Cha-Ching! (9 page)

“So what's the problem?” Andy said, slurping the top off a lemon ice inside a Dixie cup.

Theo let out a laugh, and everyone looked at her.

“How come there are crayons under the linoleum?” Theo heard herself say.

“And dirty napkins,” Sammy said.

Andy kicked the crayons out of the way with the toe of his sneaker and then folded the piece of linoleum back across the floor, smoothing one corner down like he was sealing an envelope. Then he slurped some more of his lemon ice and took a step back as if he was getting perspective on a painting he was creating. They all looked at the bumps that still remained.

“See how it's wavy,” Sammy said.

They were all actors in an absurdist play.

“It just needs to stretch out,” Andy said. “It's like new leather right now and it hasn't had time to relax.”

Theo and Sammy watched him finish the lemon ice and then crumple the Dixie cup in his hand.

“I don't think linoleum is like leather,” Sammy said.

In the bedroom Sammy stood in front of the light switch, flipping it on and off with no result.

“Do you have a screwdriver?” Andy asked Sammy.

Theo had never met a handyman who had no tools.

She stared at him while Abraham jingled the change in his pocket. Then Andy threw his crinkled Dixie cup on the bedroom floor and pulled a nail clipper out of his pocket. He pulled out the file and used it to take the little screw out of the light switch plate, which fell off the wall.

“Whoaaa,” Andy said. “Come take a look at this.”

They watched as he prodded at something in the wall with the tip of the nail file. There was a quick crinkling sound.

“See this,” Andy said. “See all this,” he pointed the nail file, and each time he prodded it let out another crinkle.

Theo didn't know what he was pointing at.

“All these are roach bodies,” he said touching the brown papery bodies with the file. “The electricity can't make a connection because there's too many in the wall.”

“Okay,” Sammy said. “We're going to come back in half an hour and we want all the garbage out of the back yard and the light switch fixed and the linoleum tacked down.”

“Oh yeah, no problem,” Andy said.

Sammy took the keys from Abraham on the way out and they got into Theo's truck, where Cary Grant was sleeping. Theo lit a cigarette and looked at Sammy.

“Girl,” Sammy said.

“Andy is going to fix everything thing,” Theo replied.

“Andy the handyman.”

“The Andyman.”

They both laughed.

“I've never met a handyman without a screwdriver,” Sammy said.

“What about when he threw his cup on the ground?”

Neither Sammy nor Theo brought up the death camp of roaches unearthed in the wall.

“Let's go to the check-cashing place so I can cash my last check,” Theo said.

Sammy nodded. “And we'll go to the 99-Cent store and get a bunch of cleaning supplies. But I have to smoke a joint first.”

Theo and Sammy were determined to make their new apartment a nice home. Theo swept up the roach bodies and the crayons and Andy's lemon ice cup while Sammy unpacked their IKEA purchases. Sammy sat in the living room assembling the entertainment center while Theo scrubbed the bathroom floor, trying to coax an unwilling Cary Grant into the backyard. Each time Theo opened the door, the dog looked shyly into the yard and then ran back to the edge of the futon.

One of the few things Theo had moved from San Francisco was large piece of blue fabric with yellow sunflowers on it. While they weren't exactly Van Gogh's sunflowers, Theo had bought it with him in mind. She cut the fabric into two equal pieces and nailed them over the front windows for curtains. She also had black-and-white newspaper photos of two of Van Gogh's paintings; one was his sunflowers, and the other, the famous picture of his boots. She taped them on the wall between the front windows, and Sammy hung a Cary Grant poster over the bed. When she'd finally finished assembling the shaky entertainment center, she placed her TV and boom box on it, leaving the top shelf for some tea lights and a paint can that she used to collect loose change.

Instead of a kitchen table, Sammy installed her most prized possession—a tall plywood bar, painted in 1970s puke-yellow, with two matching vinyl barstools. Theo and Sammy would eat their cereal there while resting their forearms on the cushioned armrest designed for the weary elbows of hardcore drinkers. Whenever Sammy collected enough change in her paint can she'd take it to the Coinstar machine and use the money to buy an enormous bottle of liquor to stock the bar. For years, she told Theo, she'd been slowly filling the bar's empty shelves with every kind of alcohol, even liquors she didn't drink. She'd worked for many years as a bartender, and she didn't like the idea of not being able to serve a friend exactly the drink they wanted.

“We could run a bar out of the house for extra money,” Sammy said. “Like a neighborhood place. Did you ever see John Waters on that late night talk show, talking about the bar he went to in Baltimore? It could be like that.”

John Waters had said how everyone knew this woman who had a bar in her house, and you could ring the doorbell and, no matter what time it was, she would answer the door, often in her bathrobe, head full of rollers, and invite you into her house and make you a drink. He said he'd had a wonderful time; they sat together, her in her bathrobe and bunny slippers, him in his plaid suit, and she'd served him his drink and sat next to him while he drank it.

