The Devil in Silver

Pepper looked at the wealth of bad options on his tray. Which should he start with? It was like deciding between torture and torture. While Pepper pitied himself, Coffee kept rapping on that soda-can lid. Must’ve been at it a whole minute. The kind of rap-tap-tapping that made Poe flip his lid. Exactly as Pepper almost did. But then he looked at the man making the noise. Late twenties maybe, slumped forward on his messy bed, the can between his thighs, banging away. Pepper thought of one of those little toy monkeys clanging a pair of cymbals. (Pepper did not mean that in a racist way.) Coffee had been at it so long that it seemed maniacal, but here was a lunch tray right in Pepper’s lap. A kindness that deserved a little respect. So instead of going off on Coffee, Pepper tried to think of why someone might tap the top of the can like that. And keep going. Like a person clearing his throat, again and again, until you finally realize he has something to say. Something to share. Maybe he just wanted to be asked the right question.

“Where are you from?” Pepper asked. Usually an easy way to start a conversation in Queens. But Coffee didn’t respond. Just kept drilling that soda can.

“How long have you been in New Hyde?”

That caused Coffee to miss the top of the can and poke at the air, but just as quickly he went back to his routine.

Pepper had to think about what other subjects there might be, the ones that really mattered to Coffee. It didn’t take much longer to guess. He sighed.

“Who were you trying to reach? On the phones.”

Coffee smiled into his lap. He stopped tapping. “You really want to know?”

Based on that grin, the width and brightness of it, now Pepper wasn’t so sure. If this guy ended up saying he’d been trying to ring up the Illuminati or Reverend Al Sharpton (Okay, Pepper, now that one was a little racist), Pepper wouldn’t want to hear it. It would just be too sad.

Coffee said, “I was trying to reach the mayor’s office.”

Was that sane? Pepper couldn’t quite say. Ambitious, but not necessarily nuts. Lots of people called the mayor with problems. Pepper picked up the small orange, the size of a handball. He closed his fingers around it and it disappeared.

“The mayor of … where?” he asked.

Coffee finally snapped the tab of his Sprite can. When the top opened, it sounded like a sizzling pan.

“The mayor of New York City. Who else?”

(Mayor McCheese?)

Pepper opened his hand and bit into the top of the orange skin. He spat the chunk onto his tray and peeled the rest. “And why were you trying to reach him?”

Coffee drank half his can of soda in slow gulps. When he finished, he looked at Pepper directly. Each man sat on his own bed, with his lunch tray on his lap. They looked like kids bunking at sleepaway camp.

Coffee said, “I had to let him know this place is dangerous. I’ve seen its true face.”

Pepper dropped the rest of the orange skin on the tray and tore the fruit in half.

Pepper held up the orange and said, “I’ll trade you for a can of soda.”

Coffee set his tray on his pillow, rose from the bed, grabbed another Sprite from his dresser and exchanged it for half the orange. He wobbled slightly as he moved across the room. Coffee leaned down so he could be close to Pepper’s face. So close that Pepper leaned backward. There had been the faint accent, and now this complete ease with closeness. Pepper felt sure this guy hadn’t been born in the United States. While the rest of the world seems happy with only a membrane of personal space, Americans need a bubble.

Coffee said, “The mayor ought to know it’s killing us.”

“And you think Bloomberg can do anything about that?”

Coffee tore off a slice of the orange and slipped it into his mouth. He hardly chewed before he spoke. “The man got three terms in a city where two terms are the law! He changed the law to help himself, so why can’t he do it to help others?”

“But why would he want to?” Pepper asked. “What would he get?”

Coffee laughed quietly as he went back to his bed. He pulled the lunch tray onto his lap and lifted the tuna sandwich. He sniffed at it, then set it down again without tasting.

Pepper ate his sandwich in two bites, damn the funny smell. And if Coffee didn’t eat his soon, Pepper would offer to eat it for him. As bad as it tasted, all this would help get his strength up. The morning pills weren’t making his mind drag anymore. They had worn off. His body no longer drifted. A little fuel, any fuel, would fill his tank.

The rain had stopped and the clouds parted. The sun reappeared. Bright out. The windows were still slick with drops but they dried fast in the daylight.

“You ask why the mayor should care.” Coffee pointed at Pepper. “You’re an American. That’s right?”

“That’s right.”

“I am not. That is why I know what you cannot believe. This country might look like it’s about to break down for good.”

“That’s the truth,” Pepper said, as he choked down the tuna. Just then, even a bad job was a good job in this woefully unemployed country.