Boogaloo On 2nd Avenue (17 page)

"No. I don't think I can do that."

She backed up to the rear of her store and motioned for him to follow. Knowing that she tattooed back there, he said, "No, let's stay here."

"Come here!" she ordered in a voice that was both a whisper and a shout. He stepped carefully behind the counter and down the back hall lined with cone-shaped concrete heads, cowrie shells, palm trees, bolts of lightning...

She was muttering about the Jews while shaking her head. "They are so smart, but so
difficult.
Argumentative." Then, jerking her head as though she just realized that a Jew was listening, she said in a full voice,
"Mira,
we could kill a..." Realizing the strength of her voice, she returned to a whisper: "Kill a dog."

"Why?"

"For Oggún. Oggún loves dogs."

"Why kill the dog, then? Most dog lovers wouldn't like that."

"Oggún is different."

"How so?"

"Why do you argue about everything? You do this and he is your or-isha. But it is dangerous and very expensive."

"How expensive?"

"I don't know. You would be better to get the tattoo."

"I couldn't even explain to my daughter why I killed a mouse. What would I say about this?"

Cristofina looked very agitated. "You can't ever tell anyone.
Anyone, ever!"

"How much for the statue?"

"Forty dollars. It's Oggún."

"Who is the orisha of discounts?"

She did not answer but went to the front counter and wrapped the statue in newspaper.
"Mira,
he is a powerful orisha of war. Also of employment, if that helps. He also knows love. He has hopelessly fallen for Oshún. In Nigeria, Oggún is always placed near the Oshún River to be near his love." Then, looking around her small, dark shop, she handed him a string of green and black beads.
"Mint,
wear this on your wrist. Oggún will protect you," she said. "It's only three dollars."

After Nathan walked out, Cristofina looked up on the shelf and pointed an accusing finger at a small concrete dome with three cowrie shells forming eyes and a mouth. "It is you, Ellegguá, who sends me these Jews, to test me."

Ellegguá was silent.

Nathan had bought an attachée case—a whimsical purchase to put him in the proper frame of mind. It was one of those hard, cordovan leather-covered rectangular cases with brass fittings that, it seemed to him, a man investing half a million dollars ought to have. He put Oggún, still in his
El Vocero
newspaper wrapping, in the case, closed the latches, and left for his meeting about investments. Walking toward the subway stop at Astor Place, with his dark shaggy hair, his untrimmed mustache, blue jeans, knit shirt, and a string of beads on one wrist, he looked as if he had stolen the case.

Armed with the fierce but hopelessly in love Oggún, he entered the mouth, descended to the subway platform as easily as the descent to hell. Hot air was rising up the stairs, and the platform below was twenty degrees hotter than the sweltering air on the streets. Waiting on the platform, he felt that he was cooking slowly, the way Karoline had explained to bake a meringue, the only relief being a rush of cooler air pushed out of the dark, underground tunnel by the oncoming number
6
train. Nathan's only thought was the relief of air-conditioning, and he rushed in the opened doors and took a seat, feeling that he would have enjoyed spending the rest of the day in this cool gray metal box. Then the doors closed.

The train left the station, beating out its rhythm in little bumps as it slid into the dark tunnel where the oxygen got thinner and thinner and thinner. Maybe this was a mistake. There was no way back. The train slowed, was barely moving. Please, don't let it stop. Nathan, feeling panic surging up from his belly, opened his attache case. Just the physical task of unwrapping the statue would distract him. The train stopped. The lights dimmed. The air conditioner was cut off, along with the rest of the air. That was when Nathan realized that he was going to lose control, grab someone, break a window, and get out of this train. Suddenly, the lights and air-conditioning came back. But the train did not move. A voice was heard: "We are being temporarily delayed. We will be moving as soon as possible."

"As soon as possible"—-that could be days. Nathan wasn't going to stay here for days. He could smash a window with the metal statue of Oggún, show the transit company the power of his orisha, and then be out in the tunnel. Out in the tunnel. He could never get back walking through the tunnel.
Nit tsurik.
There was no way back!