“We could do that,” Sammy said.

Theo listened, trying to identify what she was feeling, adrenaline or hope; either way it was good.

“The only bummer would be if we were tired and didn't want to get up at 3
am
,” Theo said.

“We could have a code. Like a red lightbulb outside the door,” Sammy said. “We would only be open for business if people saw the red light on.”

Theo considered the fact that earlier in the day they hadn't been able to get even one lightbulb turned on due to the quantity of roach bodies in the wall, and that anyone who would be coming to their apartment bar for a drink at 3
am
might not be someone they wanted to let in.

“What if it's not people like John Waters that come?” she asked Sammy. “What if they're alcoholics? It won't matter if the red lightbulb is on or not. They'll just keep ringing.”

“We'll know them. They'll be our friends. We'll be the kind of bar that gives waitresses and strippers their first drink free,” Sammy said formulating her business plan.

“What will you call the bar?” Theo asked.

“Cary's!”

Theo smiled at the dog sleeping on the futon. She wondered if the Andyman would ever show up at 3
am
wanting to trade empty lemon ice cups for a drink.

•

Now that Theo had an apartment she needed to get a job so she could pay Sammy back. She'd always had a job. A job made her feel grounded, even if she hated it. Maybe it was the hatred that grounded her. She also needed a library card, a haircut and a new pair of shoes. With these she felt she could survive anything.

The wad of mostly fives and ones from her last data entry check was fat in her pocket. After a few hours of walking up and down 4th Avenue with Cary Grant looking for
help wanted
signs she decided she felt rich enough to buy herself a slice of pizza. She sat on a fire hydrant eating the slice, feeding a big piece of crust to Cary Grant.

The dog chewed the crust slowly. Theo sat on the fire hydrant people-watching. She loved New York. It was
authentic.
The energy in New York was different from anywhere else she'd ever been—it was everywhere, like a blanket that she wanted to rub her face in. She felt it mostly on public transportation, getting on and off of the subways, traveling up the staircase with a herd of people, and she loved it. It felt like hope.

Theo finally got up, and Cary Grant, who still had a slight limp, walked beside her in her new argyle sweater. The dog had adjusted well to her new life, but Theo had become familiar with all of her movements and was starting to notice tiny nuances. The dog's face got nervous if she had to pass through too many people on the sidewalk, and when Theo noticed the tightened brow, she'd bend down and comfort Cary Grant, patting her.

They walked for blocks, until Theo came upon a bunch of old men leaning against a wall, smoking. The sign said
otb
, Off Track Betting. Inside it was filled with packs of men pacing and spitting and studying the horses who ran in tight ovals on the TVs. The floor was covered in white receipts, scraps of newspaper and sunflower seed shells. Then suddenly, as if some kind of work whistle had gone off, the herd of men outside crushed their cigarettes and filed inside with their newspapers folded under their arms. Theo looped Cary Grant's leash around a newspaper stand and followed them, the gambling demon waking up inside her. With the exception of herself and a middle-aged dyke working one of the cashier windows, it seemed like everyone in the room was an elderly man. She scanned the place until she spotted a guy who looked like he was in his early twenties. He was wearing a backwards baseball cap with the Puerto Rican flag on it. Theo walked over to him.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I've never bet horses before,” Theo started. “How does this work?”

He pointed to the TV, where jockeys were leading their horses around the track. “You pick the horse you want and then you can pick whether you think it's going to win, place or show. Or you can pick a couple horses.”

Theo looked at the television; horses' names were listed with their jockeys and the odds of them winning the race.

“These races are already over,” he said, showing her a newspaper where he'd circled names with a pen: There were three horses with 1, 2, and 3 written next to them. “I usually bet trifecta. You can win a lot more money because the odds are so much greater. See, I'm betting that these three horses are going to finish first, second, and third.”

He held his newspaper up to Theo to see if she was getting it.

“You could just bet two dollars if you wanted,” he said. “Say you just want to bet the long shot.”

Theo pulled a bill off the wad of money in her pocket. “Would you put this on the long shot for me?” Theo asked. She didn't realize it was a twenty until it was too late.

“You like the long shot, huh?”

“I like an underdog,” Theo said.

“Well, sometimes they win. And then you can make a lot of money.”

He looked at the paper and pointed, “Buttermilk is the long shot. 255 to 1. I'll be right back.”

He stood in line where the dyke was working and when it was his turn slipped the twenty dollars through the small opening. He handed Theo a slip of paper when he came back and stood next to her.

“Thanks,” she said as she took it. “I'm Theo.”

“Big Vic,” he smiled.

Theo saw he was missing a tooth.

“My real name's Victor,” he said.

“Okay, Big Vic. Let's win this thing.”

