In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Just like that: Howdy, pardner! Fiona said, breezing by, red lips a life all their own, sexy totale, her huge red leather purse over her shoulder.

  Chef’s back! she said.

  IN THE LOCKER room of Café Cauchemar, I was just reaching for my shorts when Kung Fu salad guy walked into the dressing room, followed by Chef Som Chai.

  The chef’s hand was a big white boxing glove of gauze, and the chef made like a boxer when he came up to me, like he was going to punch me, but he didn’t. The chef put his good hand on my shoulder, just long enough to let me know he’d touched me, then extended his good hand, palm open, toward me. I took his hand, still not smiling, and we stood that way, looking at each other, the chef standing too close, my one hand shaking the chef’s hand, the chef holding his boxing-glove hand in the air above his heart, my other hand holding up my shorts in front of me.

  How’s your hand? I asked.

  My boys tell me you good waiter, the chef said. You different from other waiters.

  The chef turned and said something in his language to Kung Fu salad guy. Kung Fu salad guy said something back to him.

  Respect, Chef Som Chai said. They say you have respect.

  Most Americans don’t know respect, the chef said. You think you know everything. So we do our best to teach you. Sometimes this very hard.

  The chef looked at Kung Fu salad guy, and Kung Fu salad guy barked like a dog. I thought they’d never stop laughing.

  Then: Ocean is big, Chef Som Chai said, Because ocean is lower than rivers. But one thing you must always remember. This here New York City, and you need to speak up when you put order in. You speak too soft and not fast.

  Yes, sir, I said.

  Chef! the chef said. I am Chef.

  Chef Som Chai took his good fist and banged it against his chest.

  Yes, Chef! I said.

  What your section tonight? the chef asked.

  One, I said. Section One.

  Well then, the chef said, I change schedule. This week you have Section Three and maybe Four and Five, maybe Section Six.

  You’re going this way and then shit happens and then you’re going that way.

  Thank you, I said. Chef.

  I was still shaking his hand.

  How much money you make this week? the chef asked.

  Some, I said. Hundred and ninety-five dollars, I said. Seven shifts.

  Now you make twice as much in half of time, the chef said.

  He let go of my hand and rolled just his eyes up to the unrelenting fluorescence.

  But now, the chef said, smiling big, Now you have many enemies.

  Chef took my hand that was holding my shorts in front of me and raised it the same way his bandaged hand was raised.

  In all the world, naked, standing with two guys from Thailand in a locker room of a New York restaurant, both the chef and I, our left hands wrapped, his in gauze, mine in Fruit of the Loom, left hands in the air.

  You are hung like Asian man, the chef said.

  Chef looked down at my cock.

  Shows wisdom, he said.

  Wisdom? I said.

  You and your body not identical, the chef said. American men with big cocks don’t know that, the chef said, But you been blessed. Your spirit is great, your body is big, and your dick is little.

  I was smiling. Stopped smiling. The chef had to sit down, he was laughing so hard. Kung Fu salad guy too.

  But when our cocks get hard, the chef said, They get really hard, no? Stainless steel! the chef said, making a fist with his good hand.

  Then, all at once, my mouth said, Then why you calling me Horse Dick?

  Chef Som Chai walked to the door, opened the door, Kung Fu salad guy behind him. I was still standing with my left hand and my shorts in the air.

  You in big trouble now, the chef said. Next week you Section Six, and Mack Dickson think your cock bigger than his.

  I covered myself with my Fruit of the Looms.

  Kung Fu salad guy closed the door behind them: laughing; the two of them laughed all the way up the stairs.

  FIONA WAS STANDING at the espresso machine, looking up at the schedule.

  Oh. . . my. . . God! Fiona said. They’ve moved Mack Dickson into Section One.

  Then: Fuck, Will! You’re in Section Five!

  Walter, the ectomorph who drank too much coffee, Walter the actor with the new haircut, boy’s regular, just like Davey Dearest’s haircut which was just like Richard Gere’s, walked over to the schedule, made the sound of inhaling air, said something ferocious, and ran out through the swinging red doors.

  Life vérité, Fiona said.

  Fiona walked over to the schedule. Put her index under my name.

  Then: Will! Fiona said, and looked right at me.

