Fly Already Page 14

  She was older than me, about forty. White blouse, black skirt. Brown hair tied back. Smart eyes. Glistening complexion, a few wrinkles, mainly under the eyes, but they only made her sexier.

  I wanted to ask if I could help, but because I was smoking, the only sound that came out was a slightly aggressive “What?” I think it sounded aggressive, because she took a step back and said, “I’m sorry, nothing.” I cleared my throat and said, “No, it’s okay, tell me. What did you want to ask?” She smiled shyly and half whispered: “I wanted to ask if that’s pot.” She didn’t look like someone who stopped people on the street to ask them a thing like that, and she definitely didn’t look like a cop. So I nodded. “Can I have some?” she asked, and held out two fingers. Her hand was shaking.

  I handed it to her. She tried to inhale and say thanks at the same time. It ended with a splutter. We both grinned. Giving up on the thanks, she took a long drag and held it in, like someone diving underwater. I hadn’t seen anyone smoke that way for years, like a kid smoking a cigarette. She tried to give the joint back but I signaled for her to keep smoking. After another few puffs she tried to give it back again, and this time I took it. We smoked together. When the joint was done, the sun had already set. “Wow,” she said, “I haven’t smoked for so many years that I forgot how much fun it is.” I wanted to say something clever, but the only response I could come up with was that it was good stuff. She nodded and said thanks. I said she was welcome and she walked away.

  That was it. It was supposed to end there. But like I already said, when I’m high I follow people, especially women, and so I followed her. She walked to Ben Yehuda, where she bought a bottle of mango-flavored “Island” juice. From Ben Yehuda she took a cab. I followed the cab and saw her get out at the Akirov Towers, walk into the lobby of one of them, and say hello to the doorman. Forty years old, pressed white blouse, Akirov—not exactly the kind of woman you’d expect to share a spliff with on the beach.

  On the way home I told myself I should have hit on her. Asked for her phone number. My greedy brain kept scolding me for not trying to take advantage of the situation, to get something out of it, but then my heart said very clearly that it would have been not cool to do that. She asked me for a drag, that’s what she wanted, and, yes, I could have tried to get somewhere with her, but the fact that sometimes when a woman smiles at me on the street I can just smile back without trying to cash in on it actually says something good about me. Maybe about her, too, considering that’s what she brought out in me.

  * * *

  —

  The day after I get high with Akirov, I finish work early. Raviv’s mom comes to pick him up at four fifteen because they have a doctor’s appointment with a specialist. In the thirty seconds it takes her to put a sweatshirt and backpack on her booger-smeared kid, she manages to say the word “specialist” five times. Except that not one of those five times does she say what he’s a specialist in. Maybe snot.

  I hop on my bike and get to the beach earlier than usual. I grab a bench and sit there people watching to pass the time until sunset. There’s not much foot traffic. Tourists in T-shirts and sweatpants, gushing about how nice it is in February in Tel Aviv. Israelis on their cell phones, hurrying somewhere without even noticing that they’re by the sea. When the first ray of sun scratches the waves, I don’t light up yet. And even though I’m super-horny for that first puff, I wait another three or four minutes before I start. I don’t even know why.

  While I smoke, I do what I always do: I look at the sea, try to live in the moment, let the beauty sink in. But thoughts fly around my head in all directions. I imagine Raviv at the specialist’s. Maybe he has something terminal. Poor kid. All the kids at after-school torment him. I do, too. I call him Snotface, and I’ve mimicked him wiping his nose on his sleeve. I promise myself I’m going to stop, and the thoughts go back to her again. Akirov. Some part of me was hoping she’d come again today, but it’s weird enough when someone you don’t know asks to smoke with you, just like that, right on the promenade—what are the chances of it happening two days in a row? I finish smoking and keep sitting there until the sun completely sinks into the sea. It’s not nice of me to call her Akirov. So what if she lives in a luxury building? That’s just stereotyping. Like calling an Arab “Arab,” or a Russian “Russian.” Although, when I think about it, that’s exactly what I always do. I’m getting cold now. It was hot in the afternoon so I didn’t bring a jacket.