They turned back to the television, where the horses had just left the gate. Big Vic had bet on the front-runners, but as a gesture to Theo had also put two dollars on Buttermilk to win. By the time the horses had made it around the first curve of the track, the entire roomful of old men had become impassioned, shouting at the television in a multitude of languages.

“Come on,” Big Vic yelled, a touch of anger in his voice.

Theo had lost track of Buttermilk in the sea of horses, and then as quickly as the race had started, it ended—with most of the old men throwing their tickets on the ground and a few walking up to the cashier windows. Their gestures and body language seemed over the top, as if they were a bunch of movie set extras vying for the role of losing gamblers.

“Well?” Theo said.

“Uh, you just won a lot of money,” Big Vic said slapping Theo twice in the arm.

“How much?”

“Let's go see.”

They brought their tickets to the cashier window. The room was almost empty and most of the old men had returned outside to smoke. The dyke took Big Vic's ticket and slid a pile of cash to him through the hole in the bottom of the window. Then she took Theo's ticket and exclaimed, “Nice!”

Theo watched her grab a bundle of hundred-dollar bills and count out fifty-one.

“You want an envelope?” the cashier asked.

“Yes,” Theo said, nodding. Her heart was pounding against her chest.

“That's five grand,” Big Vic said in a low voice.

The cashier handed Theo an envelope thick with hundred-dollar bills, and Theo took one out and gave it to Big Vic before folding the envelope in half and shoving it in her pocket.

“This is for helping me,” Theo said.

“No way,” he said trying to refuse it.

“Please,” Theo said, and he took it.

“How did you know to bet on that horse?” Big Vic asked.

“I just had a feeling. Did you hear about that person in Yonkers who won three million dollars playing Lotto but never claimed it?”

“Yeah.”

“I worked at the store that sold the ticket. Anyway, I just had a feeling about Buttermilk.”

“I'm glad I put some money down, too. Otherwise I would've been pissed.”

Big Vic looked at the clock.

“I gotta take off for work. But maybe I'll see you. I come here all the time.”

“Yeah,” Theo said. “See you.”

Theo had forgotten she'd left Cary Grant tied to the newspaper stand, and she found the dog shivering and looking for her nervously. She put one hand on each side of the dog and kissed the top of her head repeatedly.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered into the dog's cold ears.

Theo was dying to tell Sammy she'd won money on the horses, but when she got home the apartment was empty. She counted out the seven hundred dollars she owed Sammy and put it on top of the bar under a bottle of Campari. Then she peeled off three hundred dollars for herself and hid the rest in her coffee can.

The next order of business was to buy herself a pair of winter boots. She returned to 4th Avenue excited, wondering if she only had to think positively in order to make things happen. How had she known Buttermilk would win? Could people really make anything come true with positive thinking? Now she wanted to manifest the perfect pair of work boots. She'd heard a long time ago, “Shoes make the man.” She bet they made the sirma'amsir, too. Ten years ago a roommate had given her a perfectly worn pair of leather ankle boots. She'd had them resoled until they were completely destroyed. Now, as she walked down 4th Avenue, Theo looked in every window for a pair of boots like the kind Van Gogh had painted. Eventually, she stumbled upon an old-timey menswear store.

She walked in and was immediately hit with a wall of musty air. The store was a sirma'amsir's dream come true, with classic pajama sets like the real Cary Grant would wear, folded neatly over pieces of square cardboard and wrapped in plastic. An old, white-haired black man sat on a stool behind the counter next to a space heater, reading the
New York Post
. Theo nodded hello, then wandered to the wall where a variety of dusty sample boots sat on top of their boxes. It was a whole store of dead stock—straight from the 1950s.

She wouldn't have been surprised to find Van Gogh's boots among the ones on the wall. She scanned the available sizes of black leather ankle boots with silver eyelets until she found an 8½ men's. She slid the box out, careful not to topple the tower of boxes above it, and unwrapped thin paper from the boots.

“You find what you're looking for?” the old man yelled over to her.

“Yes,” Theo said.

“Okay,” he said, turning the page of the newspaper.

Theo unlaced her busted black Converse and looked at the toenail on her big toe pushing through her thin sock. Now that her feet were out of the shoes she realized they were numb and freezing. It had always been hard for her to buy herself socks, and hard to throw away socks that were rendered useless. She didn't know why. She didn't think twice about putting twenty dollars on the long shot, and she had no problem buying Cary Grant a forty-dollar sweater. She slipped her feet into the stiff leather boots, tied them, and took a few steps so she could get a look at them in the mirror. They were so perfect she wanted to cry; she felt like a house with a new foundation. She put her old Converse in the box and carried it up to the counter where the old man laid his newspaper down.

“All set?” he said.

“I'm gonna wear them home,” Theo told him.

“All right, then,” he said, adding, “You need anything else? Socks? Drawers?”

Theo loved that the old man called underwear “drawers.” He was reading her as a man; when he said, “drawers?” he'd held up a three-pack of plain white boxer shorts.