Chapter 3
“Lazy-ass motherfuckers.” Z’s body had almost melted into the tree he used for a backrest, but he could still point with his foot, so Rai followed the vague gesture through the polite cue that waited to get on the boat to the Stature of Liberty.
“The ones playing chess? God, gimme a fucking break. You don’t know shit about their lives. Maybe they’re crazy or some shit. Plus, like you have the right to judge anybody who’s living on the street.”
“I got a right to judge ‘em for being lazy. No revolutionary consciousness at all. Here they are, bourgeoisie shitting on them every day, and whadda they do? Stick out their hands and ask for change for a Budweiser. Pointless.”
“You could manage a bit of compassion.”
“ ‘Compassion.’ What a foofy liberal word. They don’t need somebody to say, ‘aw, poor thing!’ They need somebody to kick ‘em in the ass and conscript ‘em into a guerrilla army. Fucking country we live in. Even the poor don’t have a clue.”
Just as Z had learned to tolerate, perhaps even to enjoy, Rai’s intellectual posing, after eighteen months together, Rai had come to love Z’s diatribes. Though they had never acknowledged it to each other, this mutual tolerance came from a certain shared complicity. Both knew that the other was not what he pretended to be.
From time to time, Rai mustered the courage to admit to herself that she didn’t really know anything. In humiliating, weak moments, she might even admit it to Z. Sure, she spent every day reading Russian novels, and she’d learned enough of the buzzwords of intellectual life to shock anyone, but in the back of her mind a little voice reminded her that she was just a seventeen year old high school dropout. Most of the time, her anger and vocabulary and irony convinced her that she was a real intellectual, but from time to time — like when she picked up an unknown author — she couldn’t escape her doubts.
Z could not hide from himself so easily. Unsure of who he really was, “revolution” had become his identity; he read Marx incessantly, talked a great game, taunted the bourgeoisie… and did nothing. Each sunset reminded him that his existence had done nothing to bring about the demise of capital.
It would be unwise to say that Rai and Z “discovered” each others’ secrets. Perhaps they had only stumbled on the essence of adolescence, the truth of posing. But somehow, this shared falling short brought them together as neither had ever been drawn to another person.
“We gotta do something.”
“Huh?” Z did not lift his head from his book.
“I said we gotta do something.” She set aside the book they’d stolen the day before. Z did not move his eyes from the tome he had propped on his knees, so she kicked it off.
“Fuck! You’ll crimp the pages.”
“So steal another one. At least we’d be doing something.”
“Like reading isn’t doing. Sometimes you just fall into the most petty-bourgeois–”
“You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about, do you?” When Z’s chest went hard like that, Rai knew she’d gone too far, so she flipped the question mark into a teasing smile. Z began to breath normally again. “No, like seriously,” she went on in a kinder tone. “What the fuck are we doing with our lives?”
“What was last night? That’s doing something.”
“Writing my name on a wall in shitty Hebrew? Hardly. Fucking A.”
“You said it made you feel–”
“Leave off the psychobabble bullshit.”
“It’s your psychobabble bullshit,” Z reminded her.
“Yeah…” she sighed, nodded slowly, then suddenly brightened. “Hey! Y’know what? ‘Ruefully.’ You read it all the time in books, right? But, like, who the fuck ever says ‘ruefully’? Like in real life?”
Z’s snort was as close as he ever came to a spontaneous laugh. He picked up his book again, smoothed the wrinkled pages, and returned to where he had left off.
As always, Z set a reporter’s notebook and a cheap ballpoint pen by his side, ready to take down any quote that might develop revolutionary consciousness or impress chicks. Over the last eighteen months, he had filled almost every page with his minuscule, almost illegible letters. Starting from the front cover, he had scribbled lines from his favorite philosophers and Marxist theorists; starting at the back were quotes from romantic poets and anyone else that might help him in his obsessive sexual adventuring.
Rai just nibbled on a Lindt chocolate she’d stolen from Duane Reed and flipped pages restlessly. She was almost halfway through the thin book. By the time she finished the candy bar, she had become restless again, flipping from one side of her body to the other, glancing up from the book to look at the tourists or to listen to the rasta playing “Jesu, joy of man’s desiring” on the steel drums.
