An excerpt from the novel, Neon Catalog
by Drew Lerman ’10

Enrique was supposed to meet Jacqueline at a little Cuban cafetería near his building, which pleased him because her Spanish was very poor.  She had asked him to meet her this past weekend at a Jewish deli in Aventura, but he’d said he was too busy to listen to her ask him for money.  She hung up and he finished his Scotch feeling, finally, happy to the bone.  He unpaused Andrea Bocelli whose voice returned flying high midchorus through “Con te partirò,” and he thought how nice it was to be alone in the world in a big leather chair in your state-of-the-art media room.  She called back later and they agreed to meet Thursday downtown near his office.

He arrived at the place at one twenty.  The tables were mostly taken and there was a din of loud Spanish in the humid interior.  Jacqueline was drinking iced coffee at a little table for two and seemed very involved in a bitter line of thought.  She looked gaunt and frail, and he realized that as the years passed his desire to fuck her was slowly returning.

“You’re late,” she said.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re twenty minutes late.”

He sat down, laughing.  “You known me twenty-five years, I show up a little late and this is some kind of a surprise to you?  This is some kind of a shock wave?”

“Shock wave?”  Even repeating it seemed to pain her.

“I’m saying, you known me how long?”

She raised her hands and said, “O-kay.”  It was simultaneously a gesture of defeat and superiority, an I-won’t-sink-this-low.  It had traveled with them through years of marriage and then years of divorce, and by now it brought him a merry nostalgia.

He lifted the cup of water that had been waiting for him, and he drank still grinning.

“I think it’s a case of you like this,” he said.  “You like having this fight.”

“I don’t like having this fight.”  Her eyes were moving along the Cuban wall decorations now.

“You like it.  To you, it’s a lot of fun.  You get to the place on time, you know I’ll be late, and then when I’m late we get to have this little song and dance.  Then you say that in America when someone says one o’clock it means one o’clock.”

“Okay, Enrique.”

“Isn’t that the case?  Am I wrong?”

“You really are just a true wit.”

“Then I’m gonna say, you know what I’m gonna say.  I’m gonna say, this ain’t America, honey!  It’s Miami!”  He laughed with squinted eyes and banged the table.

“Right, very good.  Very funny.”

“Then we order some food and you say, So listen, I need some money.”

“First of all, false.”

“You say, Enrique baby, listen, I need some money.”

“First of all, no.  First of all, let me just say that I know Miami, I know plenty about Miami.  Miami doesn’t have appointments, people do.  Some people are on time and some people are late.  Second of all —”

Enrique was chuckling.

“Second of all, I’m not coming to ask you for money, I’m coming to you with a business proposition.”

“Oh, this I’m excited for,” he said.  “This I look forward to.”

A plump waitress came over and asked for their orders in Spanish.  Enrique took a long time ordering a lot of food, joking with her, changing his order halfway.  Jacqueline said, “I want like a salad.”  It was almost a dare and her hands were raised again.  “Can I have a salad with some chicken in it?”

The waitress glanced at Enrique and at Jacqueline.  Then she nodded.

“Y para beber?” she asked Enrique.

“Café cubano.”

“Bueno.”

The waitress left and Jacqueline’s eyes lingered again on the walls.  “You see that look she gave me?”  Her eyes remained away from his.

Enrique shook his head.  “You’re crazy.  You’re like people who hear voices.”

“Okay.”  She gave that same look of mature surrender.  “I’m saying is that a bizarre thing to order?  To get a salad with chicken in a restaurant?  No.  I come in here, I don’t speak Spanish, I’m getting looks for ordering a salad with chicken.  This is why you bring me here.  You think I don’t know that?”

“I bring you here because I know you love to come here.”

“She’s giving me looks.  Meanwhile, welcome to America.  And look at the walls here, there’s like an out-and-out nativity scene.”

Enrique looked at the shelf she pointed out, where, sure enough, there was a little wooden nativity scene.

“You don’t like the baby Jesus?”

“It’s not the baby Jesus, it’s more like — or rather, I don’t know, you don’t like the twenty-first century?”

Enrique shook his head, spread his napkin across his lap.  “I don’t love it.”

“I’m saying, we’re not in a, a, an iglesia, here.  Which is where, which is where in the twenty-first century these things are relegated.  As opposed to, I’m trying to eat lunch.”

“I’m not crazy about the twenty-first century.  Take it or leave it is my opinion.”

“Uh huh.”  She sucked up the bottom of her iced coffee.

The door jingled open and Enrique watched a slutty-looking woman work her way through the restaurant and settle at a barstool.  Jacqueline gave him a look.

“So,” he said, “you came here to talk to me about money or about the baby Jesus?  I could do either.”

