More than seven years had passed since I’d filed for my sister’s visa. My niece, who’d been in elementary school when I’d begun the process, was now close to finishing high school. Early one morning, right after I’d arrived at PanStar, I decided to get my immigration lawyer on the phone, to ask about the hold-up.
“You have perfect timing as usual,” my lawyer told me. “I just posted an inquiry, and they said the interview’s about to be up any time now.”
“Okay, well I filed for them at the beginning of 1991, so let’s see if we can get them here by September.”
“I think that’s a reasonable expectation,” my lawyer replied. “I’ll monitor the situation and give you a call once I hear something.”
I hung up and walked over to the couch. My patience was starting to wear thin. I grabbed the television remote and started flipping through channels.
My pager went off- Pierre was up front and wanted to get in back. By that point I’d given him keys to the store, but he still didn’t have the code to the back room.
I let him in.
“Cabrón,” I said by way of greeting.
I glanced at my Rolex- it was 10:15.
“Where’ve you been this morning?” I asked.
Pierre’s standard arrival time was nine a.m., but lately I’d been entrusting him with an increasingly more complex series of errands to run, so his schedule had gotten harder to keep track of.
“I went out to Paterson early this morning to go take care of that thing-thing you asked me to handle,” he reminded me.
“Oh, with the Dominicans? Out by that railyard?”
I’d almost forgotten about that. Was my memory starting to slip or was I just not paying attention anymore?
“Sí,” he confirmed. “Toma.”
He handed over a black leather overnight bag.
"Me dijeron que te diera las gracias."
“That’s nice of them,” I remarked, then deposited the money in my floor safe.
Pierre flopped down on the couch and changed the television to a French language cooking show. Mushroom crepes with cream sauce.
“Where do you find these things?” I asked.
“What?” Cabrón sounded indignant. “I speak French and I like food!”
“You like food?” I laughed. “You are OBSESSED with food.”
“Maybe I should give up this life of crime and open up a restaurant,” Pierre joked.
“I thought you were headed to graduate school,” I replied.
“Why not do it all?” he asked. “I’m still young, right?”
“You certainly are,” I agreed.
Pierre switched off the television and sat up straight.
“There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, in a serious tone.
“Yes? Do you need me to write you a recommendation for cooking school?
“No, I’m serious,” Pierre said. “I need to move out of my parents’ house but I don’t want to, like, sign a lease or move in with some random stranger.”
“Why don’t you move in with Mundo?” I asked. “Isn’t he living in his parents’ building around the corner from Clinton Avenue?”
“Share an apartment with Mundo?” Pierre asked, horrified. “Like the hip hop Odd Couple? Or Bert and Ernie? Fuck that!”
“Well, are there any empty apartments in the building?” I asked.
“There’s one at the top,” Pierre confirmed. “But you know Mrs. Henriques- she’s trying to charge $850 for a third-floor studio. Fuck, that, too.”
“And what do you think I could do for you?” I asked.
“Iono,” Pierre said, sounding like the child he still was. “I figured you might know someone with a room for rent, somewhere.”
“How much are you trying to spend?” I asked, studying him.
“Like, four fifty a month? The only thing I need is my own bathroom.”
“What, no kitchen?” I joked. “How are you going to make your French crepes without one?”
Pierre shook his head at me. He wasn’t in the mood to kid around.
“Okay,” I replied. “I think I may know of something for you. Come back to me next week and we can talk about it.”
I needed to take a minute before I made my decision, but it seemed like I may have solved my PanStar problem.
