Then I heard it: Happy Birthday. Harry’s singing Happy Birthday.
Wounded by a blow of love.
The sensation was a finger drawing a circle around my heart. A tenderness not since Charlie 2Moons. I was sure it was God, the word of God, God’s voice, The Great Mystery, Sistine Chapel Big Guy extending his hand.
But it’s not the truth.
It was just Harry, New York’s only Irish Catholic homosexual, holding a chocolate cake and singing Happy Birthday in a bar.
It was not God.
It was only Manhattan.
And I knew, right then. In all the world. Finally.
Hey, Charlie! I yelled. It’s me, Will! I’m home!
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER
FIVE
One time it wasn’t Ruby on the phone. It was True Shot. What do you say we go get a doughnut? True Shot said.
In the unrelenting Dunkin Donuts fluorescence, True Shot looked green and my skin looked beige.
No Charlie 2Moons in Dunkin Donuts.
True Shot sat down at the counter, his shoulders hunched over. I asked him what was wrong and True Shot told me he was feeling poorly because Ruby’d ripped off the petty cash for Spirit Schleppers.
Spent the whole day, True Shot said, Trying to find that damn guy.
Fucking junkie! I said.
True Shot’s mirrors were snake eyes on me. On his mirrors, my nose was big and my mustache was a hairy arch of brown hair. Bug eyes.
Be careful with your words, True Shot said. Words are real things. Ruby is our brother.
In the fluorescence, my baseball cap was the only shade for miles.
My mother’s nerves.
But Ruby, I said, Calls me all the time. I said, And he don’t speak. Every night, I said. My answering machine is street noise and Ruby coughing.
True Shot drums left-hand silver rings against the Formica countertop. In his right hand at his neck, the buckskin bag with the blue-beaded horizontal and the red-beaded vertical.
In this world, True Shot said, There is no one like Ruby Prestigiacomo, and he needs our help. Besides, True Shot said, I promised a friend of mine I’d take care of Ruby.
I went to say What friend? but just then, down the Dunkin Donuts counter from us, the cop tipped his cup up and drank, set the cup down on the saucer, did something with his gun on the side of him, stood up, threw a quarter down on the counter, and walked toward us, his one eye on me, the other on True Shot. A big guy, red hair, drank green beer on Saint Patrick’s Day, his roll of fat I thought a bullet-proof something around him. Still, True Shot made two of him.
The cop tilted his cap back, said, You, Brave Arrow, mind taking those Foster Grants off for me?
True Shot said, Yes, sir, Officer, and took his mirrors off, and looked right into the eyes of the cop. Cop looked back. The staredown.
That’s the first time I noticed True Shot’s eyes. They were the color of jade. And something else. True Shot’s eyeballs did not hold still. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down too. Saint Vitus Dance eyes.
Driver’s license, please, the cop said.
When True Shot put his hand in his extra-lovely black leather jacket pocket, the cop put his hand on his gun.
The cop took True Shot’s driver’s license, looked at it close. Then the cop took the rain slick he had draped over a chair, put on his rain slick, said to True Shot, After you.
The cop followed True Shot out the door into the rain. I went to follow them out and the cop said, You stay inside. Have a cup of java, the cop said. On me.
So I stayed inside while True Shot and the cop walked out to the van, looking at myself in the window looking out at True Shot talking to the cop, showing the cop the registration, then going through the brake lights, the turn signals, low beams and high beams.
True Shot stood in the rain while the cop was in the patrol car, talking on the radio, the static radio sound coming all the way inside Dunkin Donuts.
When the cop took off, I took True Shot’s Maple Bar and coffee out to the van. True Shot was sitting, rain on the roof, staring straight ahead, Dunkin Donuts’ fluorescence on the surface of his mirrors.
True Shot took a bite out of the Maple Bar and started the van.
All Dodges sound the same when you start them up.
I punched in the Sioux tape.
