Page 60 of PSYCHOlogical

He balanced his chopsticks over the edge of his plate. His eyes remained fixed on the ornate utensils. “We were living beneath this stairway at a shitty motel in the seedy part of Miami. In the summer it would be over 90 degrees and nearly 100 percent humidity. The air was so thick and hot it was tough to breathe.”

I didn’t want to comment about him living on the streets, so I mentioned the excessive heat. “The heat sounds brutal.”

“It is in the summertime.” He shook his head. “I remember trying to fall asleep and being drenched in sweat. When I’d wake up, I’d still be soaked. There was nothing about that place I liked.”

“How long did you live there?”

“At the motel?” He shrugged one shoulder. “Quite a while. A few years. Two and a half, I think. We left there when I was in fourth grade.”

His gaze drifted away. I was at a loss for what to say. No child should have to live in such terrible conditions. I balled my fists in anger but tried to wear a look of indifference.

After a moment, he looked at me.

His eyes were smiling. “Anyway, there was this ice cream place across the street. The wall that faced the motel had a mural painted on it. It was bright.” He outstretched his arms and waved his hands toward the imaginary building. “Oranges and greens and blues with a pink background. Melting ice cream cones dripping their inaccurate pastel colors along that brick wall. I’d watch the people go in and out of that place every day and wish I was one of them. So, this guy came to see my mom one summer afternoon, but she was gone. He sat on the bottom step and smoked half a pack of cigarettes while he waited for her. In hindsight, I think she probably owed him money.” He shrugged and then continued. “I was eyeing these kids coming out of the ice cream shop when he realized he’d smoked his last cigarette. He glanced over his shoulder and said he was going to the 7-Eleven for cigarettes and asked if I wanted to get a cone. I said ‘No, thank you’, because I knew I couldn’t afford one. I was saving my money to get a house, remember? So, this guy, George was his name, he said, ‘Come on, let’s go get a cone, my treat.’ I couldn’t resist. It was my first ice cream cone. They had a huge display with dozens of flavors, but I already knew what I wanted. Chocolate. I’d been dreaming about it for years at the time. When I got ready to order, George said, ‘Give him a double dip.’ I didn’t even know there was such a thing. I ordered chocolate and strawberry, with the chocolate on bottom, so I could eat it last. It was the best day of my life, at that point.”

I wanted to cry. “How uhhm. How old were you?”

He shrugged. “Ten or eleven.”

At ten years old, he should have already had dozens of ice cream cones. My heart was broken at the thought of how difficult his childhood must have been. Seeing the smile on his face as he told the story was a testament to the man he’d become.

I swallowed my sorrow and forced a smile. “That’s a great story.”

“What’s your best memory as a kid?” he asked.

I smiled, this time for real. “My dad carrying me on his shoulders.”

“To where?”

“Everywhere. He used to hoist me up there and just carry me around. I felt invincible. It was great.”

“When did he stop doing it?”

“He didn’t.” I smiled at the memories of him that surfaced. “He used to do it just to prove he still could. Even when I was in high school.”

“He sounds like a great guy.”

“He was.”

He gazed at his sushi. “Life’s strange, you know it?”

“How so?”

“One kid lives under a motel stairway and washes his clothes in the bathroom with bar soap scraps while the maid is cleaning a stranger’s room. Simultaneously, at the other end of the nation, another kid lives at home with two loving parents. Although they take two separate paths, in the end they sit across from one another at a sushi restaurant, equal.”

I studied him as he stared blankly at his plate.

After a moment, he looked up. “Will you do something for me?”

“I’ll try.”

“Call me Vincent?”

Just like that, he lowered his armor. Aware of the significance of him letting me call him by his first name, I smiled on the inside. I held his gaze and leaned forward. “Do you want to go for ice cream, Vincent?”

His eyes lit up. “Chocolate and strawberry?”

“Only if you get the chocolate on the bottom.”