The Agony of Bun O'Keefe

by Heather T. Smith

  “Thought you might like to see it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll be Christmas soon. If something catches your eye, we can see about getting it.”

  “Like what?” I turned to a random page. “An electric pencil sharpener? It’s the ‘quick and easy solution to dull-ended pencils!’ ”

  “Are you…mad?”

  “Oh, look. What everyone needs. A rock tumbler. ‘Transform ordinary stones into gem-like treasures.’ Pretty please, can I have one?”

  “You are mad.”

  “Or how about this? ‘A truly unique gift, this handsome reproduction of an old cigar-store Indian brings your home vintage charm.’ Is that your wish this year?”

  “Close the book, Bun.”

  “Look at his big feather headdress. Isn’t he amazing? Three and a half feet tall and only $99.99. Why don’t you get yourself one if you love this bleepin’ catalog so much!”

  “Close the book and pass it to me.”

  He wasn’t expecting me to throw it. It hit him in the chest. “I don’t want anything for Christmas!”

  I flopped back on the bed and buried my head in the pillow. I didn’t normally cry, but I felt like I could. So I did.

  He left the room and came back with a glass of water. “Sit up.”

  I took a drink.

  “Are you missing home? Is that it?”

  “No.”

  “Then what is it?”

  I had no idea. So I said so.

  “I don’t know what your Christmases were like at home…”

  A day like any other after my dad left.

  “But we’re going to have a nice time. I promise.”

  No one ever promised me anything before.

  “Chef’s cooking a feast. Turkey and all the trimmings.”

  Way in the back of my eyes I felt a stinging and it wasn’t just the promise or the turkey or that he was the nicest person I’d ever met, it was the look on his face when the Wish Book hit him in the chest. I wasn’t sure how to say it ’cause I’d never said it before and I could feel the words churning in my tummy and when they rose up they came out choked and croaky. “I’m sorry.”

  He caught a tear with his thumb. “It’s okay to have a meltdown. You’re only human.”

  It was more than the crying. I pressed rewind. It helped to explain. “The catalog. I threw it. I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

  I felt a pang. Being human was hard.

  He looked me in the eyes. “Don’t worry, Nishim. I forgive you.”

  “Nishim?”

  “It’s a term of endearment, in my language.”

  “Like how Chris says my ducky?”

  He laughed. “Yes. Something like that.”

  “Braid my hair?”

  He spun me around gently by the shoulders and combed my hair with his fingers. He gathered every strand and wisp loosely at my neck. I closed my eyes. After a few gentle twists and tugs a long braid hung between my shoulder blades.

  —

  We went busking to help pay for Chef’s feast. Busker Boy was playing “Imagine” when a pickup pulled up and a guy in the passenger seat said, “Get a job, you drunk Indian!” I stepped toward the curb. “He doesn’t drink.”

  “An Indian that doesn’t drink?”

  I pressed rewind. Pop Girl had said the same thing. You don’t drink? That’s ironic. There was a connection there that I didn’t want to make.

  “Nishim! Get away from there!”

  “Is he bossing you around, sweetheart? They’re like that when they’re drunk.”

  Busker Boy grabbed my arm and yanked me back.

  “Get your hands off her, you dirty Indian!”

  Busker Boy pushed me away. “Run.”

  These were the rotten people he’d warned me about, I could tell, so I clung to the arm of his jean jacket with both my hands, so he wouldn’t be alone, but these rotten people, they didn’t care, they just tossed me aside. I fell back onto the sidewalk and watched as they punched and kicked and punched and kicked, and I said, “Stop! He gave me a shirt when I was cold.”

  I heard noises that I didn’t like and they were coming from Busker Boy, but then they stopped and I hoped that meant he was thinking of something nice, like fresh strawberry jam. A lady in a violet coat helped me up and said, “Thank the Lord for good Samaritans.” I pushed her away and ran back to the rotten people, but they got in their truck and drove away.

  I rolled him over. He was bloodied and bruised and one side of his face was so scraped it looked like that beef in the tin, the one with the bull on the label. I felt sick.

  He said, “You need to go.” His voice sounded like a record on the wrong speed. I said no but he nodded at two cops heading toward us. “They’ll take you back to your mother. Go. I’ll meet you around the corner.”