It was important that he look normal, that people could not see what was happening to him. He was not sure why, but he had a vague notion that if he was identified as a claustrophobic, apprehended having an attack, he would be confined in some way and never be free again. He stood up and walked to the other end of the car. He walked up to a woman with bright green hair and a ring through her left nostril. He could see on her chest above her cotton top the beginning of a butterfly tattoo. She was probably from the neighborhood. "Don't you just hate getting stuck like this?" he said to her in a strained imitation of a conversational tone. The woman looked at Nathan, who was clutching a strange doll half-wrapped in shredded newspaper. "They say 'as soon as possible,' " he continued, a smile pressed on his sweaty face. "When is that supposed to be?"

"Exactly," she finally answered. "Probably three years."

"Really?"

Perhaps he had been too earnest. People were noticing. If people see that you have completely lost control, they take you and put you in a straitjacket. Can you imagine how a straitjacket feels? You can't even move your own arms. Why would they do that? That would be the worst thing they could do. Can you imagine what a straitjacket feels like when you are trapped in a tunnel with no air? Then they lock you up somewhere in a small room. You never can get back your life once you've been caught like that.
Nit tsurik.

He had to talk to someone to establish his normalcy—an imitation of inner calm from which real inner calm could be derived. If he were forced into a normal conversation, he wouldn't be free to lose his sanity.

He walked up to a man in a light-colored suit, shoving his right hand in his pocket so that his beads wouldn't show. "Some service," Nathan said, and then, trying to smile, he added, "You pay your taxes and..."

The man nodded nervously. Nathan realized that he sounded like the man who was picking through the garbage in front of his shop. "1 pay my taxes! I pay my taxes!" He had probably been a normal person at one time. Now he picked through garbage and shouted about paying his taxes and thought he was being conversational.

He had to get off of this train!

The train lurched. It rolled slowly. It stopped. And then it was speeding toward Union Square, where the doors opened and Nathan again experienced almost instant recovery like a jackhammer that suddenly stopped. He walked the four blocks back to Tenth Street and went to his shop.

"Good to see you made it," said Carmela with an engaging smile. Nathan was thinking he would kill a dog, a pigeon, wear a tattoo, whatever he needed to do.

A shrub of dark curly hair and the bubble-gum good cheer of hot pink French glasses frames, looking almost like a gum bubble had burst on her face and was still stuck at the top, were all that was visible of Dr. Simone Kucher from the softly upholstered chair on the other side of her desk. Her twelve o'clock patient had finally left and her lunch had arrived: a salad of mixed field greens; chicken salad with low-fat mayonnaise, bean curd, and broccoli; mixed fruit and low-fat yogurt; two fat-free blueberry muffins; and a low-cholesterol chocolate bar. Dr. Kucher was dieting.

Barely over five feet, round, and soft looking, as though she were made of some fluffy low-cal pudding, she had cheeks so fleshy that it was hard to see if her eyes were open or shut behind her glasses. But when her interest was caught, the glow of slate-colored almonds showed through the lenses so distinctly that it seemed there had been no eyes there before. When listening to a patient, she nestled catlike into a black overstuffed leather chair and held a yellow pencil like the needle on a barometer over a yellow pad, where she occasionally scribbled notes. Sometimes the pen would just slide slowly out of her thick little fingers and make the dull sound of a bubble bursting in oatmeal as it plopped on the empty sheet. This had happened during the previous session. But now she had her diet lunch and one more patient and then home on time for the Mets game.

Dr. Kucher was not a lifelong baseball fan. She had discovered baseball only two seasons earlier with the excitement of the Mets winning the World Series. She became enthralled with the champion Mets, failing to understand that this was an aberration. True Mets fans, such as Nusan, tested themselves against the frustration of untimely losses. But Dr. Kucher expected the Mets to win, which they were doing again this summer. In time, she would probably realize that she was not cut out to be a Mets fan and switch to the Yankees. For now, if work kept her away from a game, she set the timer and recorded the game. Then she had to get home without hearing anything about the game so that it would be new when she played her tape.

"Nyahn, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah...," she said over and over with her fingers in her ears as she made her way out of her office and out of the building.

"Have a good evening, Dr. Kucher."

"Nyahn, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah ..."