“I’m here with a business proposition.  And it’s something which, long-term, is going to save you a lot of money.”

“Oh I love this one,” he said, glancing again at the slutty-looking woman.  “A classic case of I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.”

“Okay.”

“I’m saying Popeye.  That’s my favorite cartoon, did you know that?  Whatsisname.”

“Wimpy,” she offered.

“Wimpy, right.”  Enrique chuckled more, but sensed it was time to settle.  “Wimpy,” he repeated.

They sat in a brief stalemate and allowed the adjacent conversation — a woman and a man arguing about Castro — to occupy their table for a time.  Then Jacqueline widened her eyes to indicate her readiness to get down to business.

“So okay,” she began.  “I’m doing my part in this little game.  I go to the gym five, six days a week.  I have a trainer.  I’m on JDate, I have an account, I message people and I meet them.  I go to these charities and events and I — I network.  You know.”

“You’re telling me this.”

“Not to mention, you have no idea how good I’ve had to get at oral.”

“Ha, okay.”

“What I’m trying to convey is that I’m doing my part.  It’s not like I’m not trying.”

Enrique’s Cuban coffee arrived and he didn’t acknowledge the waitress or look at the cup before lifting it for a little sip beneath his mustache.  His eyebrows were arched at Jacqueline.  It seemed she was up to something real good this time.  Although, there was no doubt about it, she wanted some money.

“I’m waiting for the moment of I-get-it.”

“It’s simple,” she said.  “I mean, it’s your area of expertise.  Entrepreneurship.  If you want to succeed you’ve got to adapt, right?”

“Sure.”

“Let’s say you have a business, shipping goods.  Everyone’s going around in trucks and you’ve got a horse.”

“You’re saying that’s no good.”

“Of course,” she said.  “How can a person succeed when you’re basically working with old technology?  I’m saying you’re competing.  It’s survival.  It’s like what you say, like why did the dinosaurs go extinct but not the cockroach.”

“Because cockroaches adapted.  Sure.  I love that one.”

“Yeah it’s good, which is why I bring it up.  The cockroaches could adapt.  That’s entrepreneurship.  If you don’t adapt, you can’t survive.”  She let the words sink in a second and then she leaned in.  “So what I’m looking for from you is an investment.”

“Uh huh.”

“Which long-term —”

“Is gonna save me a lot of money, yeah, I heard about it,” he said and leaned in too, lowering his voice.  “How much are we talking?”

They shared a long stare down, neither cracking.  Their food came, but they only squinted their eyes and continued staring.

Finally, Jacqueline said, “I’m going to need eight thousand dollars.”

“No.”

“Now listen, just listen.  Like I said, I’m doing my part, I’m putting in the hours.  But you’ve been to South Beach, Enrique, you know what it’s like.  I’m competing with mutants out there.  Sure, I can give a guy the eyes and get myself a free drink, okay.  And I do JDate, I go out to dinner, but I’m gonna be forty-seven now.  Forty-seven.  I need to get myself remarried today.  Not tomorrow, not next Wednesday, and certainly not next year.  I don’t have that kind of time on my hands.  I go to the gym, I stay in shape, but the fact of the matter is that the streets are packed end to end with these . . . these creatures — tan and toned, everyone seems to be eighteen years old.”  She exhaled and briefly flashed the same dark expression he’d found on her face when he arrived.  She finished up quickly: “The fact of the matter, anyone my age who expects to stay in the game needs a boob job, and so that’s what I’m asking for.  Eight thousand dollars for a breast augmentation procedure thing — everyone else has one — and then I’ll get myself remarried and your alimony goes down, or goes away probably.”

Enrique smiled in a daze and shoveled a forkful of rice into his mouth.

“So will you do it?” she asked.

He lifted his napkin from his lap to wipe his mouth as he chewed.  “You’ve got to be fucking crazy,” he said.

“What?”

“You’ve literally got to be out of your mind.  Are you crazy?  Do you think I’m going to pay eight thousand dollars for you to get a boob job?”

“You’d be crazy not to!  I mean.  We’re talking about eight thousand dollars.  What’s eight thousand dollars?  Think what this is going to save you long term.  I mean do you have any idea what kind of money you’re paying me every month?”

“Do I have any idea?”

“Obviously you do.  My point is, this will save you eight thousand dollars so fast you won’t even miss it.  And more.”

“Jacqueline, no.  The answer is no.  You have my money, it’s yours to do what you want with.  Save it, spend it, I don’t give a fuck what you do with it, but that’s it!  That’s all you get.”

Jacqueline put two fingers to her forehead, annoyed.  “Enrique, you know that isn’t enough.  I’ve got the house and the maintenance and not to mention all these parties and charities, you can’t even imagine.”