  I leaned against the side of the Royal Bank with my eyes closed. My mouth was filled with strawberry jam and my head was filled with a song.

  I don’t know how long I was there.

  “It’s time to go.”

  He sounded like he was talking with his mouth full, and it turns out he was ’cause he stopped to spit out blood.

  The splat on the ground hurt my heart.

  The walk seemed longer, ’cause of his grunts and groans. I wished he knew the script from Jimmy Quinlan. Reciting it would help take the pain away.

  I had lots of questions but asked just one.

  “Why do people care if you are Innu or if you go to church or whether you’re a Cher or a Chris?”

  He didn’t answer. He just took my hand. And that was enough.

  —

  Chris and Chef helped him up the stairs and sat him in a kitchen chair. Chris kept asking him pointless questions like “What day of the week is it?” and “Can you tell me today’s date?” Busker Boy’s mouth was sore so I answered all the questions for him. Chris got mad and told me to shut up.

  Chef offered Busker Boy a skinny cigarette.

  Chris said he should take it. “It’ll dull the pain.”

  I wanted to be dulled too.

  “Can I have one?”

  Everyone said no.

  Big Eyes said she was going to call the cops but I told her they already knew.

  “So are they out looking for the bleepholes who did this?”

  “Are you friggin’ kidding me?” said Chris. “Of course they’re not.”

  “But that’s their job,” she said. “To catch the bad guys.”

  He laughed a really horrible laugh. “Are you really that naive?”

  Busker Boy held his forehead. “Please stop.”

  “I’m sorry, but her friggin’ stupidity astounds me. Then again, I don’t know why I’m so surprised. A pretty, straight, white girl like her would never understand.”

  “Don’t take it out on her,” said Chef. “It’s not her fault the world’s a messed-up place.”

  Chris left the room. I thought it was ’cause he was mad but he came back with a black bag. As he passed Big Eyes he put his hand on her shoulder, looked her in the eyes and said he was sorry. I wondered if he was going to say sorry to me for saying shut up but he didn’t.

  He took out a light and shone it in Busker Boy’s eyes. “Come here and help me, Bun.”

  He asked me to get the stethoscope while he and Chef peeled off Busker Boy’s shirt. He listened to Busker Boy’s breathing and felt his ribs.

  I looked for footprint shapes in the bruises.

  “Go get the Tylenol, Bun. It’s in the medicine cabinet. Extra-strength.”

  When I came back he was dabbing Busker Boy’s cuts with something that made him flinch.

  “You’re hurting him.”

  “Has to be done, my ducky.”

  Dragon Man appeared in the doorway. “What’s this? An orgy?”

  Big Eyes pointed at Busker Boy. “Does this look like a bleepin’ orgy?”

  “It kind of does the way the faggot’s straddling the Indian.”

  “What’s a
faggot?” I asked.

  Chris walked toward the door. “Get lost. We pay our rent. We don’t need to take shit from you.”

  “Speaking of rent,” said Dragon Man, staring at Busker Boy, “you owe me money.”

  “He just gave you rent,” I said. “The other day.”

  Dragon Man rolled his cigarette back and forth across his lips. “Come here, little one. It’s time we got acquainted.”

  Chef stood as close to him as he possibly could. “I think it’s time you left.”

  Dragon Man laughed and went upstairs.

  —

  That night as I got ready for bed I heard Busker Boy playing his guitar. His song was broken. The words came out without meaning. They were puffs of empty breath. They floated around like bits of dust. They were sung by a skeleton, a frame with nothing inside.

  As I brushed my teeth I wondered, could a fourteen-year-old have a heart attack?

  Chris woke Busker Boy every hour throughout the night to check for concussion.

  They woke Arthur O’Malley every hour too. He was in the Old Brewery Mission with Jimmy Quinlan. When he spoke his bottom lip went up under his nose. I tried to copy it but it was hard ’cause I had top teeth. His eyes were big and he had a strong East Coast accent, which I liked doing. He liked it at the mission. He said they treated him like a gentleman. When he went to bed they checked on him every hour to make sure his heart was “still tickin’.” He said, “I’m all right don’t worry about me, don’t worry. I’m all right.” He put his hand on his heart when he said the “still tickin’ ” part, so I’d do the same whenever I’d recite it.

  In the middle of the night I heard Busker Boy sobbing and I didn’t know what to do, but then I realized Chris was lying with him and I heard him whisper, “Don’t worry, you’ll be all right,” and I wanted to ask, “Will I be all right too?” but my mother always said, “It’s not all about you, Bun O’Keefe,” so I didn’t.

  —

  Busker Boy wasn’t at the end of my bed; he was still asleep on the floor, and seeing him there made me sad but I wasn’t sure why. I went to the kitchen and Chef said, “Hey, little Sally Lunn bun, want some breakfast?” and I said I wasn’t hungry. He gave me a slice of toast anyway and said, “Do you want to talk about yesterday?” and I said, “I should have given him the bed. He’s all bashed up and he’s on the floor, and even though he’s asleep, I can tell he’s tired, and I didn’t even think to offer him the bleepin’ bed.”

  “No one expected you to give up your bed.”

  “He asked me once if I was strong and I said yes but I couldn’t hold onto his arm.”

  “You’re a kid. You couldn’t have stopped what happened yesterday.”

  “He said we were close, but you know what’s bad about being close?”

  “What?”

  “The good times are great, but the bad times, they feel way worse.”

  Chef shrugged. “No one said life was easy.”

  I said, “Do you have fifty cents?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I want to go get a paper.”

  He reached in his pocket and separated two quarters from his coins. “Want me to come?”

  “No, I can do it.”

  I didn’t plan on leaving the nicest person I’d ever met. But when I got to the store my legs wouldn’t stop walking. I took it as a sign. Maybe it was time to move on. To a mission, where no one would care about me and I wouldn’t care about them. Or, even better, I could move back with my mother, where there was no caring at all. Maybe life would be simpler that way.

  The cold air made me lose my breath but I kept on walking anyway. I cut through the park to get to Water Street. I was halfway through when I saw Chris sitting on a bench under a tree. He was dressed up in a smart wool coat. It was navy blue and had six big buttons. Peeking out from under the collar was a blue and yellow striped scarf. He looked real nice and seeing him there gave me that rumbly kitten feeling. I loved that feeling and knew I’d never feel it again if I went back to my mother. Not unless I got myself another kitten. Which I wouldn’t. That house was no place for an animal.

  I turned around and went back to the store. Then, with the paper tucked under my arm, I walked back to my temporary accommodations.

  —

  For the next few days, Busker Boy was sore and stiff. All he wanted was to be left alone but Chris said he needed to get up and about. Chef brought him breakfast but said if he wanted lunch or supper he’d have to come get it. Busker Boy shuffled to the table like an old man. I put my hand on his elbow, like a boy scout helping an old lady cross the road. I brought him Tylenol whenever he needed it, and my legs always stopped at the store, and I read the headlines to him ’cause he wasn’t talking very much, so I figured the muscles that moved his mouth were too tired.

  When he was uncomfortable he made noises that made me feel the pain too. I suggested he recite a script. “Repeat after me,” I said. “Jimmy Quinlan, aged thirty-eight, has been drunk for twelve years.” He didn’t see the point but I said, “It really helps. Not that I’ve been in a lot of pain, but when I was alone in my house I’d get weird thoughts, like Who am I? or Am I real? and it was kind of painful ’cause a sore stomach always came with it. But becoming a narrator always made it go away.” Busker Boy looked more pained than ever. “I can’t do this, Bun. Not now.”

  Chef and Big Eyes were worried. They said Busker Boy wasn’t himself. Chris said, “Give him time.”

  He wouldn’t take my (his) bed no matter how many times I offered.

  He slept a lot. When he woke he stared at the ceiling.

  One morning, after I got the paper, I went to the bench I’d seen Chris sitting on. A big tree above me creaked and moaned. I said, “You okay, tree?” Its biggest branch gave a nod. I said, “What about my friend? Will he be okay too?” The wind picked up and all the smaller branches whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

  Back at home, I said, “I bought the paper and talked to a tree.” He barely noticed I was there. I knelt next to his bed on the floor and said, “Want me to braid your hair?” and he said he was sorry, which was a weird answer, so I asked again and he said yes. I combed his hair with my fingers and I twisted and tugged until a long braid hung between his shoulder blades. I asked him if it looked okay and he said yes. I didn’t believe him but figured lying was okay if you meant no harm.

