The rain kept drizzling that Saturday morning in a way that made him feel trapped
in the apartment. The fellows who usually sat on the stoop had retreated under the
awning of the nearby bodega. They joked and drank from bottles in brown paper bags;
they looked up and down the street, ready for distraction.
The postman dropped the mail through the slot. Radix felt the need to read about
the world.
The bodega across the street didn't carry the Times. He took the car and drove off
to the newspaper stand near the subway fifteen minutes away.
There was no space to park even for a minute; no choice but to double park and
make a dash for the papers.
He didn't have exact change. A lady was fumbling in her purse for coins while two
kids beside her squabbled over the selection of candy bars. The man who ran the news-
paper stand, from Pakistan in a turban, kept admonishing them in clipped English.
"Please, be careful what you do." People came by, snapped up the tabloids, dropped
coins on the paper pile and hurried to catch the trains.
The rain was a thin streaming nuisance on Radix' shoulders. He waited his turn; he
watched the police cruiser at the traffic lights. At the green signal they might cross
the intersection and pull in behind his double-parked vehicle. Should he abandon his
need for news about the world, dash back to the car before he got a ticket?
He took his change and made the dash just as the cruiser pulled in behind. He made
frantic signals with the papers in his hands acknowledging he'd broken the law, smiling
guiltily. The officers sat stiff, stone-faced, watching him.
Waiting for the lights to change he stole a glance at the Times front page: tensions
in the Middle East, a landslide in a remote village in Colombia; filibustering in the U.S.
Congress. A blast from a car horn behind him, so loud he felt slapped on the ears, threw
him in motion again.
Forget the politics of the world. Keep moving. Make way for people coming up
behind you.
When he got back to his block he found to his dismay that a car had parked right
across his driveway. This sort of thing happened frequently. A fellow would drive up,
stop right in front of his entrance and stroll across to the bodega to purchase
cigarettes.
He hated this kind of thoughtless, irresponsible action! What was he supposed to
do?
This time he switched off the ignition and let his rage slosh around in his chest. He
was stuck near a fire hydrant; he couldn't risk leaving the car, going inside to wait for
the entrance to clear. He tried reading the Times. The effort of turning pages over the
steering wheel deepened his frustration. He set the windshield wipers in motion so he
could see outside.
A glance in the rearview mirror, and there was Carlos! Waiting for the rain to stop.
Yankee baseball cap, sneakers, snappy tracksuit pants, a baseball bat. The rain had
trapped him, too. He must have woken up this morning with a burning desire to play
softball in the streets. Rounded up three of his buddies. All huddled now under the
bodega awning.
Radix' heart leapt with hope. Carlos would know who the obstructing vehicle
belonged to. With eyes like a hawk and the patience of a panther Carlos, man of the
streets, would shout up to the apartment windows, heedless of the rain, until the
offending driver poked his head out.
Carlos waited for him to come right up before he acknowledged Radix. His bulbous
nose was shiny; his face shimmered from early morning imbibing. His features now
suggested some ambivalent parentage, possibly Chinese, especially when he smiled.
Radix explained the problem, pointing the car blocking his driveway, but Carlos
didn't spring into action like a companero willing to help; didn't shout up at the apart-
ment windows. He shrugged his shoulders; he shook his head sadly and slipped back into
conversation in Spanish which Radix had apparently interrupted.
A puzzled, chagrined Radix made a gesture of deepening frustratio
n and hurried
back to his car.
What now? On this wet morning, if he couldn't count on Carlos to spring him loose,
what next?
He stepped out his vehicle, slammed it shut, walked nonchalantly to his front door.
He'd wait inside, leave the car in the streets; he'd take his chances. He didn't look at
Carlos again.
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 