Gonna Have A Good Time

He took the stairs one at a time. Stepping up and bringing both feet together, he paused to catch his breath. It was slow going as he made the fourth-floor landing and he noted with grim familiarity and not a little trepidation the hummingbird drum solo his heart was performing in his chest. With the swish of his well-acquainted thighs shoving past each other and the sad wheezing pant of his breathing providing fanfare, he started up the last flight.

Albert dreaded every day the elevator was out of order.

Philly's summer of 1981 had been mercilessly hot and the hall­ways of his apartment building were close, the air a stew of cooking smells, baby smells, and the trapped phantoms of tar and car exhaust from the streets outside. Albert didn't mind this, it was just life in the big city, the only life he had known. Though he now lived across town from the borderline tenement in which he'd spent his childhood days, these could be the very same chipped and peeling walls. Far from depressing him, this just made him feel safe. Protected.

Without much to-do, Albert had wished the ladies of his office a good afternoon and left the center a little early for his doctor's appoint­ment. Of course this meant another uncomfortable jaunt in his rundown Lincoln Continental. Even with his seat pushed back to its last stop, the base of the steering wheel still dug into the flesh of his mountainous gut. This was one of the innumerable small, shame­ful details that made up his days – the details he hardly noticed anymore. At best, Albert tried to work in a check-up every other year, though these were never pleasant experiences for him. The same concerns, the same warnings and admonishments. But this particular visit had come earlier than he would have planned or wished. The pains had come on with alarming frequency and, frighten­ingly, during moments of relative inactivity. Never one given to irrational fears, there was still something about this spate of chest seizures that left him, in his own quiet way, absolutely terrified.

As the words tumbled from Dr. Garry's mouth, it seemed incon­ceivable. How can a man have suffered two heart attacks and never known it? And it got worse from there. Albert merely listened, nodding gravely and unconsciously rubbing at his chest. But even the worst of news can contain an element of humor. As Dr. Garry had been gently pronouncing a grim and likely future, Albert couldn't help but notice that the uncapped fountain pen his physician had absent-mindedly put back in the breast pocket of his white coat had begun to bleed into an expanding black patch roughly the shape of the Liberty Bell.

Resting on the fifth-floor landing, propping himself up with one huge brown hand as he sagged against the wall, Albert gauged the thrumming in his chest. After a lifetime of obesity, he had memorized and catalogued all the various twinges and palpitations his valiant little cardiac muscle produced – they were as familiar as these hallways – but after today, he would paying them much more attention. From here on out, the first thought would always be: Is this the one? He pushed all that aside as he caught his breath and fit his key into the deadbolt. Three locks later he swung the door open. He stepped inside not thinking about test results or exploratory surgery or genetic predisposition. Albert was just glad to be home.

When he felt the gun barrel at the back of his head he didn't even jump. Another sad fact of life – Albert's anyway – this wasn't the first time he had received the personal touch from a robber's pistol. He sighed.

The intruder stayed behind him but was indicating by the pressure of the gun where he wanted Albert to go. Without saying a word the gunman made his desires perfectly clear; Albert settled four hundred and eighty-two pounds into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of his kitchen table.

Watching the reflection of the thief cast onto his window by the dull orange light of his sole living room lamp, Albert addressed the man in the ski mask nervously pacing behind him. "Hey, man, it's okay. Take whatever you want, whatever you need."

His gentle growl of a voice usually had a calming influence upon those who heard it, it was one of the big man's secret weapons, but it provoked an extreme and opposite reaction from his uninvited guest. The blindingly fast meeting of the robber's gun-butt and Albert's temple rung like a muffled pop inside his skull. Albert was slow in bringing his head back into place, it wobbled and swiveled on its post, anchored as securely as one of those bobbing big-head toys you get at a Phillies game. He blinked his eyes rapidly to argue the encroaching darkness away and resolved somewhere in the fuzz and static between his ears to keep his mouth shut from here on out.

"Shut up, mothafucka, jus' – jus' shut up," the thief gruffly spat back in a weird, obviously disguised voice. "Shit!"

It was one word, just four syllables that gave him away. The way he said it: "mothafucka" -- and Albert knew. It was a sad, heavy certainty. Surprised? Again, no. He remembered that day in the junk yard, they were in fifth grade maybe, when they were all practicing cusswords. Shitgoddamnpussy-fuckin'pieceo'mothafuckin'shit! They were trying their damnedest to sound tough, to sound street, to sound all grown-up. But they just sounded like fifth graders. Albert tried to catch the thief's eyes in the reflection, even behind the windows of the black-knit ski mask he would recognize those eyes. They danced, they hid, but they were his. Albert shook his head.

