anthony

“How do you lose fucking shoelaces?!”

Anthony says this before he’s even closed the car door, before he says anything else, before I hit the black Start UberX icon on my phone and discover we’re going to Worcester, an hour out of my way. I sigh.

The energy coming off him is tremendous—nervous energy as though an ocean wave were rising from the backseat and breaking inside the car. I once saw a video of wolves being released back into Yellowstone. They bolted without hesitation the instant the cage door was raised. Like that.

Anthony hasn’t had a fucking cigarette in twelve days. Thanks, but not by his choice: they took his fucking cigarettes. They took his fucking shoelaces too. And his winter coat. Then they lost his coat and shoelaces. How do you lose fucking shoelaces? He can do without the coat. But he needs his shoelaces where he’s going. 

Anthony wishes we could stop along the way and get some butts, some Saran wrap, and some shoelaces. Oh! And also some lotion if possible. How about if we stop at an ATM and, if he can get a hold of his girl to get his PIN, he’ll get cash and give me $20 to make the stop? 

At this point, no more than ninety seconds into the ride, the potency of Anthony’s energy has already swept me up and carried me away. I’m not surfing so much as engulfed by the wave. 

“Sure,” I say. He seems to relax and open up.

Anthony has fucking Lyme Disease. He had been in a program called AdCare. 

(No, not now. This was before. Anthony’s quick. Keep up.) 

The nurses there washed the mop heads in the same machine the patients used to wash their clothes. He asked her not to. But she said, “Sorry, papi, the other washer is broken.” 

So he wakes up one day with two huge welts under his arm. The next day, they were on his hamstrings. Doctors drew a red circle around them. Next day doctor saw it again. Said Anthony should go in for some tests. He went for the tests. He had Lyme disease. 

The pain was like nothing Anthony had ever felt before. He’s been punched. He’s been knocked out. He’s been stabbed 77 times. He’s been stabbed 33 times. (Those were two separate incidents.) He’s been shot. He’s been sprayed with bird shot. Anthony has done eleven fucking years in state prison. And let him tell you: Lyme disease was worse.

Anthony spots some green between the seats of my car. He offers to grab it. It’s a $1. Too bad it wasn’t $100, he says. He hands me the dollar bill.

Anthony used to box. His parents weren’t too interested in him when he was young. So he hung out at the Boys Club. He started learning to box at age five. Just amateur. But he was pretty good. 

Anthony was first sent to Walpole when he was caught with a kilo and a half of cocaine. He used to sell really, really good cocaine in Worcester. At first, he was just muscle. Then he started dealing someone else’s cocaine. But then someone hooked him up with a better source, and he decided to run his own operation. Great cocaine. Super pure. But after a couple of months, he got busted. He was stupid.

In Walpole, they got word he was a boxer. Someone’d run their mouth, and he’d knock ‘em out. Pretty soon, they ganged up on him. He’d knock ‘em all out and got sent down to the hole. Eleven days in solitary. He don’t care about that. 

Then, one day, they came with knives, three or four guys. He broke one guy’s jaw. The guy needed facial reconstruction surgery. ‘Cause if you swipe across Anthony with a knife and you miss, your face is exposed. And at 240 pounds, if Anthony hits you, it’s gonna be a lot. Like a sledgehammer. So Anthony broke the first guy’s face. 

But the second guy got lucky and stabbed Anthony in the eye. After that, he’s not gonna lie; it was hard to see.That’s when they stabbed him 77 times. The prison doctors said they were going to do surgery on it and put him under. But the next thing he knows, he was in Shirley Max. No eye surgery. Still has no peripheral vision. 

Back in 2018, he was having trouble with his shoulder. Thought it was from boxing, or getting stabbed. Went to see a doctor. Doctor brought in another doctor. 

“What’s that kind of doctor,  you know…?”

“Orthopedic?” I volunteer. Anthony shakes his head dismissively but admits it does start with “o.”

“Oncologist, that’s it, an oncologist.” They wanted to test his bone marrow. They’d put him out, and he wouldn’t feel a thing. They stuck a needle into the shoulder, into the bone. But he woke up during the procedure. It hurt like hell, and he jerked his arm away. 

