No Ordinary Love Page 2

  Angelo smiled. “Are you planning a trip to San Francisco, Tony?”

  “I am not planning a trip to San Francisco.” He closed both map books. “I am never leaving Brooklyn.”

  “I hear San Francisco is a nice city,” Angelo said, slumping into the chair next to him. “Why don’t we go there for a vacation so you can walk around Chinatown?”

  Tony hesitated for a moment. “I am never leaving Brooklyn.”

  “Brooklyn will still be here when you get back, Tony.”

  “Brooklyn will always be here.”

  Tony left the library, took the elevator to the second floor, and went into the music room.

  A moment later, a piano concert began.

  I couldn’t be my brother in a million years, Angelo thought. I’d go out of my mind from being so much inside my own mind. He sighed. And I’d want someone other than me around. I’ve never been very good company. I’m too busy trying to make normal what can never be normal. I have to sneak women in and out without Tony seeing them so I can have a social life. None of these women have wanted to settle down with me because of the Sponge. He needs me. He needs his routines, and I’m part of those routines. Without routines, he spazzes out. How can I have a normal life without disturbing his?

  If I could find a good woman for Tony, I would. She’d have to be a canonized saint, and there aren’t many of them in Brooklyn or anywhere else in the world for that matter. Tony is work. He’s hard to get to know and even harder to talk to.

  It isn’t as if I haven’t tried. Not many women respond when you ask them to “come meet my handsome peculiar genius of a brother.” All women hear is the word “peculiar.” The first time I tried to get him to talk to a woman didn’t work out at all. . . .

  2

  Angelo had had to trick Tony into leaving the Castle that day sixteen years ago.

  “I want to stay here,” Tony said.

  “I know you do,” Angelo said. “But don’t you want to see how good your memory is?”

  “I have a very good memory,” Tony said.

  “How do you get from here to Angela’s Sweet Treats and Coffee on Driggs Avenue in Williamsburg?” Angelo asked.

  “Driving, walking, riding the bus, or riding the subway.”

  “Riding the subway, of course,” Angelo said. I know he knows all the possible ways to get there. If he didn’t have Asperger’s, Tony could probably run the MTA. Maybe the MTA needs someone like Tony to make travel in New York more efficient.

  “Walk southeast on Baltic Street, northeast on Smith Street to the Bergen Street station,” Tony said. “Take the G train toward Court Square, get out at Metropolitan Avenue, walk north on Union Avenue, west on Metropolitan Avenue, northwest on North Sixth, and northeast on Driggs Avenue. It will take twenty-nine minutes.”

  “Which way is the fastest route during rush hour?” Angelo asked.

  Tony thought a moment. “The same way.”

  “Let’s see if you’re right.”

  “I am right.”

  “Okay,” Angelo said. “If you’re right, we’ll ride the subway for the rest of the evening.”

  “I want to go to Far Rockaway.”

  “You want to go way out to Queens?” Angelo asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s at least an hour-and-a-half ride each way,” Angelo said.

  “I want to go to Far Rockaway,” Tony said.

  “Okay, we’ll go wherever you want to go,” Angelo said.

  Tony nodded. “Okay.”

  “Tony was twenty-four and I wanted him to meet and talk face-to-face with a woman who wasn’t telling him how much snow Helena, Montana, was getting that day,” Angelo wrote in the biography. “Most of the women Tony knew by name were weathercasters he would never meet. I wanted him to talk to a woman who might look past his peculiarities and get to know him—if getting to know anyone with Asperger’s is truly possible. Even I barely know my brother, and I’ve been his constant companion for his entire life.”

  Angelo had called up an old high-school friend, Jasmine Stanley, to meet them at Angela’s Sweet Treats and Coffee to talk to Tony.

  “I didn’t even know you had a brother,” Jasmine said. “What’s he like?”

  “He’s a bit odd.”

  “How odd?” Jasmine asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Angelo led Tony into Angela’s Sweet Treats and Coffee and seated him in a brown vinyl booth where he could watch for Jasmine’s arrival while Tony sponged up the décor.

  “There is a checkerboard on the floor,” Tony said.