"Why're you doing this, Donald?"

This time the blow fell even quicker and Albert was out before the pain arrived.

"Buck-buck one comin'!"

Torn, stained mattresses and rusted-out water heaters.

"Buck-buck two comin'!"

Splintered old chairs and broken bikes.

"Buck-buck three comin'!"

Mufflers and carburetors and engine blocks

"Buck-buck four comin'!"

Doorless refrigerators and diapers and chicken bones and shattered TVs.

It's my turn. Ain't far to run. Gonna break 'em. My turn now.

"HEY HEY HEY, BUCK-BUCK FIVE COMIN'!"

Jump!

Slowly. Blood orange light fuzzing and focusing, eyelids pain­fully opening in resignation. Albert came to with the shudder of an electric transformer blanketing his skull. It took him several seconds before he could recall why it was that he was hurting like this. Around the same time he discovered that his wrists were now bound behind his chair with what felt like electrical cord. Donald was still here, stacking what could be charitably described as Albert's "valuables" on a hand dolly by the door. With his shrieking head still slumped forward, Albert watched his old friend critically examine his belongings, turning them over with twitching, jerking hands.

"Quasar! Nigga ain't gonna do me no good with this sad-ass shit!" The voice was unmasked and its high, screeching tone was just as Albert remembered.

Timidly lifting his head and aware now of a small line of blood running from his forehead to the side of his mouth, Albert slurred just a bit as he spoke.

"You finally got a real ski mask."

Albert was smiling on the inside, just briefly, as he recalled those young days in the schoolyard and the junk yard and Donald's improvised bit of winter wear: an old knit cap of his father's rolled down over his face as far as it would go and those ridiculous eyeholes he'd cut out himself. It looked so stupid but it kept his ears and cheeks warm. Like a lot of the kids they grew up with (and like their kids as well, the ones Albert handled every day), Donald's folks were welfare cases too preoccupied with their own drunken brawling to register the needs of their children. Donald learned early to take care of his own business.

As Albert spoke in the dark of the living room, Donald bolted up, taking two steps towards him. In a blink, he had the gun out of his waistband and lined up with Albert's left eye.

"You jus' shut up, fucka." The menace was heartfelt and Albert read the hair-trigger of his old friend's body language, though he noticed Donald was no longer attempting to disguise his voice. "I don't know you, an' if you want to keep yo' fat ass alive you don't know me, awright?"

"I'm just remembering is all," Albert said in his slow, measured fashion.

The figure in black turned back to his work, heading off into Albert's bedroom.

Just above the sounds of his drawers being removed and emptied, Albert spoke again. "You need money?"

From the next room, "You think?"

Albert could see his clothes flying out of the bedroom and hitting the hallway floor in a pile.

"What is it you're hooked on, Donald?"

"Shit you talkin' 'bout?"

"The way you're shakin', twitchin', can't stand still – I've seen it before. You're messed-up, brother."

Donald returned carrying Albert's clock radio in one hand and his Polaroid Instamatic in the other.

"Right. And you seen it all, ain't you, Mr. Social Worker?"

"Just about."

The stack of stolen goods teetered under the addition of the new arrivals. Donald worked twine up the sides of the dolly and clumsily tied things down. Again, there was a tremor in his hands and Albert could see his mouth as he obsessively bit at his lips and swallowed.

"Last I heard you were working at the plant downtown. What happened?" It was textbook crisis counseling but Albert wasn't just trying to initiate a dialogue, he really wanted to know.

"Yeah, well, you outta touch."

"It was a pretty good job, wasn't it?"

This managed to draw Donald away from his task. "You ever spend ten hours on yo' feet attaching car doors for thirty-five bucks a day? You prob'ly can't even stand up that long."

"You're probably right." Albert closely watched Donald's every gesture. He didn't like the nervous pacing and the way he was constantly wiping at his lips. "Hey, you hungry?"

"Shit, man, that all you think about?"

Albert smiled, though all he could taste was the copper tang of his own blood, "No, man, I meant for you. Are you hungry? You can help yourself."

Donald paused for the moment, squinting and thinking it through. "Yes I can."

