11

Andrew happily traded the muggy air for the chilly dining room. While prepping his tables, he mentally prepared himself for another night of serving men who reminded him of his matka’s past boyfriends.

A tall blond with a personality as big as her bosom, his matka attracted men on any day ending in Y, but her preference for the older variety often found her alone in the end.

His biological father had been ten years her senior, and when he died, the seventeen-year-old girl exited Soviet-controlled Slovakia with what little money he had left her. Unaware of her condition, she stowed away on a freight train bound for Germany, where she stayed until the money ran out.

Her belly began to swell while traveling with a Christian youth group, and out of East Germany, she got a job on an Italian cruise ship. Unable to hide her pregnancy, she befriended a couple on board who helped her get to the United States.

Drusilanya Celich had arrived in Philadelphia just in time to have Andrew.

An immigration official appeared on her second day in the maternity ward. One of the nurses informed INS that no man had visited to claim her or the child. His matka had crafted an elaborate story about an American named Pietro who brought her to the states. Tearfully, she’d explained how he promised to marry her after the baby was born, but she hadn’t seen him since he dropped her off at the hospital in labor.

The fake name and address kept the INS busy for months.

Andrew’s birth made him a citizen, and since his mother was Caucasian, her deportation chances were zero to none. She’d charmed the immigration officer into securing a housing voucher at a hotel and even talked him into helping her collect assistance.

No stranger to hard work, his matka got a job, and before Andrew turned five, she’d acquired citizenship. She’d moved with her son to Atlantic City and met Saul Rothstein while working as a cocktail waitress.

Twenty years older, the genial man sold musical instruments from his shop in Brigantine. He taught eight-year-old Andrew to read music and play instruments, and in their three years together, he would let Andrew fall asleep on his lap every night before putting him to bed.

Saul had suffered a heart attack when Andrew turned eleven. He never put it together that matka wasn’t married to Saul until she’d failed to inherit the music shop after his death. That was when, one windy October night, matka broke the back window of the shop and stole instruments to sell before the man’s family could do the same.

Matka’s next boyfriend was Michael Levitz. Pleasant enough, the older man worked long hours and had no time for Andrew; therefore, matka ended it. He’d tried to get back with her several times until he died in a car accident outside Caesar’s Palace.

Milos Geller had been the rebound lover. Matka met the tall, gaunt man at the Tropicana where she worked, and though he’d made enough money for her to quit, she refused to stop working. Milos shared Andrew’s passion for music and would bring him a vinyl record from the department store he managed every Friday.

Milos had taught Andrew the value of money by giving the fifteen-year-old a credit card. He’d warned him that the balance was a set amount, and there’d be no more once it was spent. Naturally, Andrew burned through more credit than the allowance from his mother could cover. He had no choice but to get a job at the local grocer to pay it off.

Life changed after Milos got shot during a night deposit at the bank. Andrew had been bogged down enough when the job, music practice, and school left no time to explore his budding sexuality with the tourist boys, but losing Milos before his seventeenth birthday pulled him into a deep depression.

The melancholy lifted when the White Plains Musical Academy, for which Milos had urged him to apply, accepted him into their orchestra program.

“Hey, Drew, got room for one more?” Dmitri stood over him, a raven-haired twink with a mug twirling around his thumb.

“I can make room,” said Andrew, taking the mug and dropping it into the little sink.

Dmitri crossed his pale blue eyes. “I’m in no mood for Ricky today.”

Rick was their cock-eyed dishwasher, a foul-mouthed sort who loved talking about his days in the jungles of ‘Nam and how much pussy he banged there.

Andrew and Dmitri shared a laugh until shift supervisor Angela pushed through the swing doors. Unlike the day shift leader, the svelte Angie closed shop at nine and expected her team to be out the door by nine-thirty.

Andrew had lost touch with Samil around the end of July. His first friend in New York seemingly disappeared into a new relationship vortex, leaving Niko his only outlet for conversation.

Dmitri Boscov, the day-shift tea server, quickly filled the void after taking on three nights a week for the extra cash. The nineteen-year-old lived with his Polish parents in Williamsburg, and despite never mentioning his orientation, his lustful comments about the older male patrons confirmed it.

The more evenings Andrew worked with him, the more personal their conversations turned. Last night, Dmitri said his mother forgave his gayness because he was her third son, leaving two others to provide her with grandchildren. Dmitri was Samil’s physical opposite, with long hair, full lips, and pale blue eyes. His waifish male-model looks made the kitchen girls swoon, and he flirted with them regularly.