  “Right,” Angelo said. “Imagine playing chess or checkers here. The pieces would be huge.”

  “There are too many spaces for a checkerboard,” Tony said. “A checkerboard has sixty-four spaces. The floor is not square.”

  “It’s a nice place, though, huh?” Angelo asked.

  “We can go to Far Rockaway now,” Tony said.

  “Let’s at least get a snack,” Angelo said.

  “I am not hungry,” Tony said. “I want to go to Far Rockaway.”

  “Why?”

  “I like the name,” Tony said. “It is a good name. Rockaway, a block away, watch the seagulls flock away, smell the boats a dock away, rock-a-bye-baby Far Rockaway.”

  Angelo smiled. My brother and his mumbled word associations that eventually lead to top-forty hits. “Well, I’m hungry.” He went to the counter, bought two house blends and a half dozen oatmeal and raisin cookies, and brought them to the booth.

  Tony dug a cookie from the bag. “These raisins are old. They are wrinkled.”

  “They’re supposed to be that way,” Angelo said. “Eat up.”

  “Most American raisins come from California,” Tony said. “That is over three thousand miles away from here. These raisins cannot be fresh.” He put the cookie into the bag and looked toward the counter. “She is not a barista. She brews and pours coffee.”

  “Who’s she?” Angelo asked.

  Tony pointed at the black woman behind the counter.

  “Don’t point,” Angelo said. “It’s rude. How do you know she’s not a barista?”

  Tony pointed at a sign on the far wall. “The sign says she is not a barista.”

  “Okay, I see it,” Angelo said. “And stop pointing.”

  “I want to go to Far Rockaway now,” Tony said.

  “We need to soak up the ambiance,” Angelo said. “We need to mingle. To see the sights. To eat these cookies and drink the best coffee in Brooklyn.”

  Tony took a tiny sip of his coffee. “This coffee is good. There are no sights here. We are inside. Sights are outside.”

  “You need to get out more,” Angelo said.

  “I go outside to walk Tonto,” Tony said.

  “You go up to our roof to walk Tonto,” Angelo said.

  “Our roof is outside. I walk him five times a day outside. I get out five times a day.”

  “True, but there aren’t any beautiful women for you to look at on our roof,” Angelo said.

  “Beautiful women cannot go up to our roof,” Tony said. “They do not have a key to the Castle.”

  Angelo shook his head. “There are a lot of pretty women here, aren’t there?”

  Tony’s eyes roamed the café. “Yes. There are women here.”

  “And there are some pretty women here.”

  “They are all pretty,” Tony said.

  “Oh, they all aren’t pretty,” Angelo said. “Some have some serious mileage on them.”

  Tony blinked. “Women are not vehicles with odometers.”

  Angelo laughed. “Some of these women look as if they’ve been driven many miles.”

  “If they were passenger vehicles, they would have odometers on them,” Tony said. “That is the law. You should not buy a vehicle if the odometer looks as if it has been tampered with.”

  Angelo smiled. “It might make life easier for men if women did have odometers. They try to cover up their mileage, don’t they?�
�

  “You should never do that,” Tony said. “You should never tamper with an odometer. It is against the law.”

  “You got that right.”

  Angelo smiled as Jasmine came in, held a finger in the air, and walked to the counter. If I were ever to hook up with a black woman, Angelo thought, that woman would be at the top of the list. Jasmine is so sexy. “Look at her, Tony. That’s Jasmine. I went to school with her.”

  Tony looked at his watch. “I want to go to Far Rockaway now.”

  “Come on, check her out.”

  Tony looked up briefly. “I see two women.”

  “Look at the taller one.”

  “She is brown,” Tony said. “I do not know her.”

  “Look at that booty,” Angelo said.

  “That is not honest,” Tony said.

  “Her booty isn’t honest? That booty is the truth.”

  “It is not honest to stare at her buttocks like that,” Tony said.

  “I’m not going to wait for her to see me looking at her booty,” Angelo said. “That would be rude.”

  “It is rude to stare.”

  “Not if she doesn’t know you’re staring,” Angelo said. “She’s looking over here, Tony. I think she’s looking at you.”