“Z, seriously. We gotta do something. I’m gonna go mad.”
“Only twice this week, then. That’s better’n average.” He dodged a weak kick directed at his ankles. “Ok, so. What. Whaddaya wanna do?”
“I dunno. Something important. Something to change history, y’know? Like your dude there.” She rolled onto her hip and pointed to the classic picture of Che on the cover of his book.
Z gestured into the harbor. “Check out that boat. Looks like it’s going to Brazil. Think we could overthrow the government with this?” He began to pull out his switchblade, but Rai stopped him. He snorted. “Like it’s fucking easy to change history.” “Did I say I wanna do something easy? Did you hear me say that?” Rai heard the clichéd tones of the Godfather in her voice and stopped. “Look, all I’m saying is that we’re smart. Right? And you know what’s up, like why the world’s so fucked. And these idiots…” she gestured at the world, or perhaps just at the tourists cued to go to the Statue of Liberty, “these idiots have all the power, but they don’t know shit. There’s gotta be something we can do, right?”
“Write a book. Put up a website.”
“Don’t be an ass, Z.” She stood up. “C’mon. I wanna ride the ferry.”
“What the fuck for?” The lines on his face tightened in exasperation.
“’Cause it’s free. And ‘cause we haven’t been to Staten Island in forever.”
“Most people in the world manage to live happy lives without ever setting foot on Staten Island.” Though he continued to whine, Z was already on his feet, so Rai knew she had won. She pulled him across the park to the ferry terminal, leaving the tones of the steel drum far behind.
Z hated the ferry terminal. Except for during occasional police sweeps, dozens of schizophrenic old men filled the benches, smoking and yelling and occasionally urinating on the floor. Though he would not have admitted it, Z may have seen his own future there. Would anyone who lived on the street for years turn into these old men with Santa Claus beards and army jackets and nicotine stained teeth, unable to speak except in a vulgar shout? Z refused to think what would happen if he turned thirty before he started the revolution.
“Ya hungry?” he asked as Rai paced between the square-cut oak benches, looking for a seat clean of spit, Coke, or drying diarrhea. “Chocolate?”
“Yuck. That kiosk only has Three Musketeers and shit. I’d rather starve.” She caught herself, then giggled. “Yeah, yeah, the image is too close to home. I’m fine.” She had decided that she would not find a clean seat, so she strode to the heavy steel door. Z joined her soon with two Snickers bars, one of which he slipped gently into her bag. He leaned against the wall in a casual way that made all the commuters step back.
“I love the way you do that.”
“What?” he asked.
“That. Scare the shit outta people without trying.”
“Who says I’m not trying?”
“You know what I mean. I wanna get a rise like that outta the yuppies, I gotta come in here waving an Uzi. They pay attention to you.”
“They pay attention to you, little girl. Check out that dude staring at your ass.” The dude in question, whose eyes had indeed wandered, pretended that he’s just been staring at the Daily News. “But whatever, huh? It’s not like anyone really sees me. Or sees you. We’re just…”
Rai felt immensely relieved when the huge doors snarled open, saving her from one of Z’s famous diatribes. They flowed with the rest of the crowd toward the boat, Rai ducking playfully between the suits while Z tried to follow her without losing his dignity. She rushed to the front of the ferry, where a long bench pushed up against a stairwell to give her a comfortable place to put up her feet. The skirt fell away from her legs in a less than ladylike way, but she had been on her feet for too long. She unlaced her heavy shoes and sighed.
Z finally caught up with her, then threw himself out along the bench, taking up a good five seats. It wasn’t rush hour, so he knew no one would bother him.
After the tourists had pushed through onto the front desk, a little knot of musicians began to form by the front window, pulling harmonicas and tambourines from their bags. One, a fat white guy, began to mouth the sounds of a beat box, and Z groaned. “Fuck, Rai. Why the fuck I let you take me on this boat? These fuckers fucking suck cock.”