At the Interborough Parkway, True Shot doubled back onto Broadway, the ticket the cop gave True Shot stuck under the plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard next to the photo of Brigitte Bardot in the green-sequined frame.
Obstructed view.
True Shot’s designer mirrors were obstructing the view.
Back over the Brooklyn Bridge, the steel grating under the tires, the vibration up through Door of the Dead van was like an airplane landing on top of the van—so loud I couldn’t hear myself think.
Do cops give you so much shit because you’re Indian? I asked.
The dashlights were amber and green on True Shot’s mirrors.
What cops smell when they see me, True Shot said, Is their own asshole. Only thing that keeps a cop from being an outlaw is his badge. Cops see me and their dirty shorts just start stinking.
You weren’t doing anything, I said. You were just sitting there.
That cop wasn’t as bad as some, True Shot said. A classic case. White kid, football player—probably time in Vietnam—now carrying twenty extra pounds from dunking his donut and driving around, wondering what his wife’s doing while she’s home alone. Red-blooded American boy who believes that without him, without the law, mankind would turn into the savage beasts they truly are.
And this young Donut Dunker, True Shot said, Knows a lot about savage beasts, because what his life has come down to is him sitting in his patrol car at four in the morning.
The cop has looked, True Shot said, And what he found was a beast inside his tiny Catholic heart too savage to name.
Inside Door of the Dead van: rain and windshield wipers, too savage to name, the hole in the floorboard, the plastic Virgin Mary, the green-sequin-framed photo of Brigitte Bardot, the ticket for obstructed view, the amber and green in True Shot’s mirrors.
Why do your eyes do that? I said.
Astigmatism, True Shot said. That’s what the white doctor said.
What the Injun doctor said is different, True Shot said. A Hopi medicine man told me my eyes don’t stop moving because I’m looking for the space in between, and someday I’m going to find that space in between, and when I do I’ll be able to disappear into it.
We drove along silent for some miles, just the Sioux tape. Then, all at once, True Shot pulled Door of the Dead van over and we stopped. He shut the engine off, leaned back against the seat, and put the last of the Maple Bar in his mouth. It wasn’t raining. It got real silent in the van with the Sioux tape off.
Outside my window was a big old stone building with pillars and grand steps: Brooklyn Academy of Music. Not a person in sight, personne, no Charlie.
It is this way, True Shot said. Let me tell you a story.
The drums and the rattles started going. Like he’d brought his own sound track with him.
I was in for something important, so I rolled a cigarette.
A long time ago, when the white man bought Manhattan from the Indians, True Shot said, The white man bought Manhattan for twenty-four dollars’ worth of coins and beads. The white man thought he’d really put one over on the Indians and made jokes about how dumb the Indians were to sell the island of Manhattan so cheap.
It is this way, True Shot said. The joke was on the white man.
True Shot said, The secret name the Indians called Manhattan was Wolf Swamp, and Wolf Swamp, from ancient times, was a sacred place. A family of wolves lived on the island, and their home was at the heart of the forested island near the mouth of a beautiful spring.
What you couldn’t see, though, True Shot said, What was obstructed from your view, hidden in the rocks of the beautiful spring, was the ent
rance to a deep cave. The cave was full of intricate passageways and blind alleys. In the heart of the cave lived a monster whose name was never spoken aloud.
It is this way, True Shot said. The wolves of Wolf Swamp were a special family whose task it was to guard the cave, to keep the monster inside and keep everything, everybody else, outside.
Once a year, True Shot said, Every year in the dog days of summer, the monster began to roar and beat the walls of the cave. His roar was earthquake or thunder. And when the family of wolves heard the monster earthquake thunder, the wolves began to howl.
Across the river, True Shot said, When the native people heard the howl of the wolves of Wolf Swamp, they knew. The monster was trying to escape the island and kill the people.