  Tony wound his watch. “She is not looking at me.”

  “She must like what she sees.”

  “She is not looking at me.”

  Angelo sighed. “She is looking at you, Tony. You’re a handsome man.”

  “I am not handsome.”

  “Yes, you are,” Angelo said. “You’re a younger version of me.”

  “You said we could ride the subway to Far Rockaway,” Tony said.

  “Jasmine is coming over.”

  Tony reached into his coat pocket and took out a notepad and pencil.

  “Put that away,” Angelo said.

  Tony shook his head. “I want to write.”

  “Now? Put it away. You’re about to meet a pretty girl.”

  “I want to write.” Tony began scribbling on the notepad.

  Jasmine came over to their booth. “Hey, Angelo.”

  Tony continued to scribble.

  “Can I join you two handsome men?” Jasmine asked.

  Tony stopped scribbling. “Angelo was staring at your buttocks.”

  “He was?” Jasmine slid into the booth next to Tony. “Were you, Angelo?”

  “Well, you know me,” Angelo said.

  Jasmine sighed. “See anything you liked?”

  Angelo nodded.

  “I did not stare at your buttocks,” Tony said. “It is rude to stare at other people’s buttocks.” He resumed his scribbling.

  “What are you doing, Tony?” Jasmine asked.

  Tony continued to scribble.

  “What are you writing?” Jasmine asked.

  “Notes,” Tony said.

  Jasmine leaned closer, shadows forming on the notepad.

  Tony moved the notepad away from Jasmine and into the light.

  “Is that written in English or Italian?” Jasmine asked.

  “It is in English,” Tony said. “I do not have good handwriting. English is the only language I know. Your leg is hot. It is firm yet soft. You are sitting too close to me.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Jasmine scooted farther away. “Is that better?”

  Tony looked at her leg. “Four more centimeters away is better. This booth is too small.”

  Jasmine moved farther away. “What do you write about, Tony?”

  “Your gum is peppermint,” Tony said. “I like spearmint. The flavor in the average piece of gum lasts fifteen minutes.”

  “I believe it,” Jasmine said. “So . . . what do you write about?”

  “I write in English,” Tony said. “That is the language I speak. I know some Italian from Poppa, but he is dead. We put him in the ground three years, four months, seven days, six hours, and”—he checked his watch—“ten minutes ago. He is buried at the Holy Cross Cemetery.”

  “Jasmine doesn’t want to hear about that, Tony,” Angelo said.

  “We put a Christmas tree on his grave every year,” Tony said. “Someone stole it last year.”

  “That’s terrible,” Jasmine said, touching his hand.

  Tony jerked his hand away. “This is the cold and flu season.”

  “My hands are clean,” Jasmine said.

  “Relax, Tony, geez,” Angelo said.

  “The average human hand has one hundred and fifty species of bacteria on it at any given time,” Tony said.

  “I wash them all the time,” Jasmine said.

  “You cannot kill all the germs,” Tony said. “You should not kill all the germs. Some bacteria are good for you.” Tony returned to his scribbling.

  Jasmine mouthed “wow” to Angelo.

  “I told you it wouldn’t be easy, Jasmine,” Angelo said. “He takes some getting used to.”

  “Can’t he hear you?” Jasmine whispered.

  “Not when he’s writing like that,” Angelo said. “He gets locked in like that sometimes. Poppa called it selective hearing, but I know different. He’s beside you, but he’s not really there. I have no idea where he goes, but he goes there hard. I call it Sponge World. Something you said or I said or something else he hears sends him there. A car beeps. Someone coughs. He hears some music. He sees a certain color. He smells something. You could tell him this place was on fire, and he wouldn’t notice.”

  “And he’s really never talked to a woman before,” Jasmine said.

  “Nope.” Angelo wrapped his knuckles on the table. “Tony?”

  Tony looked up. “Are we going to Far Rockaway now?”

  “You’re being rude to Jasmine,” Angelo said.

  Tony looked around Jasmine’s face. “You have an Afro.”

  “Yes,” Jasmine said.

  “It is fluffy.” Tony reached out his hand. “May I touch it?”

  “No,” Jasmine said, jerking her head away from his hand, her eyes wide.

  “My hands are clean,” Tony said. “I use sanitizer. It kills ninety-nine percent of all germs. That leaves me with only one thousand germs on my fingers or two hundred germs per finger. I will only touch your hair with the tip of one finger.”

  “You can’t touch her hair, Tony,” Angelo said.

  “It is pretty,” Tony said. “I like it.” He returned to his writing.

  “Thank you,” Jasmine said.

  “He didn’t hear you,” Angelo said.

  “I want him to hear me,” Jasmine said.

  “Knock on the table,” Angelo said. “It seems to work.”

  Jasmine knocked on the table.

  Tony looked up. “Are we going to Far Rockaway now?”

  “Thank you for thinking my hair is pretty,” Jasmine said.

  Tony took a deep breath. “You have nice thighs. They are muscular and smooth and brown. They are hot. You have removed all the hair.”

  Jasmine laughed. “I try.”

  “They are not ashy,” Tony said. “Many women have ashy thighs. You do not have ashy thighs. You must use lotion.”

  “I do,” Jasmine said. “Lots and lots of lotion.”

  “You smell like coconut,” Tony said. “I am allergic to coconut.”

  “It’s just the scent of coconut, Tony,” Angelo said.

  “If I eat coconut, my throat swells up and I cannot breathe,” Tony said. “I will not eat you, Jasmine.”

  “Um, thanks,” Jasmine said.

  “I like your eyes,” Tony said. “They have gold flecks in them.” He blinked rapidly. “Jasmine’s eyes, bold gold flecks, cocoa thighs, coconut sex . . .” He flipped to a blank page on his notepad and wrote furiously.

  “What was that?” Jasmine asked. “What did he say?”

  “He gets stuck in an idea sometimes,” Angelo said. “He does these word association rhyme things all the time. Try to ignore him.”

  Tony counted on his fingers. “Too many syllables.” He marked something out and m
outhed the words. “Better.”

  Jasmine moved farther away from Tony. “He said something about coconut sex, Angelo.”

  “Compared to some of his other phrases,” Angelo said, “that’s pretty tame.”

  Tony began rocking back and forth, mumbling. “He’s beginning to creep me out,” Jasmine said. “I should go.”

  “Don’t leave,” Angelo said. “Please. He’ll be back soon.”

  Tony stopped rocking and writing and put the pencil and notepad into his coat pocket. “I want to go to Far Rockaway now.”

  “Tony, do you think Jasmine is pretty?” Angelo asked.

  Tony turned slowly and let his eyes wander over Jasmine. “Her lips are plump and red then brown. She has white, shiny teeth. Her nose is smaller than mine. She has a tattoo of a snake tail above her left breast. I do not know where the rest of the snake is. She has furry eyebrows. Her earrings make ding-ding sounds when she talks. Her breasts are in perfect proportion to her ample buttocks. She wears underwear.”

  Jasmine moved out of the booth. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Just wait, Jasmine,” Angelo said.

  “Your brother is a freak,” Jasmine whispered.

  “He tells the truth at all times,” Angelo said. “He never lies. He is complimenting you. Really.”

  “You are very pretty,” Tony said.

  Jasmine sat. “Thank you, Tony. That’s very sweet of you to say.”

  “Jasmine is a white or reddish flower with a delightful fragrance,” Tony said. “It is often seen in gardens of the southern United States. You are not white or red. You are dark brown and tan and black. You are not in the southern United States. Your name is wrong.”

  “What?” Jasmine cried.

  “You have child-bearing hips,” Tony said.

  “Oh, that’s enough!” Jasmine left the booth. “I’m outta here.”

  “Jasmine, give him a chance,” Angelo said. “He’s harmless.”

  Tony glanced at her. “Pink.”

  Jasmine snatched her coffee. “What?”

  “Your tongue is pink,” Tony said. “I like that color.” He stuck out his tongue. “My tongue is red. My dog Tonto has a black and red tongue. He licks his balls with it.”

  “Yeah, um, right,” Jasmine said, backing away from the booth. “You need to keep your brother on a leash. . . .”