The pair cashed out at closing and counted their tips before venturing into the sweltering night.

A full moon energized them, and their lively banter about classical music and dance garnished some stares on the subway platform. After bidding Dmitri off with the arrival of his E train, he boarded the Q bound for Brighton.

♪

Sea breezes pushed through the numbered streets, dulling the oppressive heat.

Outside the place, children played noisily in the small courtyard, their parents upstairs watching the eleven o’clock news. The top-floor hallway reeked of long-eaten dinners while muted voices filtered through shoddily painted walls.

Andrew opened the unlocked door and slipped out of his shoes at the end of the hall.

Polish words floated on scented smoke where Sash and Cyril played dominos at the kitchen table. Matka had taught him such games as a boy; he’d get his six dominoes turned over so she wouldn’t see the dots on his pips, and he’d guard them with his life while matka pushed the unused pieces into their ‘boneyard’ pile.

“Andrej,” Cyril announced, his worn terry robe cinched tight. Socks and slippers covered the old man’s feet as the air-conditioning made him cold even in summer.

Sash sat barefoot in his black boxer briefs, the tattoos on his darker skin visible through a sleeveless t-shirt. Sam had told Andrew that Glass-Eye’s sun-kissed tone came from jogging the boardwalk shirtless every morning. Faded blue stars like those found on old maps capped each of his knees, and a tulip tangled in barbed wire lined his inner forearm.

Cyril’s elaborate manacles were just as faded. Tiled bands set behind chevrons explained why the old man rarely walked about shirtless, but when he did, visible were the stars on his shoulders and belly, much smaller compared to the ones on his knees.

“Anything to drink?” Andrew let the older man kiss his hand.

Cyril regarded him over the top of his thick lenses. “In stand-up.”

A commercial lift-top fridge stood next to the bulky ice box where the dishwasher once sat. Beer cans filled its wire basket shelves, and glass bottles of soda lay stacked beneath them. Andrew grabbed one, recalling fondly how Samil called the brand Doctor Pecker.

“Our friend in the police department,” said Cyril in Polish, “let me sit behind him when he typed Konni’s name into the computer,”

Sash connected a domino to Cyril’s. “Arrest date?”

“No date,” Cyril looked over the top of his glasses. “He’s coded in the computer as having an FBI contact.”

Sash took a swig of beer from his bottle. “When did Konni get back?”

“About a week ago. He’s staying with his mother.” Cyril’s thin lips turned downward in that bracket-shaped pout of his. “Sam-Sam tells Radeki that Konni’s new job keeps him out most of the day.”

Sash ran a hand over his hairless scalp, revealing the dark hair of his underarms. “What is Konni’s reason for not being in Ryker’s?”

“He told Nikola that his mother had it wrong,” said Cyril. “He was in a precinct lockup, where he answered their questions, and then they let him go.”

Niko was the only one among them who showed concern for Konrad and brought the young man with them on their weekly boardwalk stroll.

A short, skeletal version of Samil, the rude shithead twitched like a drug addict, constantly moving his fingers though his body stayed still. Andrew added him to the ‘do not engage’ list when the asshole rudely asked if he blew straight guys since he wasn’t blowing Niko.

“According to our friend at the precinct,” Cyril added. “Konni was collected by a federal officer hours after they fingerprinted Miro.”

Sash’s hand slid under the hem of his shirt and scratched at his muscular tit.

“Why would they give a shit about us?”

Cyril laid down a winning domino. “The guns,”

“Ambitious police sergeants care about guns.” Sash frowned at his defeat before setting his eye on the old man. “Federal agents do not,”

“They could be after our Croatian friend.” Cyril’s suggested. “Or they’re after you.”

Andrew walked to the living room.

“Konrad wouldn’t risk being deported to a place he hardly remembers,” said Sash.

Someone had restored the cable tv, and as Andrew used the remote to flick through the channels, he caught Sash gawking in the TV’s dark glass with each screen change.

“Stop staring at Andrej,” Cyril scolded quietly.

“I can’t,” Sash chuckled. “I’ve had too much to drink,”

Cyril hummed in agreement as Andrew’s nerves tightened.

“We all know the price of deportation. Brno, Siberie, fucking Morav.” Sash rambled in a humored timbre. “We’ve shared our horror stories with Konni, and in doing this, we’ve made him a coward.”

