▶Where Smirk sits
07/04/2026
I know from when I knock that I’ll hear several minutes of his wheelchair creaking in the apartment before he opens the door, allowing me to take in the ambience of Tower Black’s corridors around twilight. The fixtures cast shadows in unsettling shapes on the walls and the intermittent shrieks that we were always told was some vague but intractable HVAC issue emanate from the spaces above and in between the apartments. The space was limited, the appliances were antiques, and the taps would sometimes run a whole rainbow of colors when we turned them on.
I used to love living here.
It’s funny, I guess, that one of the main reasons I signed that endorsement deal with Little Nero’s was to maintain this Midtown address, but that deal put me in conditions where it no longer made sense to live here. Still, even though I had to close the chapter of my life that is locked away behind that door and earlier in time, it made perfect sense to pass the apartment on to someone I knew would appreciate it, so who better than-
“Jommy!” Though the surrounding apartment is consumed by inky darkness, my cousin’s face is framed in the doorway by a brilliant golden halo that I reflexively avert my gaze from, rapidly blinking. “Dude, are you wearing a headlamp?”
“Hey, Paul! Thanks for noticing!” The hallway begins to fill in with his indelible personal fragrance of onions and the Brylcreem he likes to smear his hair down with.
“Couldn’t help it! Could you maybe, like, not?” I suspect that the Brylcreem is reacting with the heat of the halogen bulb and giving off unfamiliar fumes.
“What, and just feel my way around in the dark? That would be ridiculously dangerous and if I’m to be honest dangerously ridiculous as well so no, I do not think that I could maybe, like, not!” I can’t see whatever expression is on his face as he presses something into my dangling hand, something smooth and round with a webbed belt dangling from it, so I set about trying to imagine one that isn’t going to contribute to my frustration, particularly once he speaks up again. “But fear not, for I, the heroic Cousin Jommy, will not allow you to maybe, like, not, either!” Sighing, I clip my own headlamp into place, shut my eyes, and let my face track to his voice. ”I guess you could say you ain’t got no reason to be afraid of nothing, not while I’m around!” I turn on my headlamp. “Ow! Why is it so bright?”
We hastily negotiate an acceptable brightness setting for each of our respective lights through trial and error, at which point he backs up and lets me into the benighted living room. As is so often the case when dealing with Jommy, I decide it’s best to address whatever nonsense this is head on. “Look, Jommy, I appreciate that you have a headlamp for me, but I think I’d appreciate it more if you turned the lights on!”
“I can’t,” he laments.
“Why not?” I’m trying to be patient without sounding like I’m trying to be patient. I swear I’m trying.
“All the light bulbs are burned out and I have the replacement light bulbs that I bought even though the replacement light bulbs were super expensive when you think about my line of work and how I’m compensated although I ultimately justified the purchase out of sheer necessity but I can’t put the replacement light bulbs in because I can’t stand up for long enough to replace even one light bulb so I’ve been wearing a headlamp since it’s been just me.” He takes an audible breath. “It’s really great to see you, though.”
“Always great to see you too, man.” He’s dressed like a colorblind pimp, but I know it isn’t due to a lighting issue. He’s always been the kind of guy who makes fashion statements that are equivalent to shouting FIRE in a crowded theater. “After all, we’re family.”
Tears in his eyes, Jommy takes on a faltering bright smile, a beaming quasar of contentment and moroseness. “Always. Do you want to go up on the roof for the fireworks?”
I shake my head, then let the beam affixed to my forehead explore the space. It tracks directly to each dead bulb. “I’ve replaced these things plenty of times. You can go on up, if you want, and I’ll be there as soon as I’m done.”
He immediately angles himself toward the door, then turns his glowing visage back toward me and exclaims, “I keep the bulbs in the closet!”
I chuckle, stepping deeper into my old living space and peering into the cramped kitchenish space, where only one thing opens at a time and some of it is easiest to reach from outside. “Which one?” But he’s already gone. “Really great to see you,” I announce to nobody in particular, scowling.
True to my word, I’m able to replace the bulbs in short order once I find the replacements in the first closet I try. As chaotic as he is, sometimes Jommy does things that make perfect sense to me, and those times leave me wondering whether the issue there is sense or me. Either way, I’m frustrated with him. By the time the lights are back on, it’s become apparent that he’s running his air conditioner like a refrigeration unit and many of the surfaces are fuzzy with dust.
I disengage my headlamp and stare around the living room, my mind’s eye noting the places where I used to have training equipment crammed in, bags and barbells and benches. The discount branded couch hobby kit I assembled is still in its place of honor against the wall across from the TV, so I flop into it.
The fireworks erupt in a cacophony of early evening explosions, bangs and booms washing over the city in waves of combustive enthusiasm that overwhelm the senses even with the curtains drawn, as Jommy’s are. As I start to move to the window overlooking the fire escape, I hear an odd subtone of treble, cooing and hooting just outside. I open the curtain and, in response to what I see, make the snap judgment to open the window as well and step out.
I shoo the pigeons away from the ledge and kneel down, uncertain of what I’m seeing at first. The tabby kitten seems impossibly small and almost certain to have gotten the worse end of whatever just happened. I’m shaking too much to say for sure if it’s moving. Within moments, some impulse takes hold and I reach out my hand.
A heartbeat.
Brilliant emerald eyes opening to take me in.
A tiny but assertive mew.
It all plays out quickly, the phone call, the towel, the rushed trip to the emergency vet. All of it except the wait. But even through that, I hold the kitten and towel tandem close. I call Jommy as I hear the fireworks show wind down, still holding my linen-wrapped parcel, and he arrives shortly after the smiling vet techs pull it from my strangely reluctant hands in what I thought was the examination room and leave out a back door.
I fill him in on what I saw.
I always forget Jommy has such a strong back, but while I can’t say he effortlessly pulls me down into a hug, he does pull me down into a hug. “Better you than me,” he says softly and solemnly.
I pull back to my full height and grimace. “Ouch, dude!”
“No, not like that! What I mean is that you saw a problem and you knew it was a problem and you knew what to do about it and you did it and I think that’s great but I’m not like that!”
“Come on, man, you’re just like that! You’ve been a great agent! You’ve got me that regular gig in Chicago and a spot touring with CWF, and I know that hasn’t come without challenges.”
He sighs glumly. “That’s different.”
It is at this point that the veterinarian, a dude of indeterminate age in nondescript scrubs, enters through the door the kitten left through earlier. He starts to lay out odds and options, payment plans and prognoses, all in detached tones, but keeps emphasizing dollar amounts for different potential courses of treatment with various degrees of dismissal. Finally, I cut him off. “Okay, sure, surgery, obviously the anesthesia, antibiotics, yes, but if the cat needs all this, shouldn’t you be working on, like, saving its life?”
“Mr. Freedom,” he says, “I would like nothing more. Part of it is the matter of payment. We’re barely keeping this clinic above water.”
“Dude,” I say, digging into my wallet for my credit card, “I hear you, and I know I may not look it, but I’m good for whatever you need to do.”
“He is!” Jommy pipes up. “I’m his agent, so I’m ten percent good for it.” I’m not so sure that’s the ringing endorsement he seems to consider it.
“It’s not just that. Even if everything goes well, she’s going to need constant care. Bottle feeding is just the start of it. Our regular fosters are full up and then some. She’s going to need somewhere to go,” he finishes plainly.
My head swims. As much as I want this little life to flourish, my lifestyle isn’t great for a rehabbing animal. I’m headed back to Chicago within the week, where I’ll be living out of whatever hotel room is available on short notice until the next booking pops up. But then again, if I don’t do this and tell myself it’s because I can’t, not because it’s inconvenient, how long will that hold up? As my mind grinds its gears in a desperate bid to synthesize the dialectic, Jommy speaks warmly and firmly. “I’d be happy to take her in.” He looks to me for approval, but the next thing he says is clearly a statement, not a question. “That’s okay, right!”
Jommy isn’t historically what you’d call the most responsible person. We’ll have to figure something out. Still, it doesn’t seem right to rain on his parade right now. “Um, right!”
“You’re sure? It’s going to take up a lot of time.”
“I’m sure! I’ve got that!”
“You heard the man,” I say with a grin and a shooing gesture. The vet rolls his eyes and returns to the depths of the
practice.
Jommy and I pass away the time that follows in silence. He retreats into his phone. I stop looking at mine because, when time is passing this slowly, there’s no need to quantify it on top of everything else. I tune out and reflect on the path that’s taken me here, or me and Jommy really.
The night I ran away.
The years in Centerpoint City.
The week of training before my debut match, suspended between coming to in a cafe in Anchorage and coming out from behind a curtain in Philadelphia.
Jommy was there the whole time.
That night, he followed me to the bus stop.
Those years, he helped me get by.
That week, he arranged it all, the rides, the training, the match itself.
When they carted me off to Pennsylvania Hospital, he was along for the ride, and when they wouldn’t let me sleep he kept me company.
A lot like this.
I settle deeper into the seat, and, even though it was seemingly engineered with the opposite of comfort in mind, I find my eyelids becoming heavy as I stare at the drop ceiling.
Much to my surprise, I wake up gradually rather than with that sudden sensation of falling I’ve grown so accustomed to. I can hear Jommy speaking softly before my eyes open. “-and then you’ll get to come home and I think you’re really going to like it there because even though there isn’t much to do I think there will be once you get there. Oh! Paul! Look who’s almost ready to come home!”
Sure enough, in his lap, arrayed on his towel, is the kitten herself. She looks around to me, her tiny head surrounded by a plastic cone and an intricate network of stitches closing a wound by her mouth, then returns to peering up at him in awe. I can hear her purring from across the exam room, though it is admittedly rather cramped. “It seems like she can’t wait!”
“Me, either!” He’s up for this.
“Yeah.” Beyond that, he needs this more than I do.
“I’m going to call her Smirk! See, because her mouth goes up on this side?” And it wouldn’t be fair to her. Not with me on the road.
“Well, I guess I’d better pay the good doctor,” I announce, pushing to my feet. I let my eyes linger on Smirk a little longer, a matching expression working over my face.
“I really appreciate this, Paul.”
“Anything else I can do before I go?” The kitten swivels her head to take me in again.
“Before you go? Nope! But after that?”
“Any time!”
“Spend the week at my place.” His voice takes on a wistful indistinctness. “New York isn’t the same without you.”
“Nothing ever is,” I say with a genuine smile. “But everything changes, I guess.” Smirk stretches out a tiny paw toward me, and I meet it by extending my hand. “Except that there’s always something worth fighting for.”
Tiny, needle claws grip my thumb and, I’ll admit it, my heart.