He moved past Albert into the tiny, meticulously kept kitchen. Albert turned his head to follow him and was rewarded with fresh peals of pain ringing out from his battered temple. He bit it back, relieved at the sight of Donald tucking his gun into the back of his pants as he leaned towards the refrigerator. He opened the fridge door which was papered in a dozen crayon drawings from just a few of the hundreds of homeless children that Albert had cared for, worked hard for, over the years. Here and there were also Polaroids of smiling teenage mothers holding their new pink, brown and tan bundles – many of which Albert was godfather to. A lifetime of self­less caring in a collage of images, but Donald never saw it.

Bathed in the appliance's welcoming glow, Donald gave its contents a quick once-over. "For a man big as you, you got fuck t'eat."

"I eat out a lot."

Donald batted the scant Tupperware bowls aside and reached for a white takeout box. He sniffed at it dubiously.

"I think that's some moo-goo gai pan," Albert offered, "From Cho-Cho's down the street. 'S really good."

Donald fished a fork out of the drawers and walked his Chinese leftovers to the couch. Planting his feet on the cushions and sitting on the couch's back, Donald perched there across from Albert and began sloppily eating through the skimask.

"Not bad."

"Where you been since the factory?"

Dropping all pretense of anonymity, Donald began talking into his food, "Rudy hired me on. Had me doin' security at th' studios while he mixin' records for all these groups. They had this one fucked-up buncha niggas in from New York di'n't do nothin' but talk at the microphone with a drum beat up they ass. That's gonna be a album! Fucked up shit is that!"

"It was pretty cool of Rudy to hook you up like that."

"Yeah, you think so, huh? Tha's th' way he like to go around, goin' 'this just a brotha helpin' a brotha'. But it's still just th' nigga showin' off; fucka ain't changed a bit. Shit! The big man! Mr. Rudy Record Producer lettin' a poor ol' friend play with his toys! Fuck that trip, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Still, it had to be better than the plant."

"Shit, yeah. There was these parties all the time – alla these fine bitches hangin' 'round. Rudy an' th' bands always gettin' first pick, but we get th' leftovers. Same with th' blow – always plenty t'go around, but you gotta wait yo' turn."

Going gentle, Albert nodded softly. "Is that what it is, Donald? You on coke?"

"Some kinda super coke floatin' around they callin' 'crack.' Good shit. Take you up, up and away. Yeah, Mr. Rudy so generous with th' leftovers – always got a smile for his boy from th' 'hood – but th' second his ol' friend got a problem, he jus' kick his ass to th' street!"

"Did you ask him for help?"

"Who you think got me hooked in th' first place!" Donald spat, "Nigga just as fucked up as me, but he makin' th' money! He ain't got nothin' for me now. Nigga won't even come to th' phone when I call." Holding up a suspicious veggie, "How you think they make corn this small?"

"You know, Donald," Albert started, choosing his words care­fully, "if you needed help, or money, you could've just asked me – or any of your friends."

Donald dropped the fork into the container. As he spoke, parti­cles of noodle scattered from his mouth like shrapnel. "Friends? Who 'xactly you talkin' about?"

"Your friends. Us. Any of the old gang."

"Shit. Harold off workin' on computers in Massa-two-shits, Bucky's wife won't let me in th' door and he's too damned licked t'do anything 'bout it, Mush still in County, an' Bill – fuck – Bill's bigga than God! We ain't all gettin' t'gether for a six-pack o' King Cobra's in th' junk yard no mo'. That's a long time gone."

Albert shifted a little, his arms were going numb and his heart was tripping along in its own steadily unsteady fashion. "Me then. I can help you out. And not just by sittin' here and lettin' you take my stuff."

"Whatchu mean?"

"We got – where I work – all kinds of contacts at clinics, good places, where they can help you kick this thing. Get off the coke and get your head straight."

Donald smiled a hitching, greasy smile. "You think I wanna get straight? All I need is t'get this shit out onna street an' make a little cash. Then I get th' hook-up an' I gonna have a good time. Better time than you ever had, better than you ever could think up."

"Yeah, but you come back down, don't you? You come down hard." This was a familiar conversation for Albert; all his years at the Community Center seemed like one long debate against just this kind of blindness. In most cases, he had the gift of gentle persuasion, holding up the brass ring of common sense within easy reach of even the most lost soul and letting it seem that it was truly their choice to grab it. Just like Donald had said, he had seen it all before. "And it doesn't have to be like that, no more scroungin' around like a junk yard stray for that next few hours of high and those next few days of rock bottom. You're better than that. I know it. 'Cause I know you. You're a smarter man than anybody could guess. It's time to be smart, Donald."

