Welcome to Greenville
by Lisa Marie Zapata
I had the choice between a booty call or a literary salon. Carnal desire being a much more urgent calling than lively debate with university intelligesia, I walked to the NJ Transit light rail station, crossed the tracks, and took the lift up to a small neighborhood in the bordering town that sat on a hill—the Heights. I walked three additional blocks, unlocked the front door and removed my shoes before entering the apartment.
I don’t know how many lovers get keys to the other’s place but it certainly made me feel special. He was shaving over the bathroom sink and had clothes laid out on the bed.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“Tonight is Emily’s party.”
I had totally forgotten.
“We have to pick up Ant. Shakti will meet us there.”
I faced the full length mirror propped up against the closet door. I wore a black spandex mini dress. I turned and looked at myself from every angle. I fluffed my hair and made sure there was no lipstick on my teeth.
“Do I look ok?”
“You look fantastic.”
In the short time I spent looking at myself, he dressed.
“Did you know Lycra was invented in New Jersey?”
He stared at me.
“I’m serious. Dr. John Shivers, a scientist.”
“Why do you know this shit?”
I shrugged. He slapped my ass.
“Let’s go.”
We headed out to his Lexus parked across the street. I was a passenger princess. Ever since the hit and run when I was sixteen, I feared the wheel. It was quite limiting given the 1 and 9 was nearby and nothing else. No reliable bus or train unless I was heading into Manhattan. The right exit is everything to those on the wrong side of the turnpike. I hadn’t given a fuck until recently.
Loverboy headed down Central Ave until arriving at the Journal Square Seven Eleven. A woman in a torn t-shirt and ripped leggings held out a crumpled McDonald’s cup at the busy four way two lane intersection. We stopped at the corner and I rolled up my window before she had time to approach the car. I raised the radio volume as she tapped the glass. He glared at me, pulled a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket and lit it up. The woman walked over to the driver side window. He lowered his glass and dropped a handful of quarters into her tattered cup.
“Bless you,” she told him.
He nodded. She moved on to the next mark behind us. I lowered the volume of the music.
“You should quit,” I said.
“You should give me more blow jobs,” he replied.
“They make your cum taste smoky.”
We stared at each other until we heard someone pull at the car door. It was Anthony.
“Ay!”
“Ay!”
“Ay!”
We all sounded like idiots.
“What’s going on, man?”
“In the struggle, you know how it is.”
“How ‘bout you, sunshine?”
“Same ol’. Same ol’,”
And then awkward silence.
I wondered what struggle Anthony referred to considering he had a good paying job and parents to fund any miscellanea his heart desired.
“Xavier is DJing tonight,” Anthony said to break the silence.
“What does he call himself? Xavilón?”
We laughed. It was a dumb stage name. Driving along Route 139, I hadn’t noticed we were crossing through the cemetery until Anthony asked to speed things up. We merged onto 78 with a rev of the engine.
The grand view of rusted steel beams, cranes and barren, pot-holed roads to the right and lush, swampy greenery to the left made me wonder who made the executive decision to ruin this area. I guess the correct word would be industrialize. That’s what they called it in the 1900s, no?
“Are we far,” I asked.
“78 takes you straight to Greenville. It’ll be 5 more minutes after this next toll.”
“You’ll know it when you see it,” Anthony chimed in.
Coming off 78, he made a left at Ocean Ave. The scenery quickly changed from bridge to single family homes boarded up and marked with an X. He slowed the speed of the car, double clicked the locks to make sure all were closed and made a right onto Martin Luther King Drive. There was a house on the corner with aluminum foil wrapped windows. The street lights were dim and a few shadowy figures moved around the lawn directly in front of us. We made it to Greenville.
I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach but there was no turning back. Two more blocks and another left led us to the only lit house. He parked and we all stumbled out of the car. There was no music but we could hear people bustling inside.
“Shit, we didn’t bring anything,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It feels rude.”
“Trust. It’s ok.”
“I chipped in a hundred bucks when she was planning. It’s fine.”
Truthfully, attending a party together made things official and a title was something I was avoiding. Appearances matter. I rang the doorbell and a bubbly older woman answered.
“Come on in. Come on in. Put your stuff in the closet, Nena. To the left, aha. You’re early but you can help us in the kitchen.”
It was 10 p.m. and no one had fired up the grill. I washed my hands and started chopping onions someone had set out but abandoned.
“Do you need these rough or finely cut?”
“Oh, thank you. Make them nice and thick for the pinchos.”
Anthony ordered me to mince some garlic and herbs after I finished with the onions. I peered out the window and watched as someone pulled a crate of wine out of the trunk of the car we were just in. More people arrived but they skipped the front door and went around the driveway straight to the back yard.
