ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Twice a Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of two novels, JOE COLICCHIO has received two NJSCA awards and two Geraldine R. Dodge Fellowships and has also completed two residencies at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. He teaches English at Hudson County Community College in Jersey City, NJ.
What's Not There
By Joe Colicchio
It’s early, just after the nine a.m. opening, and a young man approaches a double table that’s one table over from the cold shudder of the floor-to-ceiling windows that look onto Route 22. It is a cold and grey and especially windy December morning. The three tall American flags across the highway marking the Toyota dealership ripple and straighten—they tug and they look like screams, they seem to be crying to fly free, towards the northeast, towards anywhere. They look like this, they seem to be that, but they’re not.
The young man is twenty-one, a college student. He places his heavy backpack onto the table, rocking it. The backpack nearly slips off; startled he reaches his hand out to keep it from falling. A huff and he’s back to his half-sleeping state. He begins to peel—the tan, black, and red knit cap first, then the black wool scarf, then the Carhart jacket. He sits, unzips his bag, checks his watch, stands, checks his cell phone, walks to the coffee counter. His pants are long and loose blue jeans that, half collapsed, bunch up over his sneakers. He’s wearing a sweatshirt, Army green; you can see that it was once hooded but the hood has been cut off. So too have the cuffs, the frayed sleeve openings, obscenely wide, come down midway onto his forearm. Perhaps he’s wearing a T-shirt underneath, perhaps not.
He approaches the counter, scratches his forehead—what to order?—and the gaping sleeve slips back, past his elbow.
It’s a Barnes and Noble Starbucks Café. He orders a Grande regular coffee and a plain bagel with butter. He and the server, a guy the same age as him—“Vinnie” written across the piece of green plastic hanging from his neck—exchange smiles and money in weak camaraderie.
“Cream and sugar are over there.” He hands him his change.
“Yeah, thanks.” A slight nod. “But just black for me.”
Vinnie nods as he turns his back and walks away.
Slowly he returns to his table, places down his breakfast, again checks his watch, checks his cell (no messages), sets his books before him: a ridiculously thick Anatomy text— Pathophysiology, The Biological Basis for Disease, 1681 pages, CD ROM included—and a notebook also made ridiculously thick by the messy dozens of folded, torn handouts from class. He’s studying to be a nurse. The worst thing about it is those loose blue uniforms: all of them in his externship—five women, himself and one other guy—walking around in pajamas all day. Seems like it’s one of two things these days—either you wear no underwear at all, or you’ve got to show them if you do. The second worst thing, this one "the terrible thing,” is that nursing is or was or will be an awful decision for him, a life consisting of hospital halls, hospital smells, hospital tears. After-work drinks and hospital talk. Out of boredom and distress he’ll likely wind up smoking. His stomach growls and aches—a prophecy.
He flips open the book, hits on page 1001, a diagram of the Cardiovascular and Lymphatic Systems in four colors. Three of them are explained—red means “From heart,” green means “To venous system,” and blue means “To heart,” beige must just mean “beige.”
Outside it’s even windier than before and the cold now reaches him, five feet from the shuddering glass. 9:15. The sky that’s approaching from the west, from Pennsylvania, is progressively darker, all grey, a blacker, heavier, lower-to-the-ground grey than what’s overhead. The windows rattle, and a few tiny snowflakes zoom past horizontally, disdainful-ironic, gay- reckless, birds-quarks, there and not there, in on the joke. He’s pleased by the threatening weather and closes his eyes prayerfully, he is excited by this, very excited all around the heart. Once dormant desperation stirs and rises through his chest, it chokes him. He is hopeful to the point of tears. One flag flies away from its mast, dips and doodles like a kite on jamboree, red, white, and blue, a magic carpet. No. No, it doesn’t. A joke. But still.
He leans right to peer down the magazine racks between himself and the entrance. The aisle is empty. Who on a day like today . . . . if they didn’t have to. Maybe his friend won’t even show. “Just as well,” he whispers to himself. “I’m studyin’.” He sips his coffee, bites his bagel, checks his cell, checks his notebook, reads down the scribbled page with his fingers, finds the phrase with the asterisk: “Cardiomyopathies, pg. 1117,” and turns there in his text. He sips his coffee, he’s ready and more relaxed. He feels normal. That’s good. It’s 9:20.
