After observing the whole scene with Esperanza and the guy in purple, Joey is stupified. He begins to walk home unsteadily, in a state of confusion and numbness, when he comes upon Warnanco Park, just falling onto the grass, dazed and staring into space.
Two hours later, I plod into my living room, dragging my feet heavily on the floor. Dinnertime. My mother and sisters scurrying around in the frenetic ballet that is preparation for the nightly ritual of dinner.
“Pick your feet up when you walk, will ya, for crissakes?” my father yells out from the dining room table, even though he can’t see me. The sound of feet dragging was just one of the litanies of noises that irritated my father. Living with him is like playing the game, Operation. You never know which move or noise will strike a nerve, and make him buzz. My mother, a large serving dish of meatloaf in her hands, halts in mid-stride.
“Oh my God Joseph, what is wrong with you?”
My eyes downcast, I don’t - or rather - can’t respond.
“I got the bent fork again! Every goddamn night we go through this!” my father bellows.
“You look like a ghost! Are you sick?” my mother continues.
She places the meatloaf down on the table, feels my forehead, first with her hand, then with her cheek.
“You don’t have a fever - but you’re so clammy ...what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
If she only knew what the problem really is! If she only knew about Esperanza. But, there’s no way I can ever tell her, or any of them, about that. I plop down at my position at the table, trying to summon up the will to pick up the serving spoon from the bowl of mash potatoes. My sisters and little brother compete in a frantic grab for the biggest piece of meatloaf, a job usually reserved for me. They sense a weakness in me tonight. Opportunity beckons. Eventually, I manage to slop some mashed potatoes onto my plate. My mother continues to peek over at me, concern revealed in the position of her eyebrows.
“Joseph, are you sure you’re alright?”
A half-assed squeak, somehow, escapes from my mouth. Kind of, like, The Tin Man, when Dorothy has to oil his jaw.
For a minute, it becomes silent, all activity ceases, as my sisters scrutinize me. Their plates are full now. Apparently, I’m the next victim of the feeding frenzy.
“Oh my God, he is so on drugs, Mom! The other day, he was like dancing around with the broom and everything, right, and now look - he can’t even keep his head up! Oh my God, that’s like the classic symptoms of a drug addict.”
“Yeah, we just saw this video in health class the other day, about these drug addicts just like that. They get hyped up on speed, and then gotta come down on, like, Quaaludes, or something,” Chimes in Karen.
“OK doctors, just mind your own business, alright.” My mother defends me.
“What kind of horse’s ass would you have to be to go down that road?” my father grumbles, shooting a glance at me.
“Alright, can we all just eat dinner now like a normal family? Thank you.” Mom pleads stressfully.
I force down a couple of gulps of mashed potatoes, but I can’t eat, and I’m in no mood to be dissected tonight, either. I ask to be excused from the table, go up to my room and crash land on my bed.
Flash! Flash! Flash! Like those giant flashbulb cameras newspaper reporters used in the 1930s. Shots (images) relentlessly invade the darkness. Even though my eyes are closed.
Purple. The purple jacket. A velvet purple jacket. Flash. Scenes from, Death Wish. When they raped Charles Bronson’s wife. Perfectly tailored purple jacket. Flash! Me and Esperanza, making it in her car that night. Flash! Violet shirt. A light shade of violet, unbuttoned down past his chest. A myriad of gold chains dangling from his neck. Medallions, and a crucifix. Flash! The rape scene with Margaux Hemingway, in Lipstick. Flash! Purple shoes. Suede. This guy’s walking around with his jacket open, shirt unbuttoned all the way the hell down. It’s November. It’s fucking thirty-eight degrees, man! Asshole.
More ruminating. Then the really horrifying, deep down truth of the matter assaults me. This guy is so fucking good-looking! I mean, like Omar Sharif/Warren Beatty handsome. I’m no homo - but this guy is like the male Esperanza. Regular rules don’t apply to these kinds of people. They’re like another species. That’s what’s really eating at my intestines. Plus, he’s probably Puerto Rican, too, from the look of him. Another strike against me. Kind of tall. Pencil mustache. Perfectly coiffed curly/wavy hair, with the curl strategically dipped below one eye. His scarf it was apricot. No, wait a minute, that’s Warren Beatty in You’re So Vain.
How could she do this to me? I thought we were in love! She even took me to her house! I thought everything was going to be like, great, from here on in. Maybe there really is no such thing as love. Maybe it really is all just bullshit.
