Memorial(35)

When the whiteguy out front called, clearing his throat, I let him simmer a bit before I came back. Once I passed him the sandwich again, he asked what someone had to do for decent service in Houston.

Move to Austin, I said.



* * *




? ? ?

Another of Eiju’s regulars was this couple: Hayato and Natsue.

They’d roll up to the bar on bikes, leaning them against the staircase. Hayato was basketball-player tall—a weird fucking sight for a Japanese guy. Natsue kept her hair in this tiny bun. She’d slip just under the arch of his elbow whenever he held the door. They’d order a beer apiece, with a bowl of rice on the side, while Natsue tugged on Eiju’s ear from over the bar.

We’ve been coming around since the old man opened this hole, said Natsue.

We watched him take his first steps, said Hayato.

He’s like our baby.

Our big fucking baby.

Everyone likes to think they discovered something, said Eiju.

We didn’t find you, Eiju-kun, said Hayato. We only shepherded you along.

All you needed was some direction, said Natsue.

I wouldn’t know shit about that, said Eiju.

And all three of them laughed.



* * *





One morning a few weeks after I’d landed, Kunihiko was washing glasses and I was drying them off. Once he’d finished, Eiju set a hand on his shoulder. He told the kid to try showing up on time for once, and Kunihiko grinned, bowing a little, slamming a shoulder into the doorframe on his way out.

After he’d left, Eiju and I locked up. The walk back to his apartment was short. It was just before five in the morning, and some stray lights flickered around us, but mostly nothing moved except for the cabs idling by. The sun hadn’t risen yet. All we had was this dark sheen above us.

I asked Eiju if Kunihiko knew about the cancer.

Does he actually know you’re dying, I said.

Have you fucking told any of these people, I said.

Eiju kept walking. Didn’t even look my way.

After a while, he said, You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.

That’s not an answer, I said.

Eiju didn’t say anything to that. He just kept walking.

Once we’d made it to his place, he left me on a futon in the living room. There was a light on in his bedroom. I waited for it to dim—but I couldn’t. I was asleep before he even started snoring.



* * *




? ? ?

A day after Ben reached out, I messaged him back on the app.

What I sent was: SORRY TO HEAR THAT.

It felt like an eye for eye.



* * *





Later that night, I’d just made it back to my place from the grocery store, halfway up the steps, when the old Black lady next door called my name. She pointed at my cigarette, waving a hand across her nose.

Her name was Mary. She’d lived in the Third Ward her whole life. From the tail end of its best years, through the bulk of its decline. Her husband went to high school in the district a few blocks away, and she’d been a cheerleader, and he’d been a football player. They met at a school dance. Went to prom. Got hitched a year later like out of some fucking old-timey movie.

A few weeks after I’d leased the apartment, Mary told me her story over dinner. She’d invited me over. Cooked macaroni and yams. She and her guy sat across from me, watching me scarf that shit down, and I know everyone’s got their problems but sitting next to each other they looked like they fit. Mary and Harold. Just snug. Like in this way that I hadn’t ever fucking seen before.

When I told them it felt strange to eat while they didn’t, Mary waved me off.

All that cheese is too much for our pressure, she said. When you get this old, all you can do is watch.

That’s what my ma says, I said.

Smart woman, said Mary. Do your people live nearby?

Nah. She’s back in Japan.

That’s a long way from Houston.

Not too long.

And your father?

Fuck knows.

Mary’s eyes flickered. Her husband yawned.

It’s hard work to keep a man in one place, he said.

I stared at Harold. He blinked back at me.

Don’t mind him, said Mary, boxing her husband on the shoulder.

Harold doesn’t talk too much, she said. Unless he’s got something stupid to say.

Sounds like a good policy, I said.

It is, said Harold. Gives you plenty of time to listen.

And it is time for you to listen, said Mary. Lord knows I’ve heard you out for long enough.

You ought to give people with sense the chance to speak, said Mary, winking at me.



* * *





I’d found the apartment online. The real estate agent was this whitechick in a sundress. Her agency was based in Katy, but they’d started snatching up property in East End, flipping shit over and brushing it off and tossing it back on the market. It was her second week on the job. She kept fiddling with her wedding ring. She told me the place may have looked like a dump, but the neighborhood was changing. This was the cheapest I’d ever rent around Wheeler again.

The apartment’s walls were tattered. The fan looked busted. The floors were wood, but the wood looked discolored and chipped from room to room.