He makes it through two paragraphs—there’s a glare, it’s like reading silver letters on shiny paper. The window rattles and his mind begins to drift, to his father and past him, in the direction of life. He’s twenty-one and back at home. He tried college (real college), that didn’t work. Every explanation he gave for it was as much an excuse for the truth as a search for the truth; sadly, though, when he smacked it away, when he backhanded the excuses away, there was only a white hole, there was no truth waiting with open arms. Nursing—what a joke. Why would anyone choose to be a nurse? If you wanted to help people just move to fucking Africa where you could be useful.
His dad—it was obvious how disappointed in him his dad was. His dad tried so hard not to show it. That was the obvious part. His dad had always been supportive, always, always, always, his whole life, nothing but twenty-one years of love. His father wanted him to be happy, always and only. The man was the ultimate gift-giver: everything that came from his dad, from the tangible wrapped-in-a-box gifts to the movies he rented to the meals he cooked to the words he spoke and the silence he kept, felt like gifts of love poured from his dad’s heart into his. It was too much. Too much for both of them. It was sad, really.
You know, there are things you want out of life. You want to make the people who love you happy. You want the people you love to be happy, like the kids of your own, for example. You want the holidays, you want the vacations, the barbecues, the weddings, the baptisms. You want to stand with your arms folded, nervous and strong, on your kid’s first day of kindergarten, you want to play catch with your kid, you want to attend graduations, you want the chance, the simple chance to be loving and wise. It’s a lot. What a complete mess.
He reads another paragraph, writes in his notebook, just a heading—“Effects of Cardiomyopathies on…” just half a heading—nothing more. Quickly, he looks up, straight down the magazine aisle, doesn’t know why. It’s empty at first, then it’s filled by a tall, bouncy guy, jacket opened, walking hurriedly with too much hop in his step. He’s smiling. Smiling ear to ear, nodding his head, it’s saying “Yes, yes.” And suddenly, warp speed, he’s upon him, his hand up for a high-five, “Neil, Neil, man. Sorry, I’m late. Everything good?” He plops his backpack onto the untaken half of Neil’s double table. He’s stripping down as he speaks. Bobby’s thin and under his down coat he’s wearing only a form-fitting grey Element T-shirt. “My mother made me go to the supermarket, sorry. You want anything?”
“No, no, I’m good,” says Neil, holding up his cup.
He’d known of Bobby forever, a recognizable face from the opposite end of the park; they were from the same small town, different sides of the Avenue, same town, different schools, northside, southside; then Bobby had gone to the Catholic High School, Neil to public. He’d known of Bobby, not really known him, not known him well—even those who knew him claimed not to know him well. Word on Bobby was that he was likeable, sometimes even friendly, but kind of distant. He was known for not showing up, always with a good excuse. An “I’ll definitely try to make it” kind of guy. It was like he hung out with guys no one seemed to know. But he was liked somehow—was never mocked, never exiled, never even muttered about. No one called him “weirdo,” no one called him “queer,” no one “faggot.” No one knew what was up with him but word was he was a cool guy.
“Come on. Are you pissed? I’m ten minutes late. Neil. Neil. Ain’t you glad to see me?”
“Yeah, thrilled. Get your stuff and come on.” Now they were in this Nursing Externship at Saint V’s together.
“Are any of the girls coming?” asks Bobby, stepping backwards, towards the service counter.
“Doesn’t look like it.” Neil reaches for his cell, checks messages.
Bobby bounds away in that hoppy way of his. His jeans, pockets frayed and denim torn above both knees, are much tighter than Neil’s, thin all up and down the leg—the pants legs and his heavy socks and the high-black sneakers are all one piece, like kids pajamas stepped into all at once.
Neil holds his head. Because you want certain things in your life and the sky is not like it used to be. This book’s a million pages long, each half thicker than a whole book should be.
Bobby speaks as he approaches: “Maybe I’ll be an investment banker instead,” he says brightly like he’s been pondering this all morning. Bobby sits, slides into his seat without having to stop walking. “Or I could just food shop for my mom.”
Neil turns his head, rolls his eyes.
The flags are limp, the black clouds are gone. There is blandness now, the traffic heavy, moving slowly. There is no rattle in the window, there is no reflection, there’ll be no time-halting storm of the century, just this.
Published January 2008