  Fiona’s blue eyes holding me in them again.

  You sly son of a bitch! Fiona said. Way fucking cool!

  Over by the garbage can where you can smoke, I was filling out my checks with my name and the date.

  What did Walter say? I said.

  Something about sucking yellow dick, Fiona said.

  Fiona looked through the window on the red swinging doors.

  Look! Fiona said. Walter’s talking to Daniel! Cool. Now Joanie’s getting in on it, and there’s Davey Dearest. Oh. . . my. . . God! Mack Dickson’s walking over to them now. Look at ’em all together, like flies on shit.

  He’s coming our way, Fiona said. Mack, Son of Dick! Thee perfect gay man!

  Then, cupping her hands around her mouth, she hollered, Prepare for Mack Attack! Prepare for Mack Attack!

  I looked around for somewhere to run, to leave the premises, but the only way out was through the swinging red doors. I kept writing my name down and the date. Name and date. Name and date. I was practicing what to say, but I couldn’t remember, not one word in English. Language is my second language. There was no time to roll a cigarette; besides, I was already smoking a cigarette.

  Fuck! Fiona said. Wish Harry was here!

  The swinging red doors burst open, and Mack Dickson was standing there all of a sudden like in vampire movies.

  Frozen moments in time.

  I acted like I was already dead and wished he was dead too.

  Davey Dearest was behind Mack Dickson, then Walter, then Joanie. They were all standing with their hands on their hips, as if they’d practiced at home. If they were cowboys they’d draw six-guns and OK Corral the place.

  Then Mack Dickson, Mack Son of Dick, Mack-Attack Dickson, Perfect Gay Man, Republican, tortured gym body, matching underwear and socks, possessor of perfect Caravaggio body, walked to the schedule, followed his finger along the line, came to the place where my name was and his name used to be, turned, and walked the way American men with big cocks walk, right up to me.

  Everything about him was beautiful. Even his nose hairs were beautiful.

  Horse Dick, Mack Dickson said, I’m going to get you for this!

  My arms folded in front of me, I leaned back on my heels and looked Max Dickson straight in the eye.

  So I’m a yellow-dick-sucking asshole, I said. What the fuck you going to do about it?

  But it’s not the truth.

  My mouth was moving but nothing was coming out.

  That’s when Harry walked in through the swinging red doors with Ronald Reagan and Nancy under his arm. Harry set Ron and Nancy up against the counter. Mack Dickson, Walter, Davey Dearest, Joanie, Georgette, Fiona, and I—we all looked at Harry and Ronald Reagan and Nancy.

  What is this, Harry said, A convention?

  Then Chef Som Chai walked in from the kitchen and stood right in the center of us waiters, his chef’s hat just high enough for me to see over.

  Quiet only New York can get that fast.

  Hello, Chef, Mack Dickson said.

  Hello, Chef, Joanie said.

  Hello, Chef, Davey Dearest said.

  Hello, Chef, Walter said.

  The chef looked at Fiona, then me, then Harry.

  How’s i
t going, Chef? Fiona said.

  Hello, Chef, I said.

  Harry barked like a dog three times, loud. Didn’t growl.

  Then Daniel, the boss’s brother, walked in through the swinging red doors.

  Hey, Spud, Daniel said to me. Can you stay after work tonight? I need to have a talk with you.

  Everybody—Mack, Walter, Joanie, Davey, Fiona, Harry, Georgette, even Chef Som Chai—laughed out loud all at once, then tried not to laugh, and quick they left the room, yawning, covering their mouths, coughing, all of them, even Georgette, into the kitchen, into the dishwashing room, through the swinging red doors, into the dining room, away, and then it was just me and Daniel standing there. I wasn’t laughing.

  What’s wrong? Daniel said. What the fuck’s so funny? What’d I say?

  Through the swinging red doors, I was out of there. In the dining room in nothing flat.

  SNOW ON CHRISTMAS Eve. Big flakes coming down in the mercury-vapor light. On the R downtown, slick parkas and the smell of wet wool. My first Christmas in New York.

  No Charlie 2Moons.