His shoulders quavering, the smile long gone, Donald shot up on the couch. "Whatth'fuck! You feelin' sorry fo' me! Fuck you, nigga!" He punctuated this by tossing the Chinese takeout box into Albert's face. It hit him hard across the bridge of his nose and doused the front of him with noodles, sauce and broccoli. Despite himself, Albert allowed the thought that it still smelled delicious. Donald had his gun out again in a second. It quaked and jittered in his hand, but pointed fairly constantly at his chest. "YOU the one we always felt sorry for! 'Poor ol' Albert, he ain't never goin' to be cool!' 'Poor ol' Albert, he ain't never goin' t'get him no pussy!' 'Ain't no bitch nowhere gonna want to spread for no fat ass fat-ass like poor ol' Albert! How she gonna find his dick anyhow?' Tha's whatcho 'friends' was sayin' behind yo' back, nigga! It's time for you t'be smart, Mr. I Always Got T'Be Right, I Better Than Anybody Else, Mr. Holy-Holy Fat-Ass Nigga!"

It stung, it all stung. Part of his brain was deciding whether or not he should cry at this point, but settled on a brim of tear just short of falling. And for that Albert was thankful. He had lived nearly forty years without once shedding tears for himself, and it was a record he was proud to keep.

"That's hard, man, but that ain't you. Not really. You go on, you take the stuff, and later – maybe next time you feel the hole open up inside you – you'll remember your real friends and you'll let them help your sorry-ass."

Donald was waving this all away, flailing his gun and almost hopping in his unease, "You can't help me, Albert! This ain't no game o' buck-buck you gonna come in and win at th' last minute! You won't see me no mo' an' you oughtta do yourself a favor an' forget you saw me tonight!"

"Just go, man. You make me sa-" The sudden and un­expected snapping of his chair's two back legs was preceded by a dramatic, if brief, squeal of warning.

Donald's sneer was unkind and it bespoke a kind of disgust at the sight of his old friend foundering on the linoleum amongst the shattered debris of his chair like a giant turtle helpless on its back, burned brown by the desert sun.

It was a cruel laugh Donald expelled then, but Albert had heard so many like it before. "You still so fat, Albert."

Rocking up and down in an effort to right himself, feeling the burning in his still-bound hands which were now under him, Albert returned in a breathless wheeze, "You still so dumb, Donald."

In that instant, to Donald at least, there was simply no other rebuttal to those words than squeezing the trigger. The bullet's ex­plosive departure illuminated the entire room for one false second of daylight accompanied by the POP of the world's biggest balloon. Albert went down hard, his head smacking the floor.

"Hey. Hey. Hey..."

Raising his head, eyes full of shock, Albert tried to see the new hole in him. Somewhere in his chest, where the cool of the room's air was introduced to the warmth of his own blood as it pumped out, sliding and spilling down-slope until it was ringing his neck. He couldn't imagine why he wasn't hurting worse, but he knew it was bad. Too much blood, too much blood. He could sense Donald still in the room and, through the starfield now sparkling across his field of vision, he could see Donald's shadow thrown up against the ceiling. Albert watched the spidery thing dance across what was beginning to feel like a gulf of space away.

"Shitfuckin'goddamnmothafuckin'shit, man! Why'd you have to say that shit, man!" There was a softness, a plea in his friend's voice that might have been fear or instant regret, "Why'd you have t'come home early for once! You wasn't s'posed to even be here, man!"

Albert's voice bubbled as it worked its way out. He couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears. "I was ... at the doctor's ... today." When he smiled, it was a pink-smeared smile, blood sputtered at the sides of his mouth and ran down his cheeks. "He ... said ... he said ... I was ... dyin'..." What might have been a laugh ended as a choking cough.

Lighter and lighter he felt as the pain faded away. Donald, crying somewhere and fighting with the door, would never know what a favor he had done him.

"Fuckit! Tha's whatchu get! Aw shit, Albert!"

From that point on, Albert was no longer aware of Donald, his apartment, the city around him, or his own body. All his senses dwindled as if dials were slowly being turned down. Everything was falling away and nothing could keep him here. Nothing could hold him to the earth, not colors, not sounds, not memories or dreams, not this cumbersome shell of flesh or the jealous force of gravity to which it had been a willing slave. Not even the last fluttering beats of his weary heart. Albert detached, disconnected and drifted featherlike towards a kinder welcome than he had ever known, all the while weighing less than care, lighter than life.

"...buck-buck five comin'..."