“Language, Z,” Rai lectured primly, then grinned. The boat growled into gear and a black kid pealed into an R&B descant, Z’s neck became tighter, and Rai rubbed her feet. When the rest of the musicians began a harmony line, Z sat up straight, threw his heavy feet on the floor, and marched up the stairs onto the second deck. Rai followed, trying to make herself look appear rueful.
“Fucking cheesiest shit I have ever heard,” Z declared when Rai sat down next to him on an empty bench next to the window. “I shoulda thrown ‘em into the fucking harbor. Or got a cop to arrest ‘em for creating a public fucking disturbance. Isn’t bad R and fucking B a crime?”
“Free speech…”
“And when the Lord Jesus Christ comes into your life, you will see God!” A heavy set Asian woman was prowling the aisles, shouting at the top of her lungs and pounding the heavy Bible she carried.
“Oh, God,” Z moaned.
“The Lord of Hosts is your salvation, your life, and your redemption! I say that my redeemer liveth! And yours! And yours, and yours!” She pointed to different people around the cabin, all of whom made an ostentatious effort to ignore her. “Yes! My redeemer liveth! Christ Jesus who saves all of us!” Now she pointed at Z. “Yes, even you!”
“Fucking Jehovah.”
Rai giggled. She rather enjoyed seeing her friend in such dire straights.
“And when you accept your redeemer, no, I say embrace your redeemer, joy will fill your life!” The preacher had now forgotten everyone else on the ferry. He sermon was for Z alone. “The joy that passes all understanding, the joy of the handmaid of God, the joy that explodes like a flower–”
“What the fuck?” Z tried to interrupt. “Joy that explodes like a flower? Where the fuck do you get this shit?”
“Read the Bible, son, and you will be saved–”
“Get fucking laid, woman. That’s what you need.”
Either she had heard this line before, or she was oblivious. She went on, “The Lord God says–”
“’Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, that feed in the lillies.’” Z quoted, and for the first time, the woman blanched. “That’s what the Lord fucking God says. ‘Your stature is a palm tree and your breasts are its clusters.’ Or what about ‘and Joshua utterly destroyed every person in Eglon that day, as he had done in Lachish.’ Or…” he let his voice fade away. The preacher was already running away at full speed.
Rai gave a little round of applause and noticed the reluctant admiration of the people sitting close by. “I’m impressed. Where’d you learn that shit?” She stood and pulled Z to his feet, then headed outside onto the outside deck.
“Eat in enough church basements and you gotta have a weapon to defend yourself,” he said with what passed for a wink. “There are so many fucking idiots out there.” He looked across the harbor toward Jersey, where he thought many of those idiots lived.
“And this doesn’t help.”
“This? What?” Z asked, confused.
“All this. That Bible-crazy bitch. The tone deaf morons singing downstairs. All these fucking ads.” She pointed through the dirty glass to an HBO poster inside the cabin. She sat down on the bench, her back to the window, and stared out toward the Statue of Liberty.
“You know what’d be way cool?” she asked as Z sat down next to her.
“What?”
“An ad campaign, but like, for thinking.”
“Huh?”
“Like, all these ads, they make you wanna buy shit, right? Well what if there were ads to make people wanna think? Hard fucking core, huh?”
“People are idiots.”
“Yeah, but just ‘cause they’re always buying shit. So like, what if we make ‘em think about why people have to live on the street, or why–”
“You got a million bucks to buy a billboard on Times Square? Just to write, ‘Dude! Think!’?”
“Yeah. Right.” Her energy left her. “Gotta rob a bank first, huh?”
“Or a shitload of Russian novels.” The tone of Z’s voice stung her, and for once he noticed. He didn’t want her mad at him. “Yo, gimme your knife.”
“Huh?”
He wished he knew what he was going to do with the blade. “Your knife. I wanna use it.”
Rai pulled out her little penknife, hardly worthwhile as a weapon, and handed it to Z. He opened it, leaned forward, then dug it into the bench. Though Rai tried to look around him, he hid his handiwork with his body until he had scratched quite a few lines into the orange wood. Finally, he shifted away so she could see.
“An ad campaign for thought,” he said with unbidden pride. “So?”
Rai pondered a second. “I like it. Y’know, I kinda think I like it.”
