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By Root 1284 0

being friends with Dwayne entailed certain challenges. As a coworker I could count on Dwayne for almost anything; the first time I met him he announced that he was on “Asian-people time, not black-people time,” and then went on to never miss a day of work, never show up late (except for the incident with the tooth and the pliers) and always return phone calls promptly. However, as a friend, Dwayne was the opposite. Calls went unreturned for months. When we made plans to get together, sometimes he showed up and sometimes he didn’t. When he did finally call, you had to spend hours on the phone with him, hearing about his new side career (he was moonlighting as a bouncer), his new girlfriend (a librarian) and the newest addition to his arsenal (a kind of crossbow that shot explosive multitipped arrows containing nerve poison, or something like that). There was endless detail, of course. But I couldn’t help wondering if he was leaving something out.

That’s because even though he wouldn’t say so, Dwayne’s life seemed to be falling apart. After we sold the store, Dwayne stayed on under the new owners, who never seemed comfortable with him and let him go after a few months. He then got a job at a deli closer to the projects, which lasted until the store was shut down for running an illegal numbers game. He was subsequently out of work for a while, hunting for jobs, and at one point I met him at the Ale House, a restaurant on Atlantic Avenue, so we could go over a job recommendation I had written. (I had been drinking for an hour by the time he showed.) He said nothing was panning out, not even the openings for minimum wage jobs, but he tried to put a brave face on it.

“Maybe I’ll just go back to what all the rest of them brothers doin’, standin’ on a corner with some product in my pocket. Go back to the roots, to what got me where I am,” he laughed.

“What about the new Applebee’s”—Dwayne’s favorite restaurant—“that’s opening at Atlantic Yards?” I asked.

“Do I look Mexican to you? C’mon.”

Dwayne didn’t seem troubled, but I was. It didn’t seem right that someone so smart and hardworking should have to struggle for employment. In an ideal world, he should have been able to find not just any job, but one that capitalized on his vast talents. But at the very least, he should have been able to find a job in the neighborhood where he’d spent his entire life.

“Dwayne, why don’t you open your own deli? You don’t need to work for someone else, and if you need a loan or something, people will help you. You could do anything.”

But Dwayne’s ambitions were different.

“I don’t want to be no astronaut,” he said. “I just want to work, watch my kids grow up and lay back in peace. You ain’t noticed that about me yet? After thirty-six years I ain’t in jail or stuck on no drugs, and I ain’t dead. I think that’s pretty good.”

A few weeks later I called Dwayne again and got a message that his phone had been disconnected. I waited another month, then went to Boerum Hill and started asking people if they knew where he was. No one could tell me anything except Alonzo, the now retired plumber.

“He moved,” he said. “He living down in Far Rockaway.”

“Far Rockaway?” I repeated in disbelief. “Dwayne moved to Queens? Dwayne left Brooklyn?” It didn’t seem possible. After that, I began to panic. It was the same dynamic as with the gun: if anyone could take care of himself, Dwayne could, but also, if anyone could get himself into trouble …

A few weeks later, he called. As soon as I picked up the phone he started talking as if I had seen him yesterday, telling me what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning, how long he’d waited for the A train the previous night, a plot summary of a show apparently called Extreme Factor, which he’d watched when he’d gotten home, how he would live his life if he only had one arm, and—

“Dwayne!” I interrupted. “Where have you been? You had us worried sick. Alonzo the plumber said you moved to Queens.”

This seemed to offend Dwayne.

“I ain’t never leaving Brooklyn!” he barked. However, he admitted it was partially true