The Truth of Right Now Read online

  “You’re not stupid, Dariomauritius. Far from it. So how can you expect me to compromise with someone who treats me with nothing but contempt? Would you be willing to work with a person like that?”

  Dari walks over to his father and stands in front of him.

  “What kind of person do you want me to be?” he asks.

  His father shakes his head. “I don’t like your tone.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Sit down.”

  “No.”

  “Can’t you do anything I ask?”

  “You never ask me to do anything. You only give orders.”

  His father sips his tea and rubs his temple. It’s hard to know if he’s ever really listening or merely strategizing. Chess on steroids.

  “Will you please be so good as to sit down and talk with your father?” he sweetly asks. Sweetness coming from him is like a love poem courtesy of Edgar Allan Poe. “That was a question, wasn’t it?”

  Dari sighs. He sits on the far end of the couch safely out of reach.

  “What were you doing out there all night?”

  “I was with a friend. I slept at her place. Nothing happened. We weren’t even in the same room.”

  “If nothing happened, why didn’t you just come home?”

  To this, Dari has no response. At the same time, both men sigh deeply.

  I’m so tired of this. So fucking tired.

  “Why don’t you make us some breakfast?” he suggests. It’s sort of close to being civil.

  Reluctantly, Dari goes into the kitchen and heats up a pan to make eggs. He’s stuck. Stuck here with the old man and no one else. The butter slides around the pan, and Dari wonders how long he can stand this. Each day worse than the day before.

  They eat their eggs in silence. This is a game. Whoever speaks first is the loser. Dari does not intend to lose. Nor does his father. To distract himself from the tension and his growing anger, Dari thinks about Lily and hopes she’s all right. He thinks that maybe they should go to a movie tonight. Someplace where there’s no pressure to talk. Not that he minds talking to her. He remembers how mad she got yesterday when she stormed out of her room and he nearly laughs. He knows she was upset, but it was kind of funny. He still can’t believe she knocked him out of that chair.

  Crash! The old man has thrown his plate against the wall and it has smashed into pieces.

  Dari flinches, but only slightly. He looks at the mess of broken IKEA-grade dishware and suppresses the urge to instantly start cleaning. It bugs him, all the pieces, the grease from the eggs slithering down the wall and onto the floor. It is not aesthetically pleasing.

  The old man quietly sips his tea. He’s not going to get up. He’s not going to speak. Dari finds himself impressed. His father really intends to win this game.

  But he won’t.

  Dari unhurriedly finishes his food, takes his plate to the sink, washes it, and sets it in the rack to dry. For a moment he leans against the kitchen counter. He considers asking his father if he’d like anything else. Toast? Pancakes? Just to taunt him. But that would require speaking, and he isn’t about to do that. He decides to make some coffee. As he fills the filter, the old man huffs sharply, but still he says nothing. Dari pours the water in and remains standing as he waits for his pot to brew. While he stands there, he thinks—though he can’t be positive—that his father’s hand is shaking. Which would mean he is really angry or really scared. Or both.

  Coffee’s done. Dari pours himself a cup—milk, no sugar. Not in the mood for sweetness. He walks toward the kitchen table, and then decides instead to adjourn to the living room. He sits on the sofa and turns on the television. He can feel his father’s eyes burning holes in his head, but he doesn’t care. Honestly, he’s kind of enjoying it.

  Saturday-morning cartoons sure aren’t what they used to be. The animation is lazy. Too clean. He misses being able to detect pencil lines and paint strokes in his favorite cartoon characters, his mind never quite separating the creatures from the art that brought them to life. He finally chooses a raunchy reality show. Not because he likes it. On the contrary: He finds it idiotic. But because his father detests vulgarity with an irrational zest, this is his choice. He turns up the volume a little bit too high. He takes a luxurious gulp of coffee, savoring what he imagines Colombia must smell like, and then he glances over at his father.