At this time, True Shot said, The native people chose a young woman and a young man to make the journey to Wolf Swamp. As was the custom, the women of the tribe took the young woman and taught her the secret steps into and out of the cave. As was the custom, the men took the young man and taught him the secret way to hurl the rock that repels the monster. As was the custom, the women of the tribe counseled the young woman never to look into the eyes of the young man until their task had ended and they were safe outside. As was the custom, the men of the tribe counseled the young man in the same way.
It is this way, True Shot said. Only the young woman knew the steps through the cave. Only the young man could send the monster back into the cave, and only by hurling a rock.
On the night of the full moon of the dog days, True Shot said, Riding on a white stallion, the stallion’s mane and tail combed and soft—the stallion prancing, stepping high, ears up, tail up, a magic horse like a piece of the magic moon—the young woman and the young man crossed the river, rode to the spring, and offered the customary gifts of tobacco and herbs to the family of wolves, and after smoking pipe they feasted. After feasting, and before the woman and the man entered the cave, as was the custom, together the young woman and the young man blindfolded the white stallion. The young man mounted the horse and the young woman led the horse into the cave. When they came upon the monster, the young man hurled a rock and the monster turned back. Then the young woman, remembering the steps, led the young man and the white stallion out of the cave.
And so it went on for many years, True Shot said, Until there came a year that something happened.
Different people tell the story different, True Shot said. Some say it was the young woman, some say the young man. In any case, one of the two of them looked the other in the eyes.
These things happened next, True Shot said. Immediately the monster came after them. Immediately, the young woman forgot the steps, and they were lost.
The young woman knew her only choice was to offer herself as a sacrifice to the monster, and she knelt down and begged the young man to sacrifice her. The young man refused and, in his panic, tore the blindfold from the white stallion and rode off to fight the monster alone.
When the monster came upon the young man on the white stallion, True Shot said, The young man hurled the rock, but just before he hurled the rock, the white stallion saw the monster, reared, and the rock missed. The young man fell off, the white stallion ran away, and the monster devoured the young man.
When the young woman heard the young man’s screams, True Shot said, She lay down in the cave and closed her eyes. She tried so hard to remember the steps. She could hear the monster coming closer and closer. With each step of the monster, instead of remembering, though, the young woman forgot even more. She forgot even what it was she was trying to remember.
The monster came so close the young woman could smell the decay and feel its cold breath in her ear, True Shot said. Just then, the family of wolves arrived, and the wolves surrounded the young woman.
It is this way, True Shot said. The wolves made the young woman one of them. The wolves gave the young woman the shape of Wolf.
It is this way, True Shot said. With all gifts there is a sacrifice. When the wolves shape-shifted the young woman into wolf to confuse the creature, in exchange, as a sacrifice, the wolves lost their memories.
The sound wolf makes is wolf, True Shot said. Wolf wolf the wolf says, wolf wolf, because the wolves have forgotten who they are, where they came from, what their purpose was. The family of wolves have forgotten everything but their name, which must be continually repeated or they will forget the name too.
The only one who can help is the white stallion, True Shot said. The white stallion has not forgotten. It is this way, True Shot said. The special powers of the white stallion are his strength, his speed, and his memory. The white stallion remembers where the gate is, remembers the steps through the cave, remembers how to hurl the rock, but the white stallion was so terrified by the sight of the creature that he is now only blind fear, running running.
Wolf’s howl is a cry to the white stallion for help, True Shot said. Even though Wolf does not know it, Wolfs howl is trying to soothe the white stallion, trying to calm him, so that the white stallion can hear where the young woman is, can hear that the young woman has been shape-shifted into Wolf.
If the white stallion would only stop and listen, True Shot said, He would recognize the cries of Wolf as the young woman’s, and he would go to her, acknowledge her, and she would change back into herself.
And so it is this way, True Shot said, Wolf Swamp became a marsh lost in fog where the Wolves of Amnesia roam, where the white stallion never stops running, and the monster, set free of his boundaries, rules in chaos, unchecked.
