"I'm Gonna Pay You Back"
After Danny left, I watched Champ and Carrick prattle like drinking buddies. I wasn't entirely sure that that they weren't in cahoots. Maybe Carrick had convinced Champ I was an evil dad and she'd tear down the street while he restrained me. I broke into their conversation, telling Champ that I'd seen a jogger that morning throwing jabs and repeating loudly, “keep dancing, keep dancing.” He agreed that boxing was all about where you put your feet, and started to give us a demonstration on the sidewalk. A woman with a stroller nervously swerved around us.
Carrick said she was hungry and suggested that we eat at an Indian restaurant. I asked Champ if that was okay with him, and he said that he'd never had Indian food. I saw a couple of other ethnic restaurants on the street; Champ said he was basically a meat and potatoes guy. We wound up at a Polish restaurant, where he ordered a hamburger. I devoured my kielbasa; Carrick didn't finish her meal. Neither, to my surprise, did Champ. Junkies don't seem to have much appetite, I learned later, except for crap like sugary cereal and ice cream.
Back on the sidewalk, Champ asked for directions to Tompkins Square Park, which was only a couple of blocks away. It struck me that, despite his swagger, he was a rube who had not ventured far from familiar quarters. He took me aside, whispering conspiratorially.
“Listen, would it be okay if I called Carrick to see how she's doing?” he asked. “Maybe I could even come and visit her sometime. She says she'd like to take some more boxing lessons.”
“Sure,” I said. “Why don't you keep the calling card.”
“Really? Hey, thanks, man. I could use it to find a job.”
I looked into his eyes and gripped his hand as firmly as I could.
“I want to thank you for saving Carrick's life,” I said. I did not think I was exaggerating. I slipped him another $20.
“I really mean that,” I said.
“It was nothing, man, nothing. Soon as I get on my feet, I'm gonna pay you back.”
Carrick and I headed to the station for the No. 5 train. When it came, she took a seat, and I stood over her. Her eyes closed and her head slumped.
I was reminded of a subway ride I had taken with Duncan to Yankee Stadium about six weeks earlier to see Cal Ripkin, Jr. in his final appearance there. We sat across from two black girls. They looked to be even younger than Carrick. I couldn't help but feel that their lives were destined for misery. Their eyelids seemed weighted down, their heads swayed lightly like one of those plaster bobbing-head dolls, their hands were suspended in front of their face, shielding them from anything external, fingers occasionally flicking. They were deeply stoned.
Carrick was not nodding, but she had the same look of detachment as I looked down at her.
We got off at Grand Central.