  I was just some guy in a ball cap and a pea coat sitting in an orange plastic chair, in the unrelenting fluorescence, roar all around, speeding through massive rock tunnels under massive Manhattan buildings, some guy, me, Merry fucking Christmas, already dead, everybody around me on the train already dead too. Some guy in a white beard and red cap walking through the subway car shaking his can for change. The floor of the train New York gray slush.

  Snow on the cast-iron steps. I unlocked the door to 205 East Fifth Street, stamped my feet on the wet gray rug. In the hallway, in the long narrow hallway painted blue, under the fluorescent halo, I walked to my mailbox and there, beyond the mailboxes, just under the stairs, leaning against the door to the basement: the dead man, on the floor, wavy raven hair, the needle still stuck in his arm. Blood all down his arm that was thick and in the light looked black running down onto his pants, down onto the floor, down between his legs, down to a dark pool. Looked like the needle in his arm had poked a hole and let out a black snake in him that had kept him alive.

  The dead guy’s face, free of blood, stone smooth, his eyes, just his eyes rolled up.

  Charlie 2Moons.

  I sat down right there on the floor next to the black snake. Laid my face into the pool of blood. Sucked up the blood. Charlie’s blood. Blood that I didn’t want to live without. My own blood.

  Out of my mouth, the unmistakable sound.

  But it’s not the truth.

  The dead guy wasn’t Charlie.

  The next thing I knew, what was coming down the stairs was the kind of Moroccan shoes that point up at the toe, yellow, huge. The huge yellow Moroccan shoes were connected to black ankles and thick black calves and then African cloth tied around Rose’s middle, bare chest.

  Argwings Khodek, I said.

  In the unrelenting fluorescence, Rose was black as the snake.

  The dead guy’s eyes weren’t looking up at me anymore. They were looking up at Rose. At Rose’s beautiful gold loop in his queer ear.

  Jump through the gold loop.

  Rose took one look at the dead guy on the floor, raised just his eyes up to the unrelenting fluorescence, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then walked over to me, put his arm across my shoulder, turned me around.

  Rose put my right hand in his, his big hand open on mine, his Sahara Desert palm against my sweaty palm, bracelets clack-clack.

  Never touch me.

  Rose gave me a hand up.

  My friends all call me Rose, he said.

  My face was smiling. I stopped smiling.

  Hello, Rose, I said. My friends, I said, All call me Will.

  Rose looked over to the dead guy lying in the narrow blue hallway, his wavy raven hair, the needle stuck in his arm, the black snake running out of him; then Rose looked up again at the halo of bright fluorescence from above.

  Even myself, Rose said, I am just here, isn’t it?

  I stared at Rose. At Rose’s mouth, the inside color of his lips.

  I don’t understand, I said, What you just said, I said.

  Even myself I am just here, isn’t it?—is what I said, Rose said.

  Rose smiled, and when he smiled, my eyes went straight to the gap between his two front teeth.

  I just got back from a tour of East Africa, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. And in East Africa, especially on the island of Lamu where they speak the purest Kiswahili—the word is not Swahili, that’s incorrect; the correct word is Kiswahili—I’d be standing there in the street or in a bar or wherever and a native man—Mwanainchi—would walk up to me and that’s how he’d introduce himself. He’d say, Even myself I am just here, isn’t it?

  Fluorescence the sound of insects.

  What you need is a cocktail, Rose said.

  Rose took me by the arm, the way a man takes a woman by the arm when he escorts her. Rose held me up on the one side, the banister held me up on the other, all the way, Rose and me, that way up the stairs, Rose talking talking about Africa, to his apartment door, dogs barking on the other side, me against the wall while Rose unlocked his door, opened his door, then dogs every which way, and then Rose’s arm was in mine again, and all at once my legs weren’t under me anymore, and I was in Rose’s never-touch-me big black arms, bracelets clack-clack. Rose carried me, talking talking, over the threshold, and all around under me was dogs, barking barking dogs.

  I’m a big man and big men don’t get carried and there I was being carried, my whole body touching Rose. Rose took off my ball cap, unbuttoned my pea coat.

  Rose’s bathroom was pink—sink, bathtub, toilet, tile on the walls, floor tile, shower curtain—everything pink except for the gold frame around the mirror and the gold lights in the shape of flowers on either side of the mirror and the gold frame around the photograph of Elizabeth Taylor sitting on the sink.