The story goes, True Shot said, That Wolf Swamp became a prison camp. The island of banishment from the tribe. The worst punishment, even worse than torture and death, was being sent to Wolf Swamp, because the banished one knew he was condemned to keep himself alive. The only way he could keep himself alive was by repeating his name. If he stopped repeating his name, he would die. It is said some people grew so weary of repeating their name they chose to stop. But just as they stopped, at that moment, they started again because what opened up before them was too much to bear.
Some say the island itself ceased to exist, True Shot said, That the island was only the fog, the sound of the white stallion running, and the howl of the wolves.
And so it was this way, True Shot said, For many years. That is, he said, Until the white man came along.
The legend goes that one night, True Shot said, Sitting around the fire, somebody told the white man about Wolf Swamp. They got the white man drunk and told him about Wolf Swamp, told a real good story about Wolf Swamp so the white man wanted to go there. Nobody would take the white man to Wolf Swamp, but they did tell the white man they would sell it to him, that he could buy it.
And so this fucking dumb drunk white man bought Wolf Swamp, True Shot said. Twenty-four dollars for a place of torture, banishment, terror, and amnesia, complete with a monster set loose upon the land.
But then something quite remarkable happened, True Shot said. As soon as the white man bought the island, the island reappeared again, as if it were real.
As if, True Shot said, As if to appear.
It is this way, True Shot said. The white man acts as if he has a heart. But he has no heart. He has a paparazzi advertisement for a heart. As it is inside, so it is out, True Shot said. So as soon as the white man bought Wolf Swamp, he created Wolf Swamp.
God may have created the world, True Shot said, But the white man made Manhattan. It is a match made in hell.
Take away the architecture, True Shot said, Take away the fashion, the photography; take away the grid, the profiteering, the exchange, the stocks and bonds, the money, the fools and the pharisees, the careers, and all that’s left is a foggy swamp, a family of forgetful wolves, a scared stallion, and a monster.
New York is structure, True Shot said. You’ll find it’s nothing else. Form, function, no content. Manhattan is point zero, the place where nothing occupies space and holds power that becomes something only because you have entered it. Like t
hat.
This island exists, True Shot said, Only because we name it, buy it, sell it, trade it, build it, tear it down, dress it up, undress it, fuck it, fight it, forget it, get it high.
We the residents of Wolf Swamp, True Shot said, Exist only because we say we exist, because we can prove we exist because we got it memorized, can repeat it like a wolf, where I’m coming from, how much I’m worth, what my purpose is, how much you need me, what I can do for you, what’s in, what ain’t, where to go, what to wear, what not to wear, what to buy, where to buy it, what to build, how high, what to tear down. Look at me! This is me! This is how important I am, right here in Manhattan is where I am, and this is who you are, and this is where you are, and if you don’t know exactly who you are, if you don’t know exactly where you are, then where you should go is go back to Idaho or go fuck yourself.
Through the van window, the Brooklyn Academy of Music was ancient Greece in the red-dirt dust-storm mercury-vapor light. Its grand stone steps, the columns, the big wood door was the Alexandria Library, was Rome burning, was the Oracle of Delphi.
I rolled cigarettes, one for me, one for True Shot.
When I poured the tobacco into the bright square of white, I looked at my forearms, where the fear always starts. I looked at the fear going up my forearms to my shoulders.
I lit True Shot’s cigarette, lit mine.
Jesus, True Shot, I said. My God, is that story true?
SHOPPING FOR AN Honest Man is what Fiona and Harry called their performance piece. Fiona scored the gig for Halloween night at Dixon Place, a performance space on East First Street.
At Café Cauchemar, two weeks before the performance, all Fiona and Harry did was say Shopping for an Honest Man dialogue back and forth, serving cocktails, in the kitchen, busing tables, after work with the staff cocktail, in front of Ronald and Nancy—even one night sharing a cab downtown—back and forth, those two.
One night walking home after work, the week before Shopping for an Honest Man, I must have passed ten posters of Fiona and Harry—an enlarged Polaroid of Fiona and Harry, draped in white sheets, wreaths in their hair like Greeks, holding up lanterns.
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 12