“I can’t imagine?  Get a smaller house!  Who’s saying you have to keep the house?  Who’s saying you have to keep going to all of these cocktails and events and festivals?  Or — I don’t know — how about getting a job like everybody else!  Do you know that people go to work and sit in offices?”

“Enrique, don’t be ridiculous please.”

“Ridiculous?  I’m serious!  I never been more serious.”

“Listen, it’s not like I want a boob job.  You’re getting way too emotional about this, it’s a business venture.  I get myself remarried, your alimony goes down.  Plain and simple.”

“Okay.”  He frowned and looked through a near window.  “Okay.  Well, how do I know you’re going to get remarried?  What’s the security here?”

“Trust me, I know the whole infrastructure of it.  It’s not that hard, you just have to have everything in place.  I mean, like I told you I’m basically a goddess with oral now.  I’m smart, I’m fashionable, I’m tactful, I say the right thing.  I take care of myself, I look good minus a handful of wrinkles (which obviously that’s treatable).  Essentially, there’s a million older Jewish guys in Miami with money who I’m exactly what they’re looking for.  The boob job is the missing ingredient.  I know this.  I’m out there doing field work all day every day, I’m talking facts.”

Enrique shifted his weight and his eyes moved blackly beneath his brow.  “Sure, but why wouldn’t these guys just go for a thirty-five year old with a boob job?”

“Some men want women their own age.”

Enrique laughed and spit out some rice.  “That’s not true,” he said.

“Yes it is,” she said.

They ate a while longer in silence.  “It is,” she repeated.  “I’m doing my part out there, and there are all different kinds of people.”

Enrique said he would think about it.

by Frank Santo ’11

McFitz strides to the car like a king to his royal coach. He motions to Gordie to move into the back before opening the door and slithering into the still- warm passenger’s seat. The car instantly fills with the distinct scent of cheap cologne mixed with body odor. As I pull away from his white-brick house he starts up with his usual nonsense:

“Dude so later, after you guys left, that chick with the rack, remember that like huge rack, yeah well me and the chick with the huge rack went upstairs and like we’re getting into it and she was like, she was like making all these noises and I was just like ‘shutup bitch, I’m trying to concentrate.’” McFitz chortles with deep, throaty power and imitates the face some girl with a huge rack made while having sex with him. I catch Gordie’s eye in the rearview mirror and he quickly pretends to gaze out the window. McFitz continues his fascinating tale: “And the bitch just would not shutup. I wanted to pop her in the face and make her shut her goddamn mouth, Ha!”  My fingers rap on the steering wheel, improvising a hectic beat. “Dude that girl was hot,” I muster, and laugh casually.

All of McFitz’s stories end with him doing or wanting to do something horrible to someone else. They are never funny, and always leave a stale aftertaste, though I usually laugh anyway. The vacant holes behind his eyes compel me to. I want to rip my throat out when I hear my voice laughing. I stare forward out onto the dark road and press my foot on the gas with a little more urgency.

I turn left onto Church Street and McFitz immediately informs me that because we are meeting people in the woods behind the High School to get shithoused I should have taken a right, and therefore am a retard.  “Oh, shit,” I explain. Gordie passes the bottle but I decline softly. McFitz grabs it and swigs greedily. “Why do you always get such cheap shit Fagman?” he whines. He calls me Fagman because my last name is Bagman and he is extremely clever. I catch Gordie’s eye in the backseat and he smiles weakly like he always does whenever McFitz makes fun of someone other than him.

McFitz does not pass the bottle, preferring to swig greedily and complain. His oversized Adam’s apple swells and creeps down his skinny throat each time he swallows. His phone rings and he checks to see who is calling. He informs no one in particular that the person calling him is a fucking loser. “Yeah, dude” I reply, “fucking loser.”

My mind is fogged with a vague sense of guilt because earlier this week when I was sitting in my room thinking about death and violence my Father walked in without knocking and said we needed to talk. “You’re sleeping with dogs kid…” he’d said, leaving the aphorism unfinished. If I were to tell this to my two companions McFitz would tell me to cry him a fucking river and Gordie would smile weakly. Normally we just talk about pussy and how gay everyone is.

As I drive past the new housing development on Front St. McFitz talks about how gay our friend David is for hanging out with his girlfriend all the time. He tries to convince us that David isn’t really our friend anymore because he values getting laid over hanging out with his “bros.” His voice is fading in and out of my consciousness. The greedy animal has been ripping us off for a long time and we all know it.  He is a leech with fake diamond stud earrings. “What a bitch,” I hear my voice say. McFitz calls me fagman again and he and Gordie laugh. I chuckle to myself about something else.

