“I mean. . .” George hesitated. “No le hagas a otros lo que no quieres que te hagan a ti.” His abuela Liliana had taught him that as a boy. He could see his grandmother standing by the counter, chopping onions for her asopao—her deep-set brown eyes watery behind a pair of bifocals strung on a rope chain, her brown cheeks drooping with age for as long as he had known her, the small mouth that expressed her every feeling. When she spoke to you about something serious, she’d finger the rosaries blessed by the pope kept in the pocket of her yellow apron, as if she were trying to keep God in her hands. If George had nowhere to go, he’d hope that Unu wouldn’t turn him out. “You can stay at my house. Kathleen would be cool with that.”
Unu tried to smile.
“I’ll call her. Right now. You know, get the boss’s permission.” George chuckled.
“No, George, that’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll. . . I’ll call someone. I have a place to stay.” Unu tried to smile with assurance, as though he had people waiting for his call.
But there was no one. Especially at this hour. He couldn’t even imagine dialing up his bookie or any of his frat brothers, who’d surely have put him up. How could he explain this? If he called his parents, it would kill his father, and worse, his mother would fly in from Texas on the next flight and bail him out. Probably make him return to Dallas. He was divorced, unemployed, in hock, and evicted.
The doubt streaking across his face was hardly lost on George.
“It’s late, man, you know? To call people. Kathleen would understand. I don’t have to call her. She’ll be asleep anyway. You can even go in the morning if you feel more comfortable.” He knew Unu was fronting like he had places to go and money in his pocket. Like I was fucking born yesterday, he thought.
The truth was that the offer was tempting for Unu. But for some reason, he didn’t want George’s wife—a second-grade teacher from Far Rockaway, a woman George worshiped—to think poorly of him, even though he had never met Kathleen Leary Ortiz. When George talked about his smart wife, Unu felt wishful for a Kathleen of his own who might rescue him from his troubles, too.
George pulled up a metal folding chair splattered with dried paint. He pointed at it with his chin. Unu sat down.
“Thank you.” Unu covered his mouth with his hands and opened his eyes to wake himself up.
The scent of detergent and fabric softener drifted toward the two men from the building’s laundry room, somewhat masking the odor of the garbage bags. George continued to tie up the magazines, keeping an eye on his friend, who remained sitting.
The bright basement, lit by rows of naked white lightbulbs, felt cool and light. There had been many different climates in one day: the hot August morning, the air-conditioned train and bus ride, the seasonless casino with its make-believe daylight and filtered cold air, the muggy city evening, and now, a silent cool basement. Unu shivered a little in his black polo shirt and chinos.
Everything he owned was behind a strange lock: the closetful of suits he’d bought from all over—custom-made suits from Itaewon tailors from the time he was married, several from Century 21 that Casey had selected, a couple from Brooks Brothers that his mother had gotten for him after his first job in the city. His suit size hadn’t changed in a dozen years. He tried to catalog his possessions, but he could hardly recall what he owned. All of his furniture had been rented. He’d never wear those suits again. It was difficult to imagine returning to a finance job, putting on a tie—all to convince a money manager that his stock call was right—for a six-figure bonus that had never meant very much to him.
And there was that pile of laundry. He’d washed a large load of whites two nights before. After drying them, he’d dumped the snowy pile onto his rented sofa. He’d meant to fold the wash since then, but for some reason, the sight of it had comforted him—the cleanness of it; or perhaps because he’d done something that needed doing, some evidence of labor for the day—so he’d left it alone. When he’d gotten dressed the previous mornings, he’d plucked out his white boxers and Hanes T-shirt from the pile, its size hardly diminishing. He would never see that load of wash again. Oddly, Unu felt its loss. Why was he able to remember that his boxers were Fruit of the Loom bought from Kmart or that there had been four white bath sheets, six washcloths, a set of queen sheets from Macy’s? He yearned to put his nose into a warm towel fresh from the dryer smelling of Tide. When he gave up his Rolex or his car, he had not minded very much, far less than he’d have thought he would. Unu had never wanted a fancy watch for his college graduation. It had been his father’s idea—a thing a Dartmouth graduate who worked on Wall Street would wear. His father was a kind man who had only wanted his son to have an emblem of arrival and belonging—some talisman of protection. But the watch had not been that.