Somehow, they still got the sample cause a few days later, the doctor called and told him to come in. 

Anthony said, “No, just tell me over the phone.” 

Doctor said, “It’ll be better if you come in.” 

Anthony said, “I’ve got bone marrow cancer, don’t I.” 

Doctor said, “It looks like it.” 

Doctor said they could do chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant. 

Anthony asked if it would hurt. 

Doctor said it would hurt worse than anything he ever felt. 

Anthony said, “No, I’m good.”

Doctor said, “In that case you’ve got maybe two and a half or three years tops.”

That was five years ago. 

Anthony says he mostly feels okay, but sometimes, when he wakes up, he can feel himself dying. You know what he means?

Like he can feel his life draining away.

You know?

Two weeks ago, Anthony was found unconscious and full of Klonopin at the end of his driveway in Southbridge. That’s how he wound up in Miravista, where I picked him up. 

Anyway, so he was unconscious, and someone was nice enough to call 911. Anthony pauses for my reaction (which I supply on cue: “Wow! Thank God!”). Then with perfect timing, deadpan, he concludes: “Also nice enough to cut a hole in the pocket of my jeans and take $300 in cash I had.”

At Miravista, they thought he was trying to kill himself. But that’s fucking ridiculous. No way he wants to die. Thing is his girl, not really his girlfriend but the mother of his daughter, in vitro, is a nurse and had been weaning herself off her own Klonopin prescription and stockpiling the extras. One day, she gave him some of her stash ‘cause he was anxious. He doesn’t know why. Yeah, maybe cause of the prison stabbing or the cancer. That could be. Good idea.Anyway, pretty soon, he’s eating them like candy. But a couple of weeks ago, he was also getting something for the Lyme disease pain, and that combo knocked him out. 

Anyway, they’ve never even kissed. But she wanted a baby, and she asked Anthony to donate sperm. He said sure. But the first few times, he just faked it. Poured some lotion and water into a test tube and brought it into the lab. He doesn’t know why he did that. But eventually, he thought, Why not?! Fuck it! Donated real sperm. She got pregnant, and now their daughter is five. Name’s Bonnie. Anthony and his girl, who is not his girl, play Mommy and Daddy for Bonnie’s sake. They live together; they go to school functions together. But they’re not a couple. Never even kissed. Well, maybe on the cheek. But he’d do anything for that little girl. That’s why he’s doing rehab. 

Anthony finally gets the PIN from his girl. He gets the cash and his butts at a gas station. He hands me a $20. 

“Thank you,” I say. 

“No, thank you. You’re a lifesaver, man.” 

We look for shoelaces at the Family Dollar. No luck. Dollar Tree. No luck. Dollar General. Nope. The fuck is it with these dollar stores, full of garbage but not even a pair of shoelaces.

Finally, we pull into a CVS. The parking lot is tight and an oncoming driver glares at me through the windshield. 

I whisper, “I know, buddy, I know. I’m moving.” Anthony must hear me. 

“That hard stare,” he says, then adds, “I oughta knock that hard stare right off his face.” I’m touched, as though he feels protective of me. 

But I say, “Now, now, Anthony.” 

He says, with mock sheepishness, “I know. I mean, in a nice way.” We both laugh.

He ducks into CVS and emerges a few moments later with his Saran wrap, lotion, and shoelaces. He chats with a homeless person sitting on the curb and gives them some bills and coins. 

When he settles into the backseat, he’s holding a lottery ticket. He takes a penny and scratches at the ticket. Anthony says he has always been lucky. 

“Anthony,” I laugh, “you’re like the unluckiest guy I’ve ever met.” He smiles to himself and keeps scratching. A minute later, he holds the card to the review mirror. He’s won $50. See, he is lucky. 

We get to the rehab place a few minutes early. Perfect, he says. I can smoke a butt. We shake hands, and he gets out, much calmer than when he got in. 

Plug pulled, the ocean of energy drains out of the car.

As I turn around and drive back past him, standing and smoking, we wave and smile at each other.

I drive away. A few minutes later, at a red light, I turn to adjust the passenger phone charger behind me.

A package of black shoelaces, opened but still folded up neatly, lies loosely on the backseat.

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