  I’ve already stood up and taken a step toward my bike when I see her coming. She hasn’t seen me yet. I turn my back to her and start digging through my pockets. I usually roll only one joint ahead of time, but today I have two, because I promised to bring one for Yuri, the Russian security guard who stands at the school gates. He never turned up for his shift, so I still have it in my pack. I pull out the second joint and light it, all casual, like I’m not already high as a kite from the first one. I take two quick drags, still with my back to her, and then I turn around. She’s really close now, maybe twenty steps away, but she hasn’t spotted me yet. She’s on the phone. It’s a grim conversation, I can tell. I’ve had enough of them in my life to recognize one. She hangs up right as she walks past me. It looks like she’s crying. I follow her. Fast. But I don’t run. I don’t want to look too eager. When I’m right next to her I say, “Excuse me?” but in an American accent. Like those old American Jews who always say “Shalom?” and when you stop to see what’s up, they speak to you in English. She looks at me. No recognition. “You dropped this,” I say, and hold out the joint. Now the lightbulb goes on. She smiles and takes it. When she’s right in front of me like that and I can see her eyes, I can tell for sure she’s been crying. “Wow,” she says, “you came just when I needed you. Like an angel.” “What do you mean, like?” I say, “I am an angel. God put me on the promenade today just for you.” She smiles again and blows out a little cloud of smoke: “The angel of weed?” “I’m the angel who makes wishes come true,” I tell her. “Five minutes ago a little girl wanted a Popsicle, and before that it was a blind guy who wanted to see. I can’t help it that I landed a pothead.” I manage to make her laugh. Or rather, the combination of the pot and me manages to make her laugh. She’s happy, Akirov. And I feel happy with her, briefly useful to humanity.

  When the joint is finished, she says thanks and asks which direction I’m going in, and I realize that while we were smoking I kept walking with her and got far away from my bike. I consider lying, but then I decide to confess. I tell her my bike is tied up back where we met.

  “Do you come here every day?” she asks.

  I nod. “And you?”

  “I have to.” She shrugs and points south to the corncob skyscraper. “I work there.”

  I tell her I always come to the promenade after work, to light up a joint with the sunset. A girl once told me that watching the sunset opens up your heart, and my heart’s been closed for a long time, so I come here every day to try to open it up.

  “But today you were late,” Akirov says, glancing at the time on her phone.

  “Today I was late,” I concur, “which is a good thing. Otherwise we wouldn’t have met.”

  “So if I come here tomorrow at sunset, will you share with me again?”

  I pause for a second and scrutinize her. Maybe something’s there, maybe she’s hitting on me. But I can see she isn’t. It’s just the pot. Even today, when I stopped her, she only recognized me by the pot. “Sure. It’s more fun to smoke with someone nice than alone anyway.”

  * * *

  —

  For five days me and Akirov have been smoking at sunset. Five days, and I still know almost nothing about her, not even her name. I know she’s vegetarian but sometimes eats sushi, and that she speaks good English, and French, too, because this pain-in-the-ass French tourist came up to us the day before yesterday and Akirov explained to her in fluent French how to get to the port. I also know she’s
married, even though she doesn’t wear a ring, because on one of our first days she told me that her husband doesn’t let her smoke pot because it’s illegal and because it screws up your short-term memory. “And what do you say to that?” I asked. I wanted to see if I could get her to spill any dirt on her husband. “I don’t have a problem with it being illegal,” she said, shrugging. “And the short-term memory thing? To be honest, it’s not like I have such great short-term memories to preserve anyway.” Well, that was almost a complaint. Either way, it was obvious there was something weighing on her. Something she didn’t talk about even when she was stoned, which for me was the sign of a strong person. Strong and not a whiner. That—and the thing that happened with the fascist vice cop yesterday.

  It was the first time a cop had ever come up to me while I was smoking, and this guy was an especially creepy one. Short but muscular, with a neck as thick as a utility pole and a tight plaid shirt with cut-off sleeves. He shoved his badge in my face and wondered in a cocky voice if he could ask what I was smoking. Akirov, without missing a beat, pulled the joint out of my mouth, took a drag, blew smoke right into his face, and said, “Marlboro Lights.” She tossed the joint over the railing onto the sand below, and just as swiftly pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights from her pocket, lit one, and held out the pack: “Want one?”

  The cop flicked her hand away. “What do you think?” he screamed. “You think I’m retarded?”

  “I’d rather not answer that,” she said with a sweet smile, “because I am a law-abiding citizen, and insulting an officer of the public is a crime.”

  “ID! Show me your ID right now!”

  Akirov pulled out her driver’s license and also handed the cop a business card. “Keep this,” she said, “I’m a lawyer. And judging by your face, it’s only a matter of time before you beat the crap out of a Palestinian and need legal counsel.”

  “I know your firm,” the cop said as he dropped her card on the path. “You guys’ll defend any shithead if he has enough money.”

  “True,” said Akirov, jerking her head at the tossed card, “but once in a while we also defend shitheads pro bono.”

  The cop didn’t answer. He went over to the railing and peered down at the sand strewn with trash. You could see from the look on his face that he was debating whether or not to jump down and try to find our roach among the dozens that littered the beach. “Don’t give up,” Akirov called out, “if you look carefully you’ll find it in an hour at most. And if you take it to forensics they may even be able to isolate my fingerprints, and then you can go to your commissioner and tell him you want to press charges for a marijuana roach. Which is maybe not quite the same as solving a double homicide, but hey . . .” “Bitch,” the cop muttered without thinking, and Akirov continued, “An officer of the law cursing at a lawyer, on the other hand, is a slightly more serious offense.” She winked at me when she said that. “Okay, get the hell outta here,” the cop snapped. I started moving toward my bike but Akirov grabbed my hand and held me back. “You get the hell out, Popeye,” she told him, “before I decide to ask for your details and report you to Internal Affairs.” The cop gave us a violent glare, and my instincts told me to make myself scarce, but Akirov’s hand around mine told me to stay put. Her clammy palm made me realize she was stressed. That was the only sign. The cop hissed something and walked off, and when he was far enough away, she leaned over and picked up the card. “Dumbass,” she murmured, “we lost half a joint because of him.” With an expert hand she tore off a strip of the card to use as a filter. “You have enough on you for another one?” she asked. I almost said that I didn’t but that I lived nearby and we could go over to my place, but something about her wouldn’t let me lie. So we rolled another one, sitting on a promenade bench. A third of her business card became a filter. The other two thirds, which said “Iris Kaisman, Attorney,” stayed in my pocket.

  On Friday evening I’m at my mom’s for dinner. My older brother, Hagai, comes, too, with his daughter, Naomi. You can tell from the second they walk in that they’re half fighting. It’s not hard to fight with my brother. He’s one of those people who are always sure they know everything. He’s been that way since we were born, and the boatloads of money he made in the tech industry have only made things worse. Not even the wallop he got two years ago when Sandy, Naomi’s mother, died of cancer, did anything to soften it. Naomi’s seventeen now, a beautiful, tall girl, like her late mother, and even though she has braces, she doesn’t look or sound like a child for even a second. At dinner she tells us excitedly about a species of dwarf jellyfish that lives forever. This jellyfish matures, mates, then becomes a baby again, and it goes on like that ad infinitum. “It’ll never die!” Naomi gushes, and the mixture of enthusiasm and braces makes her spit on Hagai and me a little bit. “Think about it—if we can study its genetic composition thoroughly, then maybe we’ll be able to live forever, too.”

  I grin at her. “To tell you the truth, even sixty or seventy years sounds like too long to me.”

  My brother explains that Naomi wants to go to Stanford next year and get her degree in biology.

  “Wonderful!” my mom exclaims. “You’ll be brilliant.”

  “What do you mean, ‘wonderful’? I told her she can do her army service first, like everyone else, and when she’s done I’ll pay for her to study whatever she wants.”

  “Not an option. The army has nothing to offer me,” Naomi says.

  “It has nothing to offer you? It’s the army, it’s not a branch of Zara! No one goes there because of the selection or the styles. You think income tax has anything to offer me? No, but I still pay it every month. Isn’t that so?” Hagai glances at me, expecting me to intervene on his behalf. Not because he’s always been such a great brother and I owe him. He hasn’t. But because he’s so right.

  “Nothing bad will happen if you skip the army,” I tell Naomi. “The world will be better off with you studying jellyfish than spending two years making coffee for some horny officer.”

  “Yeah, take your uncle’s advice,” Hagai hisses, “he’s really gone far in life.”

  After dinner, when Hagai and Naomi are gone, my mom gives me another slice of cake and asks if everything’s okay and if I’m seeing anyone. I tell her everything’s fine, that they’re pretty pleased with me at school, and I’m dating a lawyer. I almost never lie to my mom. She’s the only one who has to accept me as I am, so there’s no need, but this lie isn’t for her. It’s for me. It’s for those few minutes when I get to imagine I have a life different from the one I really have. When I warm up at night in bed with someone who isn’t “divorced, looking for a non-committed relationship” whom I dug up on a dating app. At the door my mom says, “You know Hagai didn’t mean it,” and when she hugs me she puts some bills in my jeans pocket. Whenever Hagai lays into me, she gives me a few hundred shekels. It’s starting to feel like my side job.

  I take a cab to the bodega next to my apartment and buy a cheap bottle of whiskey, which the Ethiopian checkout guy with the dyed-blond hair swears came from Scotland even though the label is in Russian. At home I finish off half the bottle. Then a slender forty-six-year-old from Tinder comes over. Before we fuck she tells me it’s important to her that she be honest and inform me that she has cancer and it might be terminal. Then she takes a deep breath and says, “That’s it. I’ve said it. If you’re not comfortable, we don’t have to do it.” “I’m totally comfortable,” I say, and when she comes she screams so loud that the upstairs neighbor bangs on my door. Afterward we smoke a cigarette together, a regular one, and she takes a cab home.

  * * *

  —

  Sundays are usually my least favorite day of the week. It wasn’t always this way, only since I started working. Before the after-school program I did nothing for five years, and then I hated all days equally. Honestly, most of the time I couldn’t really tell the difference. When I got up at midday,
I would look at my watch and wonder if I had any hash or weed or money left and if I remembered where I’d put my cell phone and keys. Questions like “What day is today?” hardly ever came up, and other than Fridays, when I went to see my mom, the whole rest of the week felt like one big, sticky glob of sleep-wake-eat-shit-TV and the occasional fuck.

  My job set things straight. It separated the days out. Mondays started to mean darbouka class and the pretty counselor with the tongue piercing, and Wednesdays meant meatballs in sweet tomato sauce in the cafeteria, which the kids hated but always reminded me of Grandma Geula’s cooking. And Thursdays were soccer in the yard and the kids looking at me like I was Cristiano Ronaldo and not just a tired grown-up who could barely outsmart a bunch of seven-year-olds. And then shitty Sundays with the quasi-Nazi roll call put on by Maor, the guy who runs the after-school program, who always had a bad word for each of the counselors before he disappeared from our lives for another week. After my chill Saturdays, that always rubbed me the wrong way.

  But this week, for the first time since I started work, I was looking forward to Sunday. To the sunset, to the promenade, to getting high with Akirov. And it wasn’t out of horniness or anxiety about how maybe I’d say something and she’d come over to my place. It was that I genuinely missed her. I missed someone I didn’t even really know. And that was exciting and at the same time humiliating. Because that feeling of missing someone was mostly evidence of how vapid my life had become.

  Except Akirov didn’t come on Sunday. I waited for her till it got dark—long after, in fact. She didn’t come on Monday or Tuesday, either. While I smoked alone, I reminded myself that she was just a random woman who’d shared a joint with me on the promenade a few times, not my fiancée or someone I’d donated a kidney to or anything. But it didn’t do any good.