“Q.”
SEAN KUDRNA
Q
uincy promised himself he would feel better if he puked. It had easily been more than a decade since he last threw up but he was sure the combination of Bacardi, guilt, and lox he had brewing would be more than enough to refresh him in the ways of regurgitation. Who serves booze at a bris? he thought as he leaned on the far wall of the Synagogue that faced the parking lot, trying his best to subdue his stomach with breaths that were as futile as they were deep. He shut his eyes and felt his stomach stir and when he opened them everything was spinning and he saw stars as he stumbled through the staff parking lot, past station wagons and sedans, squeezing his stomach, suddenly severely sweaty, shuffling and swaying until he stopped at the street opening, leaned on a wall for support and spewed right there on the sidewalk. Quincy heard the voice before he opened his eyes. “Yo, son! Are you fuckin’ serious right now?” He straightened himself and opened his eyes, expecting a cop or some disgruntled street vendor upset at him for being sick around his stand but instead found himself alone, being stared down by the painted eyes of a Big Pun mural. It depicted a full body shot of the late rapper in a fly-ass, creased khaki button up shirt, pants, and hat combination that was contrasted with the blue, red, and white of the Puerto Rican flag that he was proudly waving. Quincy looked up at Pun’s face, which was visible from the streetlights but not totally clear, squinted and then took his phone out and shined it on the painting. He noticed the artist had pursed Pun’s lips, efficiently giving the hardest rapper out of the Bronx a duck face, which made Quincy smile. The grin weathered a bit when he read “1971-2000” written in white just above and a little left of Pun’s head. Mad young but that was still seven more years than Roxie got, he thought as the smile faded and the nausea returned. This time the breathing worked and he calmed his stomach while he stared at the mural and decided he should probably get back to his nephew’s bris before somebody noticed he was gone. He couldn’t be in that room anymore, not with his parents, and not with Miss Mendez. A wave of nausea rolled through. It had only been a month and there was no way she could’ve known but Quincy felt like she knew she was speaking with the man who sold her daughter the pills that killed her when she greeted him with a sad smile and
6
