I’m halfway over the fence when I hear the door horror-movie-squeak open like it did the other day and see in my periphery his immense frame emerge from it. I have two choices. I retreat back into the alley and get ambushed or I jump onto the sidewalk and make a run for it. Not much of a choice really, I think, as I land feet first—whew—but then stumble forward into what would’ve been an extremely unlucky face-flop had a very large hand not reached out and iron-gripped my arm, restoring my balance.
“Thank you,” I hear myself say. Thank you? “That would’ve been a bad fall,” I explain to his feet, quickly adding, “You can’t imagine how many brain injuries happen from falling and if it’s frontal lobe, well, forget it, you can just kiss your personality good-bye, which really makes you wonder what a person is if they can just become someone else if they bonk their heads, you know?” Whew—on a roll, off to the races, put on this earth solely to soliloquize to his ginormous clay-covered shoes. “If it were up to me,” I go on, kicked into some heretofore unknown gear, “which of course nothing is, and if it didn’t present such a total fashion conundrum, I’d have us all in titanium helmets from womb to grave. I mean, anything can fall on your head at any time. Have you ever thought about that? An air conditioner for instance, one could just drop out of a second-story window and crush you while you’re minding your own business shopping for bagels on Main Street.” I take a breath. “Or a brick. Of course there’s the flying brick to worry about.”
“The flying brick?” The timbre of his voice has a lot in common with thunder.
“Yes, the flying brick.”
“A flying brick?”
What, is he dense? “Sure. Or a coconut, I suppose, if you live in the tropics.”
“You are off the rocker.”
“Your rocker,” I say quietly. I still haven’t raised my head, think that’s best.
A lot of Spanish is coming out of his mouth now. I recognize the word loca quite a few times. On the exasperation scale, I’d say he’s at a ten. His smell’s very strong, no offense, but we’re talking total sweaty ape. Not a whiff of alcohol on him, though. Igor’s not here, this maniac’s all Rock Star.
I remain committed to my eyes-on-the-shoes strategy, so I’m not sure but believe he’s released his grip on my arm so he can accompany the ranting in Spanish with flailing hand gestures. That or birds are swooping around above my head. When the movement stills and the irate Spanish peters out, I gather my nerve and raise my head to take a gander at what I’m up against here. Not good. He’s a skyscraper, impossibly imposing with his arms crossed now against his chest in a battle stance, studying me like I’m a new life form. Which really is pot meet kettle, because, wow, up close he looks like he just emerged from a pit of quicksand—a total swamp thing. He’s completely covered in clay except for the streaks on his cheeks from crying and the hellfire green eyes that are drilling into me.
“Well?” he says with impatience, like he’s already asked me a question I didn’t answer.
I swallow. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to . . .” Um, what comes next? I didn’t mean to jump a fence, climb a fire escape, and watch you have a nervous breakdown.
I try again. “I came last night—”
“You’ve been up there watching me all night?” he roars. “I tell you go away the other day and you come back and watch me all night?”
Not only puppies, this man eats adorable bouncing babies.
“No. Not all night . . .” I say, and then before I know it, I’m at it again. “I wanted to ask you to mentor me, you know, I’d work as an intern, do whatever, clean up, anything, because I have to make this sculpture.” I meet his eyes. “Just have to make it and it has to be in stone for many reasons, ones you wouldn’t even believe, and my teacher Sandy said you’re the only one who carves anymore, like practically in the world”—did he just smile ever so faintly?—“but when I came you seemed so . . . I don’t know what, and of course, you told me to go away, which I did, but then I came back last night thinking I’d try to ask again, but chickened out, because, okay, you’re a little scary, I mean frankly, whoa—you are like totally scary . . .” His eyebrows rise at that, cracking the clay on his forehead. “But last night, the way you sculpted that piece blind, it was . . .” I try to think of what it was, but can’t come up with anything to do it justice. “I just couldn’t believe it, could not believe it, and then I’ve been thinking that you might be, I don’t know, maybe a little magical or something because in my sculpture textbook it talked all about those angels you used to carve as a kid, and it said you were believed to be enchanted, or possessed even, no offense, and this sculpture, the one I have to make, well, I need help, that kind of help, because I have this idea that I can make things right, like if I make it, maybe someone will understand something finally and that is very important to me, very, very important, because she never understood me, not really, and she’s very mad about something I did . . .” I take a breath, add, “And I’m sad too.” I sigh. “I’m not okay either. Not at all. I wanted to tell you that the last time I came. Sandy even made me go to the school counselor, but she just told me to imagine a meadow . . .” I realize I’m done, so I close my mouth and stand there waiting for the paramedics, or whoever comes with the straightjacket.
It’s more than I’ve talked in the last two years combined.
He brings his hand to his mouth and begins examining me less like I’m a space alien and more like he did that sculpture last night. When he finally speaks, to my great surprise and relief, he doesn’t say, “I’m calling the authorities,” but, “We will have a cup of coffee. Yes? I could use a break.”