Page 3 of View From the Bottom
He smiled. “Is that so? Small world, I guess.”
“You know it is. You’re native. Where’d you grow up?”
“South Bronx. Soundview. But I’m in Mott Haven now. You?”
“Queens. But I live in Hell’s Kitchen. What were you doing in my neck of the woods?”
“Just pickin’ up my check. I work at the garage on Forty-Fifth.”
Bingo. I wasn’t too far off the mark with my assumption after all.
Our conversation rode a direct path, one dotted with simple questions and even simpler answers, a no-nonsense approach toflirting with a stranger. That is, after all, what was happening. Had we connected on a hookup app, these details would have hardly been necessary, but the tone of the conversation would have been similar. When meeting in person, however, over a drink in the middle of a city-wide disaster, exchanging these bits of personal information seemed appropriate.
His irises flickered with light browns and deep greens and his hands appeared large and rough as they caressed the bottle. It was clear to me that he worked with his hands, but underneath that rugged, blue-collar exterior and that distinctivethe-fuck-you-lookin’-at?attitude, a gentleness wept from his eyes and traced his fingernails and colored the way he sat on his barstool. Something told me that once our initial display of brusqueness wore off, once the obligatory questions had been addressed and the beer began to take hold, our conversation would become easier, more casual.
“What brought you here?” I asked.
“Same thing as you, I guess,” he joked. “It’s my day off. I wanted a drink. Everything in HK is closed, so I started downtown.”
I smiled at him and his shoulders relaxed slightly before he took a swig from his bottle and scrubbed the palm of his hand over the top of his head, almost as if he were trying to massage the cool air into his scalp. A black tuft of fur, mildly matted by sweat and circumstance appeared under his arm, the strands long and unmanicured. I appreciated his natural state. It wasn’t something normally found in the sea of plucked and pulled bodies that populated Manhattan’s west side.
I offered my name. “I’m Joey, by the way.”
“Luis.” He pronounced it likeLouis, but I got the feeling he’d only started pronouncing it that way after growing tired of correcting people when they said his name wrong.
Luis and I chatted as we drank our beers, drifting from one topic to the next. We talked about our jobs and the neighborhoods in which we grew up and the pains of the MTA, always under maintenance. We grabbed another beer—his treat—and continued to chat, our knees occasionally touching under the table, sometimes by accident and other times as a tease, as a temperature gauge, to measure the response of the opposite party. The response was favorable each time: reluctant smiles and hesitant glances at the table and nervous chuckles highlighting rosy sheens on the cheeks.
The short stubble that dotted his jawline, the goatee that grew shorter as it trailed up his cheeks into sideburns that almost disappeared, shifted with the shape of his face as he smiled and laughed. It splashed into his dimples like cliff divers into the Acapulco Bay as his flesh stretched and moved with the easy, sexy pull on his features. I found it hard to look away when he spoke. But our beers dried up and the bar grew more crowded, so we decided to relinquish the table.
The tension between us was almost negligible, but it was there. Would Luis head back to the Bronx or did he want to continue hanging out? Would I walk back to Hell’s Kitchen alone? Never to see him again?
I mean, it would make sense. We’d had a good time, but he hadn’t initiated a hookup and neither had I. There would be no reason to exchange numbers or try to hang out again. We lived mere miles from one another, but by New York standards, we may as well have lived on different continents. Traversing from Hell’s Kitchen to the South Bronx by public transit would take damn near an hour on a good day. What would we do? Hang out after he got off work at the garage? It seemed a strange dynamic. What if he had responsibilities at home? Maybe he took care of his folks or younger siblings, or worse yet, what if hehad a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend? We hadn’t really discussed our private lives. Not in detail.
Why was I getting so wrapped up in this person who had been a complete stranger less than two hours ago? Someone I had never seen before today? It was odd behavior on my part. Historically, I’d been a discerning thinker who’d always been able to separate romance and sex. But I didn’t want to leave him yet. Something about his presence was comforting, and I wasn’t ready to give it up.
“So,” I started as we stood from the table. “You headed back to the Bronx?”
“Uh,” he stuttered almost nervously, as though he’d had other plans. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Might as well. Probably nothin’ else to do here.”
Luis glanced around as though he were trying to find a reason to stay. At the bar, in Chelsea, in Manhattan. Or maybe with me.
I took a chance. “I’m just gonna start back to the neighborhood. Maybe see if the power’s back on yet. You’re welcome to join me… if you want.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. Maybe I’ll stop by the garage and see if the boss man needs help.”
—
Luis’s boss had closed the garage. As we approached Forty-Fifth Street, we noticed the shop door had been rolled down and the racks of tires that normally graced the sidewalk had been taken inside. It appeared as though the power had not yet been restored either. People still lingered in bodega doorways andfanned themselves on their stoops as they drank and smoked the day away.
“Shit. Sorry you walked all the way up here. I figured the power might be back on by now.”
“No problem. I enjoyed the walk… even though it’s hot as hell,” he laughed.
Our walkwasnice. The conversation was easy and we got to know each other a little better, as much as two people possibly could as they hoofed in temperatures hovering around a hundred degrees.
Sweat formed a V on the front of Luis’s tank top. Smaller Vs trailed down the sides under his arms. The front of my T-shirt was speckled with sweat, and I wiped the sheen from my forehead with my bicep, the sleeve of my tee acting as a sweat rag. I could smell the heat on me, a combination of deodorant and a light sweat mingling under my arms. It was only natural in that condition, but I felt myself grow self-conscious. Not self-conscious enough to send Luis home, though.
I wasn’t sure what I wanted from him. If we hooked up, it would likely be a onetime thing. Would I be okay with that? I told myself I would. But I would have been just as happy hanging out with him on my couch, talking about nothing.