“Already workin’,” he said.
Man, this guy was a trip, but he was my best friend. Had been for more than seventeen years, when some clown was trying to press me for my Ninja Turtles backpack and Jason knocked him upside his head. When I asked him why he defended me, he just shrugged, and said, “Jus’ ’cause someone wants somethin’ doesn’ mean they gotta take whatchu have.” From then on, we were Raphael and Donatello, Batman and Superman, Kenan and Kel. But if I had known that being boys with him was going to land me in the deepest of shits, I may have just laid him out then and there.
“What?” he asked, noticing my stare. “You ain’ the only one tryna get up outta here.”
“I’m not tryna get up outta here, man. I’m jus’ waitin’ for the right opportunity, tha’s all. And when I get it, I’m not gonna switch up and bounce. You’ll see me grabbin’ a slice from there,” I said, pointing at the Crown Fried Chicken next to Mr. Aziz’s bodega. “There,” I repeated, pointing at Kutz, the barbershop next to Crown Fried Chicken. “But you for sure won’ see me there or there,” I said, nodding at the new hipster bar and condo building that just went up.
Jason laughed. “Yeah, tha’s what all them say until they leave yo’ ass for a white world.”
“I’m good where I’m at, Batman, and with the company I keep. Like your wack ass. But I gotta bounce. Whatchu readin’ now, anyway?”
“Williams.”
“Tennessee?”
“You buggin’, son. John A. You?”
“Huxley.”
“You need to stop readin’ them old white writers, nigga.”
“Aight, bro. I’ll catch you later.”
“Bet.”
Wally Cat sat on an overturned plastic crate on the corner across the street reading the newspaper. I was rushing into the subway when I heard him say, “Aye, Darren!”
Something told me to ignore him and descend into the damp, urine-smelling subway, but I didn’t listen.
I crossed the street. “What up, Wally Cat?”
“How’s yo’ momma?” He licked his lips like a sweaty pervert.
If I’d had the balls back then, I would’ve told Wally Cat that if he didn’t stop asking about Ma I’d put him in a casket quicker than a steady diet of Double Big Macs with supersize fries could, but I didn’t. Partly because I was shook, but mostly because I liked him.
You see, Wally Cat was the definition of an oldhead. But not the kind that just reminisced about all of the stuff they coulda, woulda, or shoulda done “back in my day.” No, at sixty with a Hawaiian shirt, low salt-and-pepper afro, immaculate fedora, and burgeoning paunch, Wally Cat was a millionaire a couple times over. As Ma tells it, this guy used to live on a farm and study horses—their weights, temperaments, the way they moved and ate—then just roll up to a racetrack and almost always pick a winner.
One day he was scanning the upcoming races in the paper and noticed all these new companies popping up on the stock market. And that was that. He stopped betting on horses and started betting on companies. But the way he’d do it was by going to a company’s office and speaking with the janitors, who always had the scoop on the CEOs, VPs, whether a company was sloppy or clean, punctual or late, and more. He turned a couple thousand into a couple million in less than a decade. All on his own. And then he started buying up property. But the thing is, what Wally Cat loved most in the world was just sitting on the corner, reading the newspaper, and watching people go by. Plus, he still used coupons.
“She’s aight,” I said, sitting on the crate next to him. Parents with children too young for school and too energetic for home arrived at the playground behind us, Marcy Playground, and let them loose. Screams filled the warm air.
“Good, good. You know, back in the day your momma was the finest woman in Bed-Stuy. So fine she didn’ mess with no niggas like me. She had to have that high-quality, knowwhatImsaying? Like yo’ daddy. He was one of those clean, suavamente Spanish niggas who had girls all over him, but he was aight.” He removed his fedora, patting his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.
“Yeah, man. I know.” Not wanting to hear Wally Cat continue panting over the memory of Ma, I changed the subject. “Hey, Wally Cat. Why do they call you Wally Cat again?”
He sucked his teeth and looked over his shoulders. “Boy, don’ ask me questions that don’ concern you. You betta be askin’ questions that give you information you can use in yo’ own life. And no ‘yes or no’ questions. I’m talkin’ the open-ended ones that’ll crack your mind in half. Like why would the valedictorian of Bronx Science be wastin’ his life away workin’ at a damn—”
Reader: Wally Cat is many things, but a fool he is not. What he told me that day was a sales lesson in disguise. The quality of an answer is determined by the quality of the question. Quote that and pay me my royalties.
I was across the street before he could finish. I usually enjoyed chopping it up with Wally Cat, but on this day, the day my life changed forever, I just wanted to go to work, get back home, kick it with Soraya, and sleep.
After transferring from the G to the L at Metropolitan Avenue, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Thinking it was an accident, I turned my music up and closed my eyes. The bass from Meek Mill’s “Polo & Shell Tops” invaded my ears like American troops in Iraq.
Another tap, this time more forceful. Whenever this type of thing happened, I just ignored it. But then a manicured hand grabbed my wrist and pulled it back, bringing me face-to-face with a slim Korean girl with curly brown hair and a jean jacket that fit just right.
“Darren Vender, the ghost of Bronx Science,” she said, glossy lips breaking apart to reveal a Colgate smile.
I removed my earbuds. “Adrianna, what’s up?”
“Not much, heading to Midtown. What about you?”
“Yeah, same. How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know,” she said. “I graduate from NYU next week. Actually on my way to an interview right now.”
“That’s awesome,” I replied, shaking off the Bed-Stuy in my voice. “What’s the interview for?”
“I’m sort of embarrassed to say, but it’s one of those entry-level marketing positions at a startup.”
Jesus. If she’s embarrassed by an entry-level marketing position, especially before graduating from NYU, then I’m fucked.
“I’m sure you’ll crush it,” I said.
Thank God she didn’t have X-ray vision. If she did, she would have seen the black apron in my backpack. Thank God twice that the train arrived at Union Square, ending the conversation.
“Thanks, I’ll see you around,” she said, taking off. A second later, I realized we were both hopping on the 6, so I headed to the opposite end of the train.
It’s funny. Back then I didn’t pay any attention to running into Adrianna; ghosts from the past always reappear in New York City. But now that I think back on it, maybe seeing her had something to do with the wild shit that happened next.
2
3 Park Avenue was its own world. Part office building, part high school, the forty-two-floor behemoth stuck out like a sore geometric brick thumb. Twelve elevators. Thirty companies. One Starbucks. One Darren Vender toiling away inside of that Starbucks for coming up on four years. Yes, after nearly four years, I was still in the same place. But at least I wasn’t making the same drinks or even wearing the same lame green apron. The drinks became more ridiculous with every year. People were no longer satisfied with familiar flavors like gingerbread, pumpkin, and peppermint; now they needed Grasshopper Frappuccinos. Fucking grasshoppers.