I look out the window and notice that the moon would be especially beautiful tonight, but I’ve never liked the dim light. A black screen of leafless trees obscures my view of the grim white orb and brings my attention back to driving.

David calls my cell-phone and asks how everything is going and I tell him that I’ll call him back later. I flip the phone shut and turn it off. McFitz says I shouldn’t even answer that fag’s calls. I apologize profusely. It was only a few weeks ago that McFitz convinced David to help him break into his aunt’s house while she was on vacation and steal the money she kept hidden underneath the dresser. “She’s just some old bag,” he’d said, “I mean whatever its like three hundred dollars.”  The plan had worked flawlessly..

McFitz again complains that the whiskey is making his stomach flop. “You buy it next time,” I almost say. Talking back to McFitz is hardly worth the effort. I usually prefer to just imagine myself cutting him down with witty and biting insults. The moonlight pouring through the car window illuminates the right side of his face. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

McFitz fucks with the window controls as I speed past the High School. His grubby fingers smear the buttons with the oil from his pores. He starts talking again, killing the drone of the silence I was beginning to cherish: “I think we can go over to Lauren’s house tonight, a little later…” he says. I wait for him to make a remark about how he wants to fuck Lauren or what a dumb slut she is, but instead he stops mid-sentence. He is out of breath. The phlegm in his throat partially obscures his deep exhalations and creates a gargling sound. It is disgusting.

My heart drums to a tribal rhythm as I turn down the street that leads to Dekham Pond. I repeat over and over again in my head that I different from this. I am a good kid. I am a young man of dignity and honor. I am tired of the fleas. McFitz shifts in his seat again and rolls down the window because he thinks it is the heat that is making him start to sweat. The rush of air swirls through the car and cools me and Gordie’s seething brains. “Where the fuck are we going?” McFitz rasps, looking a little pale. I tell him that I hid some beers down by the water. Gordie’s mouth is twitching and he is straining to contain himself.

The road is sandy and full of potholes and I wonder if the Buick has four-wheel drive because I don’t want to get stuck in these woods. I start thinking about my father again. I am his only son. I used to sit on his lap and steer this car while he worked the pedals and pretended like it was really up to me what direction we headed in. I ease my feet off the gas. McFitz is sweating uncontrollably and complaining that we have to pull over because the goddamn retards at Burger King gave him food poisoning and he needs to throw up. Gordie and I assure him that they didn’t.

When the car stops McFitz throws the door open and staggers to the ground. He clutches his stomach and grunts like an agitated animal. The moonlight glints off his fake diamond stud earrings as he vomits onto the sandy ground. I make a face of sincere sympathy and pat his back. “Are you alright? How much whiskey have you had?” I ask, but he is too busy throwing up his swollen insides to appreciate my concern. Gordie tells us he’s calling 911 and runs down to the pond where there are fewer trees to find cell-phone service. I am perplexed to see tears rolling down McFitz’s grotesquely sweaty cheeks. It is always disturbing to watch another boy cry. If I ever cried he would call me a bitch and take a picture on his camera-phone.

After what seems like hours of me standing uncertainly over his body and asking if he needs help, McFitz finally stops moving around so much and lies flat on his back on the puke-stained ground.. He sputters inaudibly and I lower my head in closer, holding my breath because I don’t want to smell him. His voice sounds like it’s been punctured.

He tells me that he is going to die and that I am his best friend. “Stop being so dramatic” I laugh. He gargles something about his mother and asks me something about his little sister. He tells me I am his best friend. I hold his hand and note that he is displaying a considerable amount of emotion for such a callous son of a bitch. His hand feels slimy and wet. A pulse of venom runs through my blood as I bite my lip and repress the urge to spit in his face.

As he lies there staring at the sky and the moon, he babbles incoherently about all the things he’ll never get to do or see. His voice breaks as he whimpers like a girl and says he’ll finally get to see his father again. I almost laugh at the thought of Jesus at the gates denying him entry. He sputters one final spring of blood from his mouth before his grip fails and his arm goes limp. I check his pulse to make sure and look at the sky. I wish it were darker out.

Gordie comes back from pretending to look for cell-phone service and stands next to me and we stare down at the still corpse that looks so pathetic in the pallor of the moonlight. Gordie kicks it in the stomach. I tell him to cool down and we just stand there for a moment feeling content before we take hold of the body and drag it to the hole we spent the entire afternoon digging and throw it in.  “Shit-head,” Gordie sneers softly as the carcass hits the wet black sand. We walk back to the car and grab the antifreeze and the bottle of whiskey and throw those in the pond because I do not want that stupid bastard to get the pleasure of sitting down there in hell and watching me and Gordie get in trouble again.