Then she had to find a taxi that was not playing a radio. Then past the doorman and into her building. "Welcome home, Dr. Kucher."

"Nyahn, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah ..." She hobbled in with the furious waddle of an angry duck.

Don't talk to anyone in the elevator. "Nyahn, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah..."

Into her apartment. Safe!

She was taking few new patients over the summer. But if they pronounced her name right—
Kooker—
she would meet with them. Anyone calling her
Kootcher
was out.

This Nathan Seltzer, referred by NYU, had unhesitatingly said Dr.
Kooker.
Nathan found Dr. Simone Kucher through New York University on the mistaken theory that NYU could provide a reliable therapist in the neighborhood. Kucher's office was on the Upper East Side.

Dr. Kucher did not want this new patient. She was bored with her patients. They kept her from baseball. She had a patient who wanted help having orgasms with men other than her husband. The patient's husband saw other women, so she wanted to see other men but was unable to achieve an orgasm with them. She insisted that her husband was somehow causing her to fail. A twenty-three-year-old man was convinced that he could manage his stock portfolio more profitably with the aid of therapy. Another man in his twenties was convinced that he was "not cool" and he wanted to be. First, Dr. Kucher pointed out, they would have to come up with a definition of cool. But to herself, Kucher noted that anyone who went to therapy to become cool never would be. She had three different women who complained that they "loved too much," though the claim seemed to Kucher somewhat exaggerated.

The most interesting recent case she had was a man who was sexually aroused by women in waitress uniforms. He had decided that he needed to come to terms with this fetish because Schrafft's had closed, Horn & Hardart was gone, and there were very few uniformed waitresses left in New York anymore.

So when she asked Nathan what he hoped to achieve with therapy and Nathan answered, "I wanted to keep from losing my mind in the subway," Dr. Kucher's pencil was already at forty-five degrees and due to plop on the yellow pad.

"What do you mean by 'losing your mind'?"

"Bonkers, insane, can't breathe, about to explode and die ... what else? I think I am becoming a claustrophobic, I guess. I'm becoming some kind of nutcase."

Kucher wrote something on a pad. Nathan wondered if she was writing the word "nutcase."

"Tell me about it."

"I never felt claustrophobia until last week." He described the attacks, and Kucher took notes in a light hand.

"Well, first, Nathan, I have to ask you some questions, just to learn something about you. Are you ready?"

"Sure."

"Have you ever had any kind of phobia before?"

"No. Nothing."

"And your family. Any phobias in your family?"

"Phobias?"

"Irrational fears."

"You know. Typical Jewish family Fear of paying full retail prices." Kucher wasn't smiling. "My parents had an irrational fear that I would marry a shiksa."

The patient was afraid of the question. Who cares? What is wrong with Gooden, anyway? He has good stuff Why does he blow the game in a late inning? She wondered if this patient was a Yankees fan. Most of her patients were. Wealthy neurotics root for the Yankees. "Did you marry a shiksa?" said Dr. Kucher, still taking notes but the pen slipping almost parallel with the paper.

"No."

"Where is your wife from?"

"Guadalajara, Mexico."

"Did you find it difficult to separate from your mother?"

"I'll let you know."

"How do you mean?"

"We haven't separated. She lives upstairs from me, and I see her every day. I think she can tell what kind of food we eat through the floorboards."

Dr. Kucher was still writing notes. "Can you tell what food the people below you eat through the floorboards?"

"Below us? No. Why?"

"So why would your parents be able to? Same kind of floor, right?"

"Right.... It's not a big thing."

"You brought it up."

"I just meant we are close."

"I am hearing too close."

"Really? No. It's—it's good."

Dr. Kucher heaved a sigh... and a slight burp. Probably from the salad. "And no phobias of any kind in your family."

"None."

"No fears of any kind?"

"Fears? I mean, my uncle Nusan has this fear of starving. He hoards food. But he is a Holocaust survivor. So that's not very surprising, is it? My brother, Mordy, is afraid that most food has been poisoned by multinational corporations. But he may be right. Maybe he goes a little overboard. But that's because he has been stoned for the last thirty years. It makes you paranoid."