  He remains alone in the kitchen, white-knuckling his teacup, eyes glaring though his dorky glasses. Dari stares into those angry eyes and it takes all his strength to keep from laughing. This little man with the pride of a goddamn lion? This is who has scared Dariomauritius all these years? He doesn’t laugh. He knows that would be cruel. No. Instead he keeps his eyes on his father as he lifts one filthy combat boot and then the other and crosses them comfortably on his father’s antique coffee table. Then . . . he smiles.

  A victory.

  The old man moves with the speed of a panther and punches Dari three times in a row in his face. Then he grabs his hair and knocks his head into the coffee table, where there were probably a few traces of dirt left from his boots. When he sees blood, the old man backs down, but he’s still got hold of Dari’s precious locks.

  “Do you have anything to say to me?” he growls, breathing hard.

  Dari’s face burns from the pain, his vision is blurry, and he wants his father to let go of him, so he thinks, Yes, I do. I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry you hate me. I’m sorry I remind you of Mom. I’m sorry you’re a bitter old man. He thinks these words and he thinks he’s saying them for a moment, but he is not. He isn’t speaking at all.

  Dari shakes himself from a brief leave of his senses to find his hands around his father’s neck and his father slowly turning a color he didn’t know humans could turn. He lets go and the old man collapses on the floor.

  Dari can’t believe his eyes. He can’t believe his hands. He has no memory of reaching out and attempting to end his father’s life.

  A chilling thought crosses his mind. It would’ve been so easy to do it. Too easy.

  He can’t look at him. He can’t watch him pant on the floor like that. So he fills a bowl with ice and tends to his injuries alone in his room.

  Time has passed. Not a single word has been said in that time. A while ago, he heard the apartment door open and slam shut, but no repeat of those sounds. His father is out there somewhere. Licking his wounds. Dari glances at his hands again. Since he was young, he’s feared his father’s wrath. Now he fears his own.

  * * *

  They share a crazy-strong pot of French press coffee.

  “What about a raw steak? They do that in boxing movies. Would that help?” Lily asks, referring to the purple bruise forming just under Dari’s left eye.

  “Doesn’t hurt much. Does it look awful?”

  “It’s not so bad,” Lily assures him. But he knows it’s not so good, either.

  Dari opens a Daily News. “We could do a movie. There’s a Kenneth Anger fest happening nearby.”

  “Describe Kenneth Anger in two words.”

  Dari thinks for a moment. “Gay Satanist.”

  Lily crinkles her nose. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for that.”

  “Comedy? Foreign? What’re you feeling?”

  “Why don’t we just head east and see what’s playing? I’m also fine just walking around,” she says, still frowning at his bruise.

  “Sounds good.”

  “He shouldn’t treat you this way.”

  Dari continues drinking. He knows this, but so what? Knowledge is not always power.

  “I feel like maybe I should report it or something. I dunno.”

  “No authorities. They just make things worse.”

  She squints a little, giving him a perplexing expression. “Can I ask you something?” she starts.

  Oh, Jesus.

  “Go ahead,” he says.

  “What went down at your old school?”

  He snorts and stares out the window.

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nbsp; “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Lily offers.

  “I know that,” he replies. “This dumbass senior couldn’t stop messing with me because he was obsessed with my girlfriend.” At the word “girlfriend,” Lily stiffens.

  “Ex-girlfriend,” Dari clarifies, not that he needs to. “He was always runnin’ his mouth, trying to get under my skin, and I mostly ignored him like you would a fly that keeps buzzin’ in your face. I eventually had to deal with him. He got ahold of a painting I was working on and painted over it. Painted the whole thing goddamn puke green. And the fool made sure I knew he did it too! So I beat his ass pretty bad. Broke his nose and one of his ribs. Not one of my prouder moments.” He pauses to pour more coffee into his cup. This time he stirs some sugar in it. “They, uh . . . they called the cops. I got pulled outta class in handcuffs.”

  Lily covers her mouth in shock. Then tries to casually lift her cup to her lips, but her hands are clearly trembling.

  “It was all a big show, ya know? Just to scare me or embarrass me, I guess. I was held overnight and then released. Doesn’t matter. My record gets expunged soon as I turn eighteen. Man. You shoulda seen my old man’s face. I was lucky. Day before the fight, he found out he’s got high blood pressure, so his doctor put him on Lozol and told him to control his anger. She said one more outburst could give him a stroke. So I was grounded and that was it. I was so lucky.”

