Living and Dying in Brick City by Sampson Davis

Author:Sampson Davis [Davis, Sampson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-679-60518-8
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2013-02-12T05:00:00+00:00

The sunshine outside was bright. It was going to be another warm day. I headed for my Honda Accord. That car was tough. Despite a few fender benders and even a couple of burglaries, she was still holding up, still reliable. She’d been broken in to so many times, I sometimes felt like I was borrowing her from the thieves. I’d mistakenly left the steering wheel lock off the last time she’d been stolen. The perpetrator was found two weeks later, asleep in the front seat. When the police finally contacted me, and I went to claim my car, it appeared the thief had been living inside. Empty French fry cartons, burger wrappings, liquor bottles, and drug paraphernalia littered the floor and seats. The guy behind the counter at the car lot told me I’d have to pay $210; to take her home. When I asked about the damage, he responded: “You pay here first and then you can see for yourself. You can sign the car over to us if you don’t want to take it.” He then pointed the dirty fingernail of his stubby index finger toward a sign that said: “NO Exceptions, Money First, Then Your Car.”

The Honda was worth it. She had traveled with me from medical school to Newark, never giving up. Through it all, she had required only minimal repairs. I liked to think that the scratches, dents, and off-track front window added character to her ten-year-old body. I’d nicknamed her The Coupe. She’d gotten me not only to work, but in and out of New York regularly, never breaking down—as I feared she might—in the Holland Tunnel. Many times I’d entered the tunnel in New Jersey, fingers crossed, hoping to make it to the other side. I didn’t want to be the guy that everybody who travels that route has seen—the one with the stalled old car paralyzing traffic in the tunnel, inciting furious horns and looks that could kill. The Coupe reminded me of me. We’d both been beaten up pretty badly, but we kept on pushing.

She was waiting for me in the parking lot after the morning report. As I drove home, I couldn’t wait to get into bed. I lived less than fifteen minutes from the hospital, in a working-class neighborhood, where I rented a room in a three-story home owned by Carole Jackson. Her daughter, Mary Ann, who had been friends with George, Rameck, and me in high school, lived in a first-floor apartment connected to the house. Mary Ann had stayed in touch with George throughout college and dental school, and he’d told her that I was moving back to Newark for my residency and was looking for an affordable place to stay. She’d asked her mother if she’d be willing to rent me the vacant third-floor bedroom. The setup was perfect. I had no savings and no intention of moving back home with my mother, which would have meant sharing a room with my younger brother. A place of my own would symbolize my fresh start, and a room was about all I could afford.

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