Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem Read Free Book Online Page B

windowsill, turning dry pages and watching dust motes pinball through beams of sunlight, I sought signs of my odd dawning self in Theodore Dreiser, Kenneth Roberts, J. B. Priestley, and back issues of
PopulMechanics
and failed, couldn’t find the language of myself, as I failed to in watching television, those endless reruns of
Bewitched
and
I Dream of Jeannie
and
I Love Lucy
and
Gilligan
and
Brady Bunch
by which we nerdish unathletic Boys pounded our way through countless afternoons, leaning in close to the screen to study the antics of the women—women! exotic as letters, as phone calls, as forests, all things we orphans were denied—and the coping of their husbands, but I didn’t find myself there, Desi Arnaz and Dick York and Larry Hagman, those harried earthbound astronauts, weren’t showing me what I needed to see, weren’t helping me find the language. I was closer on Saturday mornings, Daffy Duck especially gave me something, if I could bear to imagine growing up a dynamited, beak-shattered duck. Art Carney on
The Honeymooners
gave me something too, something in the way he jerked his neck, when we were allowed to stay up late enough to see him. But it was Minna who brought me the language, Minna and Court Street that let me speak.

     
    We four were selected that day because we were four of the five white boys at St. Vincent’s, and the fifth was Steven Grossman, fat as his name. If Steven had been thinner, Mr. Kassel would have left me in the stacks. As it was I was undersold goods, a twitcher and nose-picker retrieved from the library instead of the schoolyard, probably a retard of some type, certainly a regrettable, inferior offering. Mr. Kassel was a teacher at St. Vincent’s who knew Frank Minna from the neighborhood, and his invitation to Minna to borrow us for the afternoon was a first glimpse of the glittering halo of favors and favoritism that extended around Minna—“knowing somebody” as a life condition. Minna was our exact reverse, we who knew no one and benefited nothing from it when we did.
    Minna had asked for white boys to suit his clients’ presumed prejudice—and his own certain ones. Perhaps Minna already had his fantasy of reclamation in mind, too. I can’t know. He certainly didn’t show it in the way he treated us that first day, a sweltering August weekday afternoon after classes, streets like black chewing gum, slow-creeping cars like badly projected science-class slides in the haze, as he opened the rear of his dented, graffitied van, about the size of those midnight mail trucks, and told us to get inside, then slammed and padlocked the doors without explanation, without asking our names. We four gaped at one another, giddy and astonished at this escape from our doldrums, not knowing what it meant, not really needing to know. The others, Tony, Gilbert and Danny, were willing to be grouped with me, to pretend I fit with them, if that was what it took to be plucked up by the outside world and seated in the dark on a dirty steel truck bed vibrating its way to somewhere that wasn’t St. Vincent’s. Of course I was vibrating too, vibrating before Minna rounded us up, vibrating inside always and straining to keep it from showing. I didn’t kiss the other three boys, but I wanted to. Instead Imade a kissing, chirping sound, like a bird’s peep, over and over: “Chrip, chrip, chrip.”

     
    Tony told me to shut the fuck up, but his heart wasn’t in it, not this day, in the midst of life’s unfolding mystery. For Tony, especially, this was his destiny coming to find him. He saw more in Minna from the first because he’d prepared himself to see it. Tony Vermonte was famous at St. Vincent’s for the confidnce he exuded, confidence that a mistake had been made, that he didn’t belong in the Home. He was Italian, better than the rest of us, who didn’t know what we were (what’s an Essrog?). His father was either a mobster or a cop—Tony saw no contradiction in this, so we