  “Wow.”

  “Should I keep going?”

  “There’s more?” Lily practically shrieks.

  “After I was released, I snuck into school after hours, went into the girls’ locker room, and spray-painted ‘Donovan Washington is a cunt’ in big letters across the windows. It was like I was still so mad that sending him to the hospital wasn’t enough. I got notified the next day that I was officially expelled. Shocking, right? The irony is that by the time he destroyed my painting, I’d already broken up with Kendra. I was no longer an obstacle to his dream girl. If he’d just asked me about it, I coulda told him and the whole thing might’ve been avoided. Course she had no interest in him anyway,” he says, shaking his head. “Stupid.”

  Dari sips his coffee as Lily stares at him in silence.

  “He is a cunt, though,” Dari adds thoughtfully.

  “How’d you get into our school with . . . that kinda background?”

  “My dad knows how to pull strings. Plus I add much-needed diversity. And my art. Bullshit like that.”

  Lily nods. Mildly shell-shocked.

  Dari fiddles with one of his locks and clears his throat. Maybe he’s revealed too much. “You sorry you asked?”

  “No,” she breathes. “I just hope I never piss you off.”

  “Ditto.” He winks.

  * * *

  While walking east, Dari notices something and stops.

  “Come here for a sec,” he tells Lily. He leads her into a small alley and she watches as he scales a few feet up a brick building like he’s Spider-Man. He then hoists himself up onto the fire escape.

  “What are you doing?” she calls.

  He shushes her and takes some things from his bag. He cautiously looks around, does some quick maneuvering with a can of black spray paint, a brush, and a sharp, knifelike tool. He’s fast as hell, but always precise. Before Lily can inspect what he’s done, he’s back on the ground and running.

  “What—”

  “Come on! Now!”

  Lily races after him until they get to the next avenue. Only then does he stop and check behind him to make sure she’s there.

  “What was that?” she shouts, gasping for air.

  “My tag,” he says, not quite as out of breath as she is.

  “Wait a minute! I asked you weeks ago if you were a tagger and you said I was being racist!”

  “I never said you were being racist. I implied you were.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t like being profiled. Doesn’t matter what the truth is.”

  Dari continues walking, heading toward the first movie theater on their list.

  “I don’t know what to say to you,” Lily mumbles.

  “Then don’t say anything,” Dari replies, with a sly grin.

  They check out the movie choices. None appeal.

  “What is your tag? I couldn’t see it.”

  “I’ll show you later,” he teases.

  “When?”

  “When the time is right.”

  On the way to the next theater over another block, they pass a long line of wannabe punk kids way too twee to be anything approaching edgy.

  “What is this place?” Lily asks.

  Dari follows the line with his eyes and it seems like they’re all waiting to get into a dark basement.

  “I wonder what they’re waiting for.”

  “Ask,” Dari urges.

  Lily sighs. She clearly doesn’t want to ask. Dari considers stepping in and doing it for her, but she quickly summons her courage.

  She spots a girl with long purple braids and a nose ring and gently taps her barbed-wire-tattooed arm. The girl jumps.

  “Oh, sorry. I just wondered who are you guys waiting to see?” Lily cautiously asks.

  Purple Braids seems confused for a second, but then her face breaks into a radiant smile.

  “Bevvy Botswana. She’s the truth.”

  Lily and Dari exchange looks.

  “The truth?”

  All at once, several heads of varying neon colors turn and echo: “The truth.”

  “When she plays, it’s like . . . it’s like she’s giving you an all-access pass to the solar system,” Purple Braids gushes.

  “Bigger than that. It’s like she’s putting the universe in your hands. She is everything and more,” a white guy with aqua dreadlocks and matching beard contributes.

  A few of them argue about the size and scope of Bevvy Botswana’s “truth.” Solar system? Universe? Nature all-encompassing? They argue about how to label themselves in Bevvy Botswana nomenclature. Are they Bevvians or Botswanians? Or BevBots? This is more than enough for Lily and Dari. No movie could compete with this. They hop on the back of the line. Lily giggles.

