could have used another fifty pounds spread out evenly on his body. Which is why I asked him if he'd been doing drugs.
"Sure, Sam," he said. "Something like that."
Then I did something impulsive; I tried to hug himâ My nerdish little brother, Gee I haven't seen you in a long time, and all that. And in return I got an "Uhn" of surprise and a quizzical, put-upon look when I let him go. I shrugged. "Sorry," I said.
"Sure," he said.
He had been coming out of the same Greek restaurant I'd seen him come out of twice before, and I noticed the vague smell of clam sauce lingering around him. I nodded to indicate the restaurant, a half a block behind us. "You've already had lunch, Abner?"
He nodded. "Yeah, lunch," he said just above a whisper, as if his throat were sore. We were standing in front of one of those tiny newsstands that are maybe twice the size of an outhouse and have various men's magazines clipped up under the roof edge. The man behind the counterâshort, chubby, and baldingâwaved us away: "Hey, don't stand right there, yer blockin' my customers, go talk somewhere else."
"Okay," I said, and because I was still holding Abner's arm, I led him to the edge of the curb. "Are you living here, in New York, Abner?"
He shook his head. "No. Long Island."
"Long Island," I said. "You know you look like hell?"
He nodded. "Yes, I know."
I was getting embarrassed. It was clear that he didn't want to talk to me. But I wasn't about to be put off again. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Abner?"
He ignored that. He said, "I thought you died. In Viet Nam."
I put on a big false smile. "Do I look like I died in Viet Nam, Abner?"
He shook his head. "No." He gave me a long once-over. "No, you don't."
"Besides, I wrote you when I got back."
He thought a moment, then nodded vaguely. "Oh, yes. I remember."
"Why'd you drop out of sight, Abner?"
He grinned, again as if embarrassed. "I don't know. I guess I was trying to find myself. Wasn't everyone trying to find themselves back then?"
"Sure. But hell, Abner, I thought we were friendsâ"
"We were," he cut in, and looked pleadingly at me. "We still are. It's just that, back thenâ" Another pause; he looked very much at sea. "It's just that I was trying to break awayâ"
"From what?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Attachments, I guess. People. I'm sorry."
I studied him for a few moments. He was clearly in discomfort over seeing me, clearly wanted to be somewhere else. "Hell," I said, "that was twenty years ago, Abner. This is now."
"Sure," he said, trying hard to sound enthusiastic.
He was dressed badly. In Bangor he had never dressed well; he sometimes wore striped pants with checked shirts, or forgot to remove tags from new jeans, or wore colors that clashed, and I realized then that it was because he was usually preoccupied or, at least, that he was trying to convince people that he was preoccupied, so he couldn't care less about style. Now, on the corner of 38th Street and Second Avenue that chilly mid-March afternoon, it wasn't a matter of taste or style. He looked like a bum. His faded, shiny brown pants hung from him like paper bags. He carried a soiled and threadbare green cloth raincoat over his arm, his pink long-sleeved shirt had its two middle buttons missing, and his aged Wallabees were separating at the seams. I nodded to indicate all this: "You know, Abner," I said, "if this were Bangor, they'd send you to the Salvation Army for the night."
He ignored me again. "I'm glad you didn't die in Viet Nam. I'm glad you're alive," he said.
"Thanks. So am I."
Around us knots of people moved quickly and efficiently about, jaywalked with mechanical precision, stepped hurriedly into cabs. New Yorkers move as if they're in a tunnel whose walls crowd their shoulders and whose ceiling is an inch too low.
Abner said, "I've got to get going. There are people waiting for me."
"Sure," I said, and let go of his arm. "Sorry. Maybe you could tell me where
"Sure, Sam," he said. "Something like that."
Then I did something impulsive; I tried to hug himâ My nerdish little brother, Gee I haven't seen you in a long time, and all that. And in return I got an "Uhn" of surprise and a quizzical, put-upon look when I let him go. I shrugged. "Sorry," I said.
"Sure," he said.
He had been coming out of the same Greek restaurant I'd seen him come out of twice before, and I noticed the vague smell of clam sauce lingering around him. I nodded to indicate the restaurant, a half a block behind us. "You've already had lunch, Abner?"
He nodded. "Yeah, lunch," he said just above a whisper, as if his throat were sore. We were standing in front of one of those tiny newsstands that are maybe twice the size of an outhouse and have various men's magazines clipped up under the roof edge. The man behind the counterâshort, chubby, and baldingâwaved us away: "Hey, don't stand right there, yer blockin' my customers, go talk somewhere else."
"Okay," I said, and because I was still holding Abner's arm, I led him to the edge of the curb. "Are you living here, in New York, Abner?"
He shook his head. "No. Long Island."
"Long Island," I said. "You know you look like hell?"
He nodded. "Yes, I know."
I was getting embarrassed. It was clear that he didn't want to talk to me. But I wasn't about to be put off again. "Are you in some kind of trouble, Abner?"
He ignored that. He said, "I thought you died. In Viet Nam."
I put on a big false smile. "Do I look like I died in Viet Nam, Abner?"
He shook his head. "No." He gave me a long once-over. "No, you don't."
"Besides, I wrote you when I got back."
He thought a moment, then nodded vaguely. "Oh, yes. I remember."
"Why'd you drop out of sight, Abner?"
He grinned, again as if embarrassed. "I don't know. I guess I was trying to find myself. Wasn't everyone trying to find themselves back then?"
"Sure. But hell, Abner, I thought we were friendsâ"
"We were," he cut in, and looked pleadingly at me. "We still are. It's just that, back thenâ" Another pause; he looked very much at sea. "It's just that I was trying to break awayâ"
"From what?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Attachments, I guess. People. I'm sorry."
I studied him for a few moments. He was clearly in discomfort over seeing me, clearly wanted to be somewhere else. "Hell," I said, "that was twenty years ago, Abner. This is now."
"Sure," he said, trying hard to sound enthusiastic.
He was dressed badly. In Bangor he had never dressed well; he sometimes wore striped pants with checked shirts, or forgot to remove tags from new jeans, or wore colors that clashed, and I realized then that it was because he was usually preoccupied or, at least, that he was trying to convince people that he was preoccupied, so he couldn't care less about style. Now, on the corner of 38th Street and Second Avenue that chilly mid-March afternoon, it wasn't a matter of taste or style. He looked like a bum. His faded, shiny brown pants hung from him like paper bags. He carried a soiled and threadbare green cloth raincoat over his arm, his pink long-sleeved shirt had its two middle buttons missing, and his aged Wallabees were separating at the seams. I nodded to indicate all this: "You know, Abner," I said, "if this were Bangor, they'd send you to the Salvation Army for the night."
He ignored me again. "I'm glad you didn't die in Viet Nam. I'm glad you're alive," he said.
"Thanks. So am I."
Around us knots of people moved quickly and efficiently about, jaywalked with mechanical precision, stepped hurriedly into cabs. New Yorkers move as if they're in a tunnel whose walls crowd their shoulders and whose ceiling is an inch too low.
Abner said, "I've got to get going. There are people waiting for me."
"Sure," I said, and let go of his arm. "Sorry. Maybe you could tell me where
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