  Pink? Rose said. White people are pink, Rose said. Fuchsia, Rose said. The correct name of the color in my toilet—Rose used the French pronunciation, twalette—is fuchsia.

  Fuchsia twalette.

  My head was in Rose’s fuchsia twalette, fountain mouth. Barfing like Bobbie used to, lid up, holding on to the twalette’s sides.

  When I flushed and rinsed and could stand without holding on to the sink, when I didn’t need Rose’s gold-framed mirror anymore, I walked back out of Rose’s bathroom, through his dark bedroom, everything draped in velvet with just his lava lamp on. On his bedstand, next to the Joey Heatherton bed, incense going next to a Buddha as big as half the bed, and an oil painting of Elizabeth Taylor in her white swimsuit in Suddenly Last Summer as big as the Buddha.

  The apartment was Tallulah Bankhead Went to Africa. Red velvet curtains hanging from Rose’s windows. An Italian crystal chandelabra from the ceiling. Faux leopard-skin throws, faux zebra-covered pillows, texture, texture, texture.

  On the carved wood African coffee table with a brass top was a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses in a brass vase, a tin lunch box with a cowboy on it, a bunch of long stick matches, a paperback book, Antigone, Rose’s pack of Gauloise no-filters, an ashtray that was Dwight D. Eisenhower smiling, a two-gallon jug filled with an amber liquid, and two glasses—Baccarat crystal glasses—and a bottle of Courvoisier VSOP.

  Sitar music.

  Rose was sitting in his purple-velvet overstuffed chair, his legs crossed. Rose had put a top on—another African-looking thing all white and soft with lace around the neck. His head was shaved. I learned later on, Rose’s head was always shaved and the different hair he had was all wigs.

  My body had stopped shaking, my throat was raw and nasty. I sat on Rose’s fainting couch, the blonde, fainting. I was policing my body, newshoe stiff.

  I thought the dead guy was Charlie, I said, 2Moons.

  Rose poured a glass of VSOP for me and a glass for himself and offered me a Gauloise. I took the Gauloise and Rose lit it for me with one of the long stick matches and then lit his.

&
nbsp; No, Rose said, That was not your lovely Charlie 2Moons, that was Ricardo, the super.

  Ricardo the voodoo super? I said.

  Le même, Rose said.

  The cowboy on the tin lunch box was Randolph Scott. Out of the lunch box, Rose took a pipe the shape of a penis—not a huge penis like you see in the magazines, but just a penis, an erect penis attached to a set of balls.

  Now this is pink, Rose said.

  Then Rose took something wrapped in cellophane out of the lunch box.

  Chocolate, Rose said but he said it the French way, Sho-ko-lat.

  The Sho-ko-lat looked like a big rabbit turd to me. Rose put the rabbit-turd Sho-ko-lat in the pipe at the base of the penis and lit the rabbit turd and held the pipe by the balls and sucked on the erect pink penis head and then passed the thing to me.

  In my hand, I held an erect pink penis by the balls.

  Third rule, Rose said. It’s all metaphor, Rose said. It’s all drag.

  So I went ahead and sucked on the metaphor.

  Just out the door and down the stairs, in the long narrow blue hallway, the unrelenting fluorescence, the fluorescent insect sound was the black snake run out of the dead guy’s arm, thick black down his arm, down onto his pants down onto the floor into the hole where the linoleum buckled and was a low linoleum valley, the thick black lake.

  My mother’s nerves.

  I took another toke on the erect pink penis.

  Rose’s dogs were all lined up on the Persian carpet, sitting on Rose’s feet.

  Mary, Rose said: part Alaskan wolfhound, part Tuesday Weld.

  Mona, Rose said: part poodle, part overweight Italian girl.

  And Jack Flash, Rose said: part terrier, part dictator, part bundle of love.

  All dogs are Buddha, Rose said.

  Rose held the erect pink penis by the balls in his extra-lovely hand, his Sahara Desert palm, then handed the erect pink penis to me.

  It’s yours, Rose said.

  The pink penis in my hands looked exactly like mine. Lifesize.

  I set the pipe in my open palm, right hand.

  It looks familiar, I said.

  I mean, Rