Your friend, Steinstein says again, yours: they asked me to be, last night, then they told me to be, I admit it, damn it…I can’t keep secrets, especially from you — we can’t have any secrets from each other, we’re supposed to be too close. They said: make nice, find out what He likes, baseball, chess, what have you…and as Steinstein talks he takes from a pocket of his pants a fold of shredded white, then removes the lick of paper inside, lays it on the table. Ben scratches Himself in the crotch. Says Steinstein, I’m no good at this, no good…they slipped me an envelope, under my pillow while I was out yesterday at meals. And then a note atop the pillow. It said, check under your pillow. Thanks, I thought, I did. I found this and opened it, no choice. Neither do you, while I’m at it. And I’m curious, no aveyra. I’m no expert at opening envelopes…I don’t unseal, I rip, I tear. Excitable, I guess. I’m not proud. It’s a check. For services rendered. Pay to the order of, it says, zero zero over a hundred and signed…but what I want to know is, how the hell am I supposed to cash it?
Steinstein is small and smart and healthily pale, with a ready receptivity and openness as if the whole world’s his for the having.
Tell me, what are you into, what’s your thing, relevant hobbies, interests, sports and girls, your shteyger…he’s innocent, inexperienced, all that recommends if you’re into it, the openfaced, the openpalmed, have mercy. Quick and happy to be in a house again after a week or so spent bunked. How old are you, and what grade are you in…what’s on teevee, have you recently taken any vacations whether alone or with the family? I’m lonely myself, I miss my mother. Steinstein, where He’d heard that name before He can’t recall…almost impossible that He could’ve, He thinks, as he’s Texas, Steinstein says, and as to exactly where within that enormity he says to everyone from Houston by which everyone should understand a exurb thereof, safe and removed and he knows it, too. Faroff, ranging. In his eyes, which are full plate round, as if headlights, or like those of the wildlife his father’s truck would hit and run and kill: the guileless, alienlike eyes of a boy who’s been allowed to develop an interest in anything, who’s been always encouraged, supported with hugs, kisses, and creditcard, clubbed silver, gold, sky’s limit. His mouth and ears are open only to the speaking and hearing of his own. And his skin, the skin of a boy who’s spent his entire short life inside. Amid the airconditioned. Here, the heating’s pulsing, coming steaming up from baseboard. They sit close to one another with the napkins in the middle and the salt and pepper shakers and the check. Their intimacy the immediate brotherhood bond of the fortunate, that of those bred to be mutually understood, understandable to one another and, also, to their God. It’s obvious, pitifully, that nothing’s ever been denied him, not even his dissatisfaction, not even the forthcoming brag: I’ve never wanted, how I’ve been totally without need until now. Nothing denied him, that is, with the exception of the darkness: the community of those who hate even their own conspiracies of hating, with their Development plans sixmillionpointed, both bulleted and less violently conspired — from lynch murder on down to forbidding you the favor of their sisters. All mostly memory, though, a telling: how my grandfather had found it difficult to find a house, a store; they’d burn crosses on his lawn and pinch his wife. As Steinstein talks, Ben less listens than stares at his teeth, it’s impossible not to: those white perfect drops of bone, like mints to sweeten the tongue and breath. And with his hair perfectly styled, slicked. His nails, pared round, refined. It’s envy, a jealousy they both understand, an animal covet: as Ben’s so obviously special, to Steinstein then to others more powerful than him what with their governments and money. Despite their mutual birthright, because for however short the kid had had a life. What’s it been, thirteen years. And Ben, born only weeks ago. A family loving, or if not that then living, even if Steinstein’s parents had been divorced and his sister she’d married Baptist. Possessions he could break. Relationships and shtum. Steinstein had had other friends before.