Andrew gave up on the television, tossing the remote and strolling back into the kitchen. He pushed his empty bottle into the trash and returned to the cooler for a beer this time.

“Federals will stir the pot and make the INS nervous.” Sash stood and stretched, exposing his taut stomach. “We’ll need to take care of this outside of Brighton,”

“I’ll arrange things,” said Cyril, standing with him. “Where will you be this weekend?”

“I gotta job out of state,” Sash replied to him in English, his voice faintly slurred.

“Good night, Andrej,’ Cyril patted him on the back before shuffling down the hall.

Beer in hand, Andrew picked up the telephone. Warm ale-scented breath found his ear, and he confronted Sash without averting his eyes.

“Why is the phone dead?”

“The young woman Tadeusz married last year.” Sash took the beer from Andrew’s grasp and boldly finished what remained. “She ran it up so high that Cyril refused to pay the bill.”

Andrew slammed the receiver back into the cradle.

Sash planted his hand on the wall, stretching his arm across Andrew’s face.

“Ahn-dredge?” his words came out like a song.

Andrew folded his arms. “You’re drunk,”

The bald Pole smelled of body wash, and with that blue eye gleaming, he stopped just short of entering Andrew’s space. “Did you understand what we were speaking about?”

“Most of it,”

Sash pursed his lips. “Do you still live at Saint Mark’s?”

“Where’s Niko?”

“He’s coming back with Konrad.”

“I hope it’s soon,” mumbled Andrew, slipping under his arm.

The taller man slipped in front of him and spoke kindly in Slovak.

“I have a favor to ask of you, Andrej.” His beer-scented breath tickled Andrew’s nose. “I want you to keep your lips closed about the conversation you heard today,”

“What?” Andrew asked.

“I know if Samil asks you if we speak of his brother,” Sash said. “You will tell him all you heard because your matka taught you honesty in all things,”

Andrew studied his face reflected in the man’s glass eye.

“Samil doesn’t know this about you.” Sash softened, his voice no longer slurred. “Do not volunteer. That’s all I ask.”

“I won’t mention it,” said Andrew, nodding. “Unless he asks.”

Sash played at being offended, and this made Andrew grin.

“Fine, Andrej. I don’t care what you say.” Despite being more relaxed, his English never faltered. “Sam-Sam is a shallow boy, the most important thing in his world is him,”

“Then why bother asking me not to say anything?” he asked.

Then, that lone blue eye regarded him with sudden coldness. Suddenly sober, no more words came from the man but that sinister gaze that cut right through him. Andrew wilted beneath it, whisking to the hall and collecting his shoes.

Andrew slipped on his sneakers at the train platform, haunted by Sash’s hardened face—he’d seen that expression before on the bastard who raped him. Hugging his knees on the train ride back to Manhattan, he cursed his weak resolve.

So many weeks of emotional progress dented in just one brief encounter that terrified and aroused him. He couldn’t explain his attraction these days, only that the pie chart representing his feelings for Glass Eye changed with each new encounter.

Fear took most of the pie today, with the narrowest slice reserved for loathing.

Back on the street, a pay phone taunted Andrew with phantom ringing.

Your mother taught you honesty in all things.

His gait quickened as every phone booth he passed began to ring.

Your mother taught you.

One on Second Avenue bore his mother’s name etched in graffiti. Guilt nagged him with illusions as he wandered toward Stuyvesant Square, avoiding the occasional pay phone and its taunting bells.

Someone must have found the vehicle by now, called the police, and traced it to matka’s insurance company. No doubt she was looking for him, desperate, imagining the worst. He deserved none of her concern, but she didn’t deserve the emotional turmoil.

Samil, those men, this city, they helped him forget, but no diversion or change of scenery would change what Andrew learned about himself that day in the back seat of his car. No, he could never reveal what happened to his matka, but she deserved to know he was alive.

The phone booth felt like a prison cell. She wouldn’t be home at this time of night, working her owl shifts to have her weekends off. Dropping two quarters into the slot, Andrew tapped their phone number on the silver keys and swallowed hard as it rang.

‘This is Drusy,’ her recorded voice made his nose burn. ‘If you have information about my boy Andrej, please call the Atlantic City Police Department.’

Her broken English ended, and a long beep followed.

“Matka, it’s me. Don’t worry. I’m okay,” he said in Slovak, fighting back his tears. “I got a job and a place. I love you. Please, just give me some time.”