PALINDROME by Lawrence Kelter Page B

optimistic smile. “When?”
    “Soon. Maybe soon—I have to think about
it.”
    “That’s all I ask. Be the change, Lexa, be
the change.”

Fourteen: Compassion
     
    Twilight was fading as I got into my
car and headed to my friend Carli’s place. There wasn’t much
traffic on the Long Island Expressway. All the traffic was going
the other way, commuters heading home after a long day at the
office. I smiled because I was driving in the traffic-free
direction. I was feeling very Zen after Ax’s “be the change”
diatribe and related my western-bound serendipity to Zen
philosophy, thinking about the flow of things and the movement of
energy. Be the change? How could I be the change? Ax assumed that
everyone was at one with nature and that we all understood and felt
a spiritual presence around us. I was not so much into feeling the
spirit as being a loose spirit. Ax had implored me to take control
over my life, but I wasn’t sure it was going to happen right away.
Ax really wanted me to take his Chinese medicine, but I didn’t
think it was such a good idea. I didn’t understand his Chinese
medicine or what it would do to me. I really didn’t want to try and
didn’t know how to make him understand.
    Carli lived in one of those old campers, the
one’s that looked like a giant-size, silver hotdog, the kind that
was covered with rust and had cinderblocks for front steps.
Recently washed duds were hanging from the clothesline. I could see
little Mark’s white blanket and baby towels drying on the line. I
threw the car in reverse, and it stalled. I wanted to get closer to
the front door so that I wouldn’t have to walk over broken beer
bottles in the dark, but the old bucket of bolts made that option
moot. Fifty K lying in the bank and I’m still driving this? Be
the change , I thought. Tomorrow I would be the change, whether
Ax liked it or not.
    Batman was walking out of the front door as I
arrived. Okay, this wasn’t the Batman-and-Robin Batman, the one who
lived in a billionaire’s estate, drove the Batmobile, and
apprehended hooligans in the middle of the night. This was a much
less unique individual, but one that was nonetheless intriguing.
Batman was the name the other car service drivers called him.
Batman was the dependable ride, the honest hack who didn’t rip off
his fares. He was the guy whose car you could safely get into at
1:00 a.m. after taking the LIRR home to Central Islip. I gave him a
peck on the cheek, even though Batman was in desperate need of a
shave. Batman was a light-skinned black man with moles on his face
like Morgan Freeman and thickly matted kinky hair.
    “Lexa, how are you, dear?” Batman had a voice
as rough as industrial strength sandpaper. It was downright
gravely. This was not the voice that came from a healthy set of
vocal chords. These vocal chords had been thickened and hardened by
decades of cigarette smoking until they vibrated with the resonance
of a contra bassoon. It was a voice that could only be reproduced
by a subwoofer. “Stopping by to see Carli and the little one?”
    “We’ve got a regular thing. You just drop her
off?”
    “Ya, I just picked them up at the clinic. She
took the little one for his checkup.” He noticed that I was holding
a six-pack of Bud Lite. “What are the chances one of those cold
Buds getting loose?” He was literally licking his lips.
    “You took my friend to the doc, didn’t you? I
think the chances are pretty good.” I yanked one of the cans out of
the plastic scrim and handed it to the cape-less crusader.
    He popped the top and took a long guzzle.
“Bless ya, dear, I’m always so dry.”
    I didn’t want to tell him to stop smoking. I
was sure he had been told hundreds of times. I wasn’t going to
lecture him the way Ax had just lectured me. “Drive safely, my
friend.”
    “No worries, takes a lot more than one beer
to mess up the Batman.”
    I was sure he was right. He got back into his
livery car as I balanced on the