“Chop. Chop.”
“I’m not your sous chef.”
“Tonight you are.”
Anthony and I were too alike to get along. We both cooked, had affinity for fancy cocktails, and brought life to any party. In theory, we were a match but I was fucking his best friend—something I assumed Anthony wanted to do as well.
“You two are lifesavers,” Emily told us.
“You’re welcome,” we said in unison.
I rolled my eyes and Anthony let out a sigh. Emily brought the meats to the grill while we finished up the sides. Macaroni salad. Green salad. Antipasto. Fresh dressing. She came back with two red solo cups.
“You guys, that’s good enough. Wash up and come outside.”
I sprayed bleach onto my hands at the kitchen sink then generously built up suds with the dish detergent. Anthony came up behind me and turned on the faucet. I rinsed my hands and he followed suit. We both reached for the same towel but he got to it first then flung it in my direction. Emily cut the tension by reminding us of our drinks. We headed to the back yard.
Khalid and Noor were off to the side opening a large box with what seemed to be a machete. Xavier was setting up his DJ equipment. Another stranger was arranging the planks to create a portable dance floor in the middle of the grass. My man was tending the fire.
The space was huge and perfect for a party except for the fact that it was located in a zombie wasteland. I wondered if Emily scored a good deal for buying property amongst crack houses and meth labs. There was not a soul walking around the streets on our way in so at least the product was moving out of the neighborhood and directly to whoever was buying.
Emily ran around sticking tiki torches into the dirt and setting citronella candles at the perimeter of the deck. More people trickled in and I started greeting them as they came along. Xavier announced the start of the party with some air horns. Noor approached me and gave me a small plate. Khalid brought a bundle of fresh sugarcane rods and was stripping the notches and dicing them into stirrers for the mojitos. She was dutifully handing them out to the guests.
“What the fuck is that,” Anthony asked as I gnawed on what looked like a pinkish bamboo stick.
“Sugarcane. When the rods go from white to pink, it means the sugar fermented the grass, making the juice richer and slightly alcoholic.”
“Sounds like bullshit.”
I walked away. I didn’t have to endure his doucheyness. After welcoming the crowd, Xavier (or Xavilón as he liked to be referred to while working) invited everyone to break open the dance floor. Cut a rug. Slowly, people paired up. Shakti was yet to arrive. My better half was too busy manning the grill when I heard my favorite song cue in next. Anthony, ever the show off, led me by the hand to dance. He jerked me forward onto the wooden floor. I met his aggressiveness with resistance but couldn’t help sway to the music. We looked good. We always did. Whether it was Anthony or my sweetheart, we knew how to move. And others noticed.
Once the song was over, I grabbed a drink and went over to the grill. As I handed over the cup, I heard a voice from behind.
“Look at you being domestic.”
“Fuck you, Anthony. Fuck you.”
“Fetch one for me too, Nena.”
And just as I gathered myself for a comeback, Emily joined in with a drink for that asshole.
“Thanks for helping. I couldn’t have done it without y’all.”
I don’t know what it was about Anthony but anything he said just gave me a rise. The party was well under way when I noticed a beat up Chevy circling the block. I went to the front porch to see if it would return. Anthony was already there smoking.
“What are you doing here? Get back.”
“I saw a blue car before.”
“What are you stupid? Are you waiting for somebody?”
“No.”
“Get back.”
Not in the mood to argue, I turned away and towards the yard. But before I could move forward, I heard the screeching of badly oiled brakes and a popping sound. I froze. The popping continued in clusters. I felt an arm along my shoulders and was pushed to the ground. My ears were ringing and I felt the stinging burn of scraped knees. The popping stopped and the car sped off. Anthony asked if I was ok. I nodded. We scurried into the house with everyone else also crammed in.
The interior was warm and damp with the accumulation of bodies. No one was hurt. The chatter started up again and hushed once more when we heard a vehicle enter the driveway.
Five silhouettes bum rushed into the yard carrying off the coolers and two speakers. They loaded their hoopty and left.
Emily was crying into Anthony’s arms. I was ready to leave. People started going back out into the yard. After all, they got what they had come to get. I went to the bathroom to clean up my wounds and heard a tap at the door.
“Just a minute.”
“Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, please.”
I went to say my goodbyes to Khalid and Noor. Anthony motioned that it was ok for us to leave without him. We headed out the side exit and saw that the Lexus had been keyed. And, instead of shells, there were the remnants of black cat firecrackers strewn about the sidewalk. I kicked one aside and opened the passenger door waiting silently as he finished one last Marlboro Red.
Lisa Marie Zapata is a writer and dancer from the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and baseball. Her work can be found on HOBART, Some Words, HAWKEYE, Bizarre Publishing House and other exciting journals across the internet.