The Manny. Holly Peterson

out of the office, Charles appeared again. When he didn’t have a story, he liked to come in my office and annoy me. I ignored him and kept typing, staring at the screen.

      He sat down in front of me and put his elbows on my desk to get me to look at him. ‘You’re nuts, Jamie.’

      ‘What?’ I snapped.

      ‘Like Phillip’s really gonna go for you hiring a kid who looks like a badass dealer?’

      ‘Charles! You’re so racist. He’s a good kid, he works really hard, his mentor …’

      ‘Bullshit.’ He leaned back with his arms crossed behind his head. ‘You cannot hire a tough kid from the ‘hood for your manny job.’

      ‘How can you talk like that?’

      ‘Hey. He’s a brother. I’d like him to get the job. But I’m telling you, you’re out of your mind. This isn’t going to fly in your fancy-ass apartment with your uptight husband and the whole …’

      ‘It’d be good for Dylan. He was a good kid, smart, not that he actually said that much, but I could tell anyway he was. It’d bring Dylan down to earth,’ I answered, but not with great conviction.

      ‘You are the one stereotyping here, Jamie. Hiring a black kid who’s poor to help your kid be less spoiled? Like only a black kid knows or something?’

      I buried my head in my hands. Maybe Charles was right – Nathaniel was monosyllabic and barely looked me in the eye. Clearly I was getting a little desperate. Most of the coaches I had contacted on my own and really wanted to hire had full-time jobs and were busy in the afternoons with their teams. Nathaniel was the one coach who was available.

      I looked up at Charles. ‘But I need a man.’

      ‘You sure do.’ Charles was not a big Phillip fan.

      ‘Charles. I’m serious. I need an older, responsible male in the house in the afternoons, at least, taking Dylan to the park. Not a heavy-set Jamaican woman like Yvette who doesn’t know how to kick a soccer ball.’ I put my hands over my face. ‘The school called this morning. Again.’

      ‘Stomachache?’

      ‘Yeah. Came on five minutes before phys. ed. He goes to the school nurse, it’s not just basketball, it’s dodge ball, and now it’s soccer. At least after that basketball game, he was still doing gym.’

      ‘Make him go! I’m not a parent, but I watch you guys coddling your kids and, I’m telling you, it’s screwing them up. My momma was such an ass-kicker. And we weren’t poor; so don’t tell me it was some black thing to get out of the ghetto. She sure didn’t put up with any bullshit like this.’

      ‘I’m trying.’

      ‘So what’s the problem? Why is he still in the nurse’s office? Why is that allowed?’

      ‘Charles, it all looks simpler when you’re not a parent. You can’t force kids to …’

      ‘Hell, yes, you can!’

      ‘But he won’t leave the nurse’s office! The school shrink has to go in, with the gym teacher’s assistant, who can’t stay, because it’s the middle of class. But he won’t engage, just looks at them and says, “Hey, I said I’m not feeling well enough to play.” Then the teachers talk to him after school. They call me. Phillip and I go in to meet with them – of course Phillip, always wanting to present a united front to the school authorities, clears his schedule to come to these meetings, but can’t make it to a basketball game. What else do you want me to do?’

      ‘You need to be tougher. That’s exactly what’s fucked up. You should be tougher on him, then he’ll have no place to go and he will start coping.’

      ‘I am tough but you have to remember because he’s sometimes depressed, I just feel that he needs to be loved by me and feel safe with me to cry. He still does and if I play military commander role, he’s not going to come to me any more. Phillip doesn’t connect enough; tries to handle his little rough spots, but can’t seem to break through. And though he tells me not to worry, I know he’s secretly disappointed his son is so complicated.’

      ‘What happens with the basketball team?’

      ‘We make him go because I’m strict about it, like you say I’m supposed to be, but the coach says he won’t shoot, he’ll dribble and run around a bit. Kind of. Not really. But now it’s spread to just regular gym. Look. I know my kid. I know what he needs. I want to find a great guy every afternoon to kick his ass, just like your momma did, but in Central Park.’

      Charles grabbed my wrist across the desk, converted. ‘You’re going to find the right guy. But it’s not any of the ones you just met. You know that.’

      On an Indian summer day a week later and no further in my search, I walked across the park to my office after a business lunch on the East Side. I was in the middle of a call with Abby who was mortified by Goodman’s latest request.

      ‘I’m going to kill Goodman!’ she was screaming into my earpiece. ‘Literally I was daydreaming about it this morning on the subway.’

      ‘Oh, Abby. What now?’

      ‘You know Ariel LaBomba? The hot Latina weather girl from Good Morning New York?’

      ‘I guess. Maybe. Not sure.’

      ‘I promise you. She’s nothing great. But she does these adventure-travel-type pieces and Goodman wants to close the show with them, thinks she’s ready to jump from local to network.’

      ‘OK, so that’s not unusual. I’m sure she’s pretty.’

      ‘No. It gets worse. Listen to this: he’s meeting with her this afternoon and he wants to make sure I go down and wait for her outside the building.’

      ‘Not in the lobby? And his assistant can’t do this?’

      ‘Nope, he trusts me more. Then he wants me to take her down the block to the wrong entrance …’

      I laughed. ‘I so know what’s coming next.’

      ‘Yes! Just so we can pass the bus stop ad with him anchoring on top of the World Trade Center rubble.’

      ‘Abby, wait …’

      ‘I hate that ad. He thinks it looks like Iwo Jima.’

      Just then I happened upon a kind of Alice in Wonderland scene on the Great Lawn: about thirty kids were laying a huge chequerboard piece of fabric out on the grass. They were dressed in strange outfits too: A horse’s head, kings and queens, soldiers … was this some kind of performance piece? The director – a nice-looking guy in khakis, a Cassius Clay T-shirt and a baseball cap – was ushering each of them into position. Maybe he was running a rehearsal for an outdoor festival. This being New York, and the heart of Central Park where all the eccentrics come, I wasn’t surprised.

      And then I realized: a human chess game. I couldn’t wait to get closer.

      ‘… Jamie, can you believe the Windex thing?’ Abby’s voice pierced through my headset.

      ‘What Windex thing?’

      ‘Are you listening? He gave an intern, of course that bitchy leggy one, five bucks and asked her to go get some Windex and clean the bus stop ad.’

      I watched the kids.

      ‘Hello?’ Abby yelled. ‘Windexing a bus stop? Get angry with me! You’re so distracted!’

      ‘Honestly, Abby, I am. I’m going to have to call you back.’

      I watched the director. ‘I guess you should first move the pawns out.’

      Two kids at either end took two steps forward on the chequerboard.

      ‘No, no, no!’ he called through cupped hands. ‘You can’t have two kids go at once! Didn’t