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By Kevin Guzman
I did something good once. It’s the only good thing I
can clearly remember doing. Not because I haven’t done
other good things—I know I have—but because it happened
recently. I skipped work that day. I skip work a lot.
I’m a stockbroker. Even though the firm hates that kind
of shit, I do it all the time. I just don’t show up. I
don’t phone, leave voicemails, send e-mails, nothing. I
just miss. It makes me feel human. Usually, I’m doing
so well and making so much money for everyone except my
clients that they let me do anything I want. If it’s
not that, it’s that whatever firm I’m with has given me
such a big bonus to walk through the door they have to
take my shit until they make a return on their
investment. Sometimes, they fine me heavily. I’ve been
fined $3000 for one missed day. That’s more than most
people in this country make in one month. I didn’t
protest that fine because I felt it easier to give them
the money and say fuck you than have to talk it out and
eat shit. We call that fuck you money in the brokerage
business. Everybody wants fuck you money. I had it.
Even after the fine and taxes, I took home $36,000 that
month. It was a weak month. I was twenty three years
old.
Anyway, I skipped work that day and hid inside my
apartment. I kept the shades drawn and threw a
comforter on the floor in front of my television. I
laid down on the comforter with a pillow behind my head
and watched television naked. On the days I skipped
work, I stared at the discovery channel, ate peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches, drank milk, and stayed
quiet and still if anyone rang my apartment’s bell.
People always rang my bell because I was always ordering
shit online—mostly books, but sometimes other shit I
wanted. Half the time no one was home so they would try
to redeliver and get the same result. Eventually, they
would send the stuff back and refund my bank account.
If a deliveryman came, I could see his shadow because I
lived in a first floor walk down. Sometimes they would
ring the bell for a long time and I would stay quiet and
still until they gave up. I could see them walk up the
three steps from my apartment back to the sidewalk. My
walk down is a real shit hole. I live in the Ghetto.
Washington Heights. The Dominican Republic. The
Dominicans never bothered me, at least not the Dominican
ones. It’s the teenage sons who were born in the US of
Dominican immigrants that pissed me off sometimes. The
whole hiphop thing. They never back down, always in
your face. Their sisters, however—I like them.
Anyway, I moved into the place before I was making money
as a broker and stayed after I made a lot of money,
because I live in New York City and in New York City
finding a nice apartment where you’re not taking it up
the ass in rent is for people who really give a shit
about themselves. I don’t. You can tell. I’m
overweight and very pale with black hair that makes my
skin look even more pallid. I can tan, but I can’t
remember the last time I did that. I’ve lost weight in
the past, but it’s always found its way back home. I
didn’t care to look for a new apartment anytime soon. I
was fine watching the discovery channel naked on the
floor, but I was hungry and had run out of all the jelly.
I got up put and got dressed. I threw on a pair of
windbreaker pants I had bought at a Polo outlet years
back before they kicked me out of college. I put on a
yellow fleece that was riddled with cigarette burns. If
I had known how badly fleece takes a cigarette burn, I
would have bought a black one. My sneakers were new.
New Balance. Gray. I liked them. I slipped into
those. I didn’t bother with an undershirt, underwear,
socks, or even a shower.
Outside I felt naked and unprotected. The cold air went
through my windbreakers and made my cock small. I felt
dirty ‘cause I hadn’t showered and the fleece had black
cigarette marks all over it. I kept my head down as I
passed people on the street and the teenagers on the
corner. I made it to the McDonalds two blocks up from
my apartment. I opened the door and walked through a
herd of children milling about. It was a large
McDonalds with a play area for kids. They were as tall
as the middle of my thigh and I felt like a giant Moses
parting the Red Sea as they scattered to either side
making way for my passing. Before I reached the
counter, an Arabic man approached me. The man might
have been Dominican, but I couldn’t really tell because
he spoke to English with such a heavy accent he sounded
generically immigrant.
“Excuse me sir,” he said, “God Bless you sir,” and he
shoved a small hand printed note at me. “Please sir,”
he said, “My daughter sir. Do you have dollar?”
I didn’t have time to read the note before he asked for
the dollar. I looked down and noticed a tiny girl
holding onto his leg and smiling up at me. She must
have been four years old and small for her age. She had
large eyes and brown hair. She was happy. Her father
was begging, but she didn’t know that. I smiled at her,
told the man I had no change, and pushed past him to the
counter.
“I don’t need money sir. My daughter hungry. You buy
her food,” he said to my back as I stood in line
ignoring both of them. He moved on to someone else and
gave them the same routine. “My daughter hungry,” I
could hear him behind me.
It was a long line. I heard him try at least ten people
for a dollar or food. I felt guilty for having money to
eat. The memory of the little girl’s eyes kept staring
at me. I reached the counter.
“Whattaya want?,” the girl behind the counter asked.
“Two two cheeseburger meals. One with a coke and one
with a Hi-C. One to stay and one to go,” I answered.
I turned around, caught the man’s eye, and waved him
over.
“I got you something man,” I said to him.
“God bless you sir,” he said to me and stood quietly
next to me as the girl behind the counter assembled the
meal. The manager gave him dirty looks from behind the
cheeseburger racks. When the girl as done, I picked up
my bag and handed him his tray.
“God bless sir,” he said again.
I turned around and walked out without saying “you’re
welcome” and without looking at the little girl holding
on to the man’s leg. Who cares about them? I was
twenty something years old and I had fuck you money.