Memory Corner

2. On the Porch One Hot Night

I had a friend who live in a duplex in City Terrace. Ted and his brother Tommy lived in one unit with their mom. His dad was in jail. Again. In the unit next door, his aunt, Connie, lived with her two daughters. His mom and her sister always lived next door to each other, always in Boyle Heights, to be close to the General Hospital Mental Hospital, which they admitted themselves at least twice a year. Usually not at the same time, because one sister always took care of all the kids, who were all pre-teen. 

I enjoyed going to the duplex to play with the brothers. We played on the porch on Fridays, the end of the school week. Sometimes my folks would let me spend the night with my friends. Sometimes the whole weekend. My parents were under the impression that one of the moms were always there to babysit us. They were wrong. Ted's mom and Connie, his aunt, went clubbing Friday nights, leaving us kids all alone. That was half the fun of spending the night at their house. 

To get ready to go out, the two moms caked on the make up and soaked themselves in perfume. We could smell the perfume from the porch where the three of us were playing Crazy Eights. The sun was just starting to set, and the shadows of the trees and bushes around the second story duplex fell across our game. Just as the shade arrived, so did Dr. D, as  we called him, to pick up Ted's mom, his date. "Is your mom ready, Teddy?" he joked, forcing the rhyme. "Not yet. Almost. I can smell her perfume." He leaned down with a bow and said, "Might if I watch the game?" "No," Ted said. 

I was glad he didn't ask him to join in the game because he was the sort of person who would sit down and deal himself a hand. Old time gang banger. Two tattooed tear drops under his left eye, an armful of gang signs on left forearm. He grunted a lot whenever Ted won a hand. He favored Ted over Tommy. I used to think Dr. D might be his dad, but his wasn't. He often waited for his date on the porch with us kids. He'd tell us old gang stories or just try his best to entertain us with bad jokes. He once told us that a prison doctor was named Dr. Killemall, ("kill them all"), and that's when we started calling him Dr. D. 

I lost the last game of Crazy Eights, and as Tommy shuffled the cards, I heard the footsteps of someone coming up the stairs. As odd as it may sound, the man arrived with the night. The shadows were gone. Ted turned on the porch light so we could see who the visitor was. It was Connie's date. He looked angry, and smelled drunk. He eyed us suspiciously, but when he saw Dr. D, he spoke with menace, "What are you doing here?"

Dr. D tried to laugh it off. "Waiting for a street-car." 

This only made the stranger madder. "Waiting for who? For Connie? Puto." He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a folding knife. Before Dr. D could react, the jealous man swiped the blade across the surprised Dr. D's face. Ted and Tommy tackled the man while I stepped on his hand holding the knife. The moms came out, and Dr. D turned to face them. They screamed. Connie ran back inside and called the police. Ted's mom backed away from Dr. D. That's when I saw his face. His eyelid was gone. His naked eyeball was darting back and forth. Half his face was covered in blood. 

The police arrested the jealous date. An ambulance took Dr. D to the hospital. We had to find his eyelid so the medics could take it with them in the ambulance. When the excitement settled down, the two moms went out to the club in a cab, as if nothing had happened. Ted and Tommy went inside to watch TV. I caught the bus home. 

I never went back there. Never saw Dr. D again. I often dream of that naked eyeball, darting to and fro, looking for its eyelid.