Memorial(17)

They do, too, I said.

Exactly. We both know our roles. So there’s nothing to debate.

How’s that one guy, I said. The one you were seeing?

Nice try, said Lydia.

You never tell me anything.

You’re one to talk about discretion.

You know what I mean, I said, kicking at the steps, and that’s when Lydia put a hand on my shoulder.

She said, You’ll know when there’s something to hear about.

We could all be dead and gone before then, I said.

That’s not impossible. The coastline’s rising.

Guess I’ll just stockpile love stories between the two of us.

It wouldn’t hurt, said Lydia. You’ve got a good one.

I don’t know, I said.

There’s nothing for you to know, said Lydia. I’m telling you. Mike’s a good guy.

She kicked her legs out behind me, stretching toward the ceiling. I mimicked her, and she tapped the back of my head with her palm.

Mike’s a wild card, I said.

He must be the affectionate one, said Lydia.

That’s the last word I’d use for Mike, I said.

You’re too close to see it.

I think I know him a little better than you do.

And yet, said Lydia. You’re both soft.

Because you’re so tough, I said.

Brother, said Lydia, you literally have no idea.



* * *




? ? ?

I’m stuck on I-10 when I dial my mother. The trucks beside me weave through the lanes like ducks in a pond.

Before she answers, I get another call, from an unknown number. I don’t even think about it.

Mike, I say.

What, says Omar.

Oh, I say.

Who’s Mike, says Omar.

Don’t worry about it, I say. What’s going on? What’s wrong?

I was calling about our date, says Omar.

I mean, he says, I know it’s not a date. Really. But I have to cancel it.

Okay, I say.

Okay, says Omar.

A lane opens slowly in front of me, clogging itself with a pick-up truck and a Porsche simultaneously. The drivers flick each other off.

Then Omar says, Can I ask what you’re up to?

At this moment? Traffic on Allen Parkway.

I’m sorry.

Me too.

But, says Omar, believe it or not, there’s actually this happy hour I like in that area. By Greenway Plaza? It’s hot dogs, you know? Maybe one day we c— How about right now, I say, before I even think about it, before he codifies the implications into existence.

Oh, says Omar. Wow. Yes. Do you eat meat?

I eat everything.

And then Omar gives me the address.

And then Omar tells me where to park.

I promise it’s still not a date, says Omar.

I know, I say.

Good, says Omar.



* * *





The happy hour is actually at an icehouse. The patio’s oversaturated with white people. Six or seven televisions blare reruns of the same college football game, and Omar’s sitting on a bench in the back.

He looks oblivious. A little dopey. And he’s smoking a cigarette. But when I walk over, he stomps it right out.

I promise I won’t tell on you, I say.

No, says Omar, this is good. I’m trying to quit.

Looks like that’s going well.

It was until today, says Omar, grinding the butt with his toe.

We both order hot dogs. His is a reasonable size. Mine is obscene, a bratwurst, topped with way too many garnishes. The guy who brings them over is pale and tattooed, asking us once, and then once again, if we want anything on tap. But we don’t.

A few bites in, we haven’t really spoken. Omar glances at me, and then over my back.

Ahmad’s a weird kid, says Omar.

All kids are weird, I say. They’re kids.

Go figure, says Omar. I guess you’d know. I was pretty weird.

And now?

I’m a therapist, says Omar. Stretching people who didn’t stretch themselves. A little less weird.

Just a little, I say. Does your brother live with you?

My brother lives in his own world, says Omar. He checks in with me from time to time.

I’d join him if I could, I say, and then I take a sip of my water.

Omar finishes and looks like he wants to lick the crumbs from his fingers, but he doesn’t. He twiddles them instead.

I should be thanking Ximena, says Omar. My parents could never afford you guys if not for the discount she’s giving us.

Xim’s the best, I say. You met her fiancé?

Yeah. He’s cool.

He’s all right, I say.

And then, all of a sudden, we’ve exhausted our list of things to talk about.

It occurs to me, briefly, that if Omar knows Ximena well enough for a discount, he probably already knows about Mike.

The whiteboys behind us are starting to get rowdy. When one of them busts his ass on the concrete, the others raise their beers and cheer.

Thank you, says Omar.

For what, I say.

For this.

I already paid, I say.

No, says Omar. For coming out here. You didn’t have to.

I needed to sit down with someone else for a while, he says. It just gets to be a lot. It is a lot.