” I tell him, struggling with all my might to hold at bay the shit-eating smirk that’s begging to crawl across my lips.
He goes for another drag on the bottle—still empty—considering his options. The train slows as it pulls into Second Avenue. I’m starting to wonder if this was a mistake. I don’t regret drawing his attention to me, but I could have played a softer hand. As the doors slide open, he mutters, “Asshole,” and stalks off.
Once the doors are safely closed, a few people clap. I give a little nod to the crowd, pleased at myself for keeping my cool, a little annoyed that no one stepped in before me. But most of all, wrestling into submission that toxically masculine urge that made me want to follow Smiley off and ask him: You know who I am?
—
Snowflakes whisper against the diner window. Not enough to stick, but enough to count as the first proper snowfall of the season. On the other side of Delancey, visible through a steady stream of traffic, is a small barren tree strung up with colorful twinkle lights. It looks sad, out there all alone like that, struggling to cast light in a dark and indifferent city, but that could just be a reflection.
Kenji brings my attention back to the countertop by tapping my notebook, which I helpfully took out and, unhelpfully, didn’t bother to open. His long gray hair is pulled back into a topknot, and, as always, he has a bemused smile on his face, like someone told a moderately funny joke. Not enough for a laugh, but enough to earn his respect.