On Friday evenings Amarelle would urge him to take her out to dinner. They'd
gone out twice before, crossing a bridge into Manhattan and dining at a Greek
restaurant. She smiled and made small talk, commenting on the decor and
overdoing her excitement when the waiter took their order; while Radix, quiet
and stiff, looked around and wondered what was no longer appealing about dining
at home as they did on the island.
When he stopped their eating out evenings – the one weeknight of dressing
up, getting away from the decrepit neighborhood and dining like people with
money to spend – Amarelle never forgave him. Now on Fridays there would be
for him only "pot luck". And this evening she hadn't even come home from work!
There was a Chinese Takeout on the next block.
He stood on the stoop, buttoning his jacket, and he stared across the road
where hours before someone had been killed. Strips of yellow police tape left
behind flapped about on the sidewalk. A little girl emerged from the bodega
with a bag of groceries. The Budweiser neon sign glowed and promised fun.
At the Chinese Takeout the woman took his order without looking at him.
Numbah 34, right? He hesitated; he changed his order, wanting something
simpler. Okay, you want Numbah 35? She seemed eager to take his order, get
it bagged, take his money; her eyes were cast down, her hands busy with
detail behind the counter. And behind her – wearing their white chef hats and
labouring over steaming bowls and pans – her Chinese helpers.
He stood still looking out at the streets, arms folded, pondering the price of
existence out there. The Chinese shop was next to a supermarket, and adjacent
to a place for cashing checks. On the other side of the street, a towering
apartment building, through whose glass doors a steady stream flowed – children
babies in strollers, overweight women.
Two young men came in and instantly swept aside his reflective mood. They looked
at Radix, at his clothes, his shoes, all in one quick measuring motion; then they
looked away. They came up to the plexiglass partition and rapped hard with knuckles.
The Chinese woman looked up from her counter in terror; she pulled a pencil from her
hair and waited.
"Numbah 36!" The Chinese woman repeated the order just to be sure. "Didn't I
just say that?… Wha's the matter…you fucking deaf?…Didn't I just say Numbah 36?
That's what I want…and a side of fries. I don't know what this chump here wants."
And his friend – bulky, babyfaced, wearing a bubble jacket – grabbed him and tried to
put his head in an arm lock for calling him a chump.
(from "Ah, Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 