Cozy Sal

A 30-year-old slacker comes to grips with his laziness

     Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: I’m a lazy b*****d. But I prefer “cozy.” Sounds better. At least that’s what I keep telling my mom, who insists I’m a “no-good SOB” one minute, but her “only baby” the next. See what I have to deal with? I guess I could find a real job and get my own place, but it’s July, and I move a lot slower in the summer with a gazillion-percent humidity, especially here in Queens. I used to think Manhattan was the worst until I spent the day in midtown. I’ll be damned: those skyscrapers really do block out the sun.

I check the clock: quarter past noon. Lunchtime. My mother left me a twenty, so I was thinking about grabbing a couple slices and a grape drink from Leo’s and then hitting the matinee. There’s a new Will Smith movie I’ve been dying to see, and since I have nothing better to do on a Tuesday than surf porn or play the same freebie online games I keep sucking at, why not get my lazy a*s out of the apartment for once?

The AC feels nice, but I need to know what the weather’s like outside. Of course, the security grille is locked, so I have to find the damned key. My mom is a total lunatic when it comes to our apartment: four locks on the front door and these grilles that fold like accordions on the windows that face the fire escape. Are we in prison or what? That, along with the lovely courtyard view of the neighbors’ kitchens and the clothes lines zigzagging between the brick walls, makes living in Astoria about as fun as counting the cardboard boxes with the bums between subway stops.

I stick my head out the window. There’s a slight breeze. Not bad. I smell the souvlaki stand on the corner by Broadway. That Greek guy is always there with his charbroiled shish kabobs, driving you nuts with the scent. No wonder we keep the windows closed.

I hear the sound of glass breaking. Three guys in wife beaters with their boxers sticking out from sagging shorts and white socks pulled all the way up their ankles are heading down the block across the street. Latino gangbangers with tattoos and slicked-back hair. One high-fives the other and points at what’s left of the bottle they smashed against the apartment building. I can’t tell if they’re Mexican or Puerto Rican. It wasn’t always this hard. Back when I was a teenager, there were few Mexicans in New York. If you spoke Spanish, you were a Freakin’ Rican. It was that simple. My buddy from grade school, Manny, was the craziest of the bunch. He always got me into trouble. He’d convince me to steal magazines from the newsstand while he distracted the clerk; or spray-paint my name on the outside of our school; or light M-80s in the tailpipes of parked cars. We did it because we were young and reckless. But we weren’t the smartest criminals—we got caught a lot. Like when the grocery guy chased us and Manny tripped; or when the cops ran after us and I couldn’t climb the chainlink fence fast enough. Dad would beat me with his belt Italian style; and my mother would scream at the top of her lungs like I couldn’t hear her. My only break was when they turned on each other, and that wasn’t pretty. Dad always threatened to kick me out of the house. Lucky for me, he got kicked out first.
     The ugliest of the Latino thugs is acting up. “Hey, check it out,” he tells his buddies. Two girls are walking by on my side of the street, nice from what I can tell, one dressed in a miniskirt, the other in short-shorts and a tight top. Ugly boy starts getting all crude, whistling and shooting off his mouth. The girls walk faster. I don’t see anyone else on the block except for this old woman leaving the Laundromat.

In my early twenties, I was a hothead. If this was happening back then, I’d probably grab something breakable out of the cupboard and hurl it at the punks; then duck. That would give the girls enough time to get away. And if I was feeling real brave, like I wanted to get one of their phone numbers, I’d call up my bros, Manny, Andre and Costas and have them meet me downstairs. They all lived within a couple buildings of me and worked the nightshift at King Kullen, like I did, stocking shelves. We had the best time hanging out--playing stickball against the 32^nd Street boys; busting open fire hydrants when it got too hot; hitting the bars to get our drink on once we turned twenty-one. Andre was insane--big, German dude. If anyone came around causing trouble, he’d go after them with his aluminum baseball bat. Which is why he eventually ended up in prison. Soon after, Costas moved to Brooklyn with his girlfriend, and Manny just up and left. Suddenly, I was alone. The years flipped past and I kept to myself. I still don’t know why. Now I’m almost thirty--too lazy to put myself together; too chicken to say something to those a******s outside. What the hell happened to me?

A taxi barrels down the street, nearly clipping one of the thugs who was getting ready to cross. It’s good timing. He’s distracted; ticked off at the driver. By the time he stops cursing, the girls are too far away for him to bother. But not the elderly woman with the laundry cart. She’s short and bowlegged, and wearing a black babushka thingy over her head, wheeling her cart toward them. She reminds me of one of those Italian widows, the type you imagine attending church every Sunday, the kind of woman with lots of wrinkles and missing teeth but always smiling and kind to the children. She could be my Nonna. I was seven when I lost my grandmother, but I remember how she always liked to tuck in my shirt even though I didn’t want her to. And here’s this woman--someone’s grandmother--minding her own business with these sons of b*****s clocking her.

The ugly one starts in. “What up, grandma? What you got in here?” They’re blocking her way, the troublemaker circling behind, poking the bag in her cart, then untying it. He pulls out a bra and puts it over his chest. “Ramon, look: your mom.”

“Shut up, puta!” Ramon says. But he snags another piece of clothing and starts smiling. “Damn, G, guess what I found--your sister’s granny panties. Smells just like her.”

Ugly gives him the finger and the third hoodlum joins in. The old woman doesn’t know what to do. They keep messing with her, holding out her clothes, then pulling away when she tries to grab them. And no one’s around to help her. I even see two cars zip by without slowing down, followed by some woman with a stroller keeping to herself, and this guy in a suit who looks like he’s might do something but doesn’t. What’s wrong with these people? More important, what’s wrong with me? This ain’t a movie. This ain’t pretend. These guys are going to hurt this woman unless someone stops them. But who? The souvlaki guy? The people in the Laundromat? The cops? And here I am, still lazy, watching as always, ready to pull down the window shade and wait it out until I think the coast is clear so I can grab lunch.

I’m sick of being pissed off at my life; for not helping anyone; for living with my mom without pitching in rent money; for doing the same thing I was doing five years ago. When the hell am I going to grow up?

I grab my keys. I’m so angry, I have a hard time with the locks. I finally get the door open and I’m jumping down the stairs two at a time. Outside, it’s bright--the kind that makes your eyes hurt until they adjust. And then I see them--three pieces of work, still bothering the woman whose only crime was being on the wrong block at the wrong time. One of them is going through her pocketbook. She’s yelling at him, and like the b*****d he is, he’s just laughing.

I don’t know what’ll happen in the next few seconds when I cross the street. Maybe I’ll get knifed; maybe they’ll break my ribs; or maybe I’ll do some good for a change. How it ends doesn’t matter. As long as I do something. And that starts right now.