  The next morning he came with me to get the paper and I held his elbow. I figured if I was a boy scout I might get a badge.

  It took ages, but soon he wanted to busk again. He said he couldn’t afford not to. He didn’t walk like an old man anymore and his face looked less pained, but at night, when he took off his shirt, I was sure I could see footprints.

  —

  We sat around the kitchen table getting ready for Christmas. Big Eyes and Busker Boy were stringing popcorn, Chef was baking molasses cookies, and Chris was teaching me how to make paper snowflakes.

  “This must be your mother’s favorite time of year,” said Chris.

  I must’ve looked confused ’cause he added, “She liked to shop, right?”

  The answer was yes, but not in the way that he thought, and I wished he’d never asked ’cause she didn’t belong with us there in the kitchen where things were Christmassy and nice.

  “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Chris. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset. I just don’t want to talk about my mother ’cause it’ll only remind me how stupid and annoying I am.”

  “You are not stupid or annoying,” said Busker Boy.

  “Well I was to her,” I said. “And that’s a fact. The day I left she said, ‘Where’s that expresso machine I bought today?’ I said, ‘I think you mean espresso,’ and I was going to tell her that espresso literally means ‘pressed out’ ’cause it was an interesting fact, but she told me to get out. She said, ‘I’m sick of your sauciness, always talking back, why can’t you hold your t
ongue for once? Go on! Get out!’ So I did.”

  “I always wondered why you left home,” said Big Eyes. “I figured it was something big but this…this is kind of small but big at the same time, you know what I mean?”

  I didn’t. Things were either big or small. They couldn’t be both.

  “I never meant to be rude,” I said. “I just had a voice that never got used. So I tried to make conversations whenever I could.”

  I unfolded a paper snowflake. “Did you know that all snowflakes have six sides?”

  Busker Boy left the room.

  I was going to press rewind but Chris said, “He’ll be okay, love. He just needs a few minutes.”

  “What about your dad?” asked Big Eyes. “Was he nice?”

  “He had a nice voice. He used to sing about a man making potions in a traveling show. He called me Bunny. He left ’cause of the shopping.”

  Most things about my dad were a blur, except for his red hair and beard. I remember thinking he looked like Yukon Cornelius, from the Rudolph Christmas special, only less cartoonish. He took me to Dairy Queen, once. The day I got my glasses. I had a chocolate dip. He told me I looked smart.

  Chef placed a plate in front of me. On it were two warm cookies, fresh from the oven. “Guess how much iron is in one tablespoon of blackstrap molasses?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Three point five milligrams.”

  “Hmmm.”

  I ate my cookies then took over Busker Boy’s popcorn job until Chris said I should go to bed.

  Busker Boy was already in his comforter.

  I took off my Frankie sweatshirt and looked around for my (his) flannel shirt. He pointed at my undershirt. “Was that okay? To get Wonder Woman?”

  “Yeah. That was okay.”

  “Not too young?”

  I looked at his battered face and felt a pang. “I have a story,” I said. “If you’d like to hear it.”

  He didn’t smile but his eyes went crinkly. He patted his comforter.

  I sat down cross-legged and started. “So when I was little there were Underoos commercials on at Christmas time. There was one where a little boy holds up a package of Spiderman Underoos and says, ‘My favorite heroes are Spiderman and my Uncle Fred,’ and then a little girl holds up the Wonder Woman ones and says, ‘My favorite heroes are Wonder Woman and my mama,’ and I wondered what made her mama a hero? Did she save someone from a burning building or something? It was one of the commercials I liked to repeat and I tried to say ‘and my mama’ just like she did, but I was never sure if I was doing it right ’cause the girl was sweet and cute and I wasn’t. At the end of the commercial it said, ‘Be a Christmas morning hero, give Underoos.’ There was no Christmas morning at my house, but when you gave me the Underoos, it reminded me of a time when everything on TV was snowmen and reindeer and mistletoe and even though I wasn’t part of it, I kind of was, and it made me feel that Christmas spirit people talk about. It was a nice change from regular days, you know? ’Cause it was different.”