  “What?” Dari is dying to make fun of these clowns and hopes this is the moment.

  “Nothing. I just never do stuff like this.”

  Dari considers what Lily has said. Generally, he doesn’t either. But he does sometimes.

  “Do you think you’re a ‘no’ person?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. What does that mean?”

  “Do you say ‘no’ to things automatically? Easily?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s try to say ‘yes’ to things tonight.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Totally. Let’s do it. Let’s be ‘yes’ people for”—he checks his watch—“at least the next three hours and change. As soon as Sunday starts, we can go back to ‘no.’ If we want. What do ya think?”

  “I think you’re awesome.”

  She says it and she means it. She’s completely vulnerable, like she’s not expecting this feeling to be reciprocated in any way. Dari takes in a breath. He likes to be prepared for these things, and he wasn’t. They stare at each other for several seconds as the line begins to move forward.

  “I—I think you’re awesome too.” He says it quietly, looking away slightly.

  They follow the crowd inside. Lily is silent. Damn. He said the wrong thing, or maybe he said the right thing, but at the wrong time. He’s not used to freely expressing his feelings. Not positive ones anyway.

  Down inside the basement—it is a basement—chairs are strewn all over the room. There are no actual rows. A lot of people choose to stand or sit on the windowsills or the floor. The room is a mass of bodies. Lily’s attention darts around the space as if trying to appraise everything she sees. Her eyes won’t meet Dari’s.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . .” She pauses. Then she looks at him directly. �
�You don’t ever have to tell me something if it isn’t true.” She swallows hard and then inspects the fingernails on her hand. She looks exactly like her mother right now, which isn’t such a bad thing.

  “It is true,” he insists.

  Lily shakes her head. “Really. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

  Dari stares at her for a moment. Hesitantly, he pulls his sketch pad out of his backpack. He quickly flips to a page that he visits often. Now Lily seems to be counting people in the room to keep from looking at him. He taps her arm and she finally meets his eyes again. He nods toward the sketch pad. Lily stares at it for a few minutes. Then she pulls it onto her lap, delicately touching the soft lines.

  “That’s how awesome I think you are,” Dari mutters.

  It isn’t complete yet. The legs barely have any detail, but the face . . . the face has been wrought with care, detail, and so much beauty.

  “You made me look so beautiful.” Her voice once again caught in her throat.

  “That’s just how you look,” Dari says as if it’s obvious, and takes the pad back, slipping it in his bag.

  “Thank you,” she says, with the timid voice she used when they first met. But she holds his gaze.

  Dari smiles. Then the lights shift, the crowd starts chanting, “Truth! Truth! Truth!” Dari and Lily smirk, and join in the chanting.

  Two men jump out of the darkness and start beating on bongos, yelling, “Ha,” in time with their beat. Then three women enter with harps and proceed to play them with their teeth. Someone from the audience screams in ecstasy. Dari looks toward the sound, and it clearly came from Purple Braids, who is already writhing around in pleasure. Finally, Bevvy Botswana enters. She is a dark-skinned, bald woman with black lipstick and a dress that seems to be made entirely from fish netting. She opens her mouth and lets out a howl. Not a scream, but a howl. Dari is so shocked, he begins laughing uncontrollably. A few of Bevvy’s loyal Bevvians (or Botswanians or BevBots) glare at him and he could swear one of them hisses like a cat. Lily nudges him and he tries to stop, but without success. Unfortunately, Bevvy notices her laughing audience member. With razor-sharp focus, she leaps off her perch and gallops toward Dari and Lily. She does a snakelike movement, shouts something in another language (which sounds suspiciously like fake Swahili to Dari), then tips her head to the ceiling and releases a high C so loud, the room quakes and her loyal flock bows down to her, breathing the word “truth” over and over. This just makes Dari laugh even harder, and now Lily can’t hold it back, either. The followers shout and throw things at these cynical brats. They run out of the room, up the stairs, and back out into the night, still laughing, but running for their lives just in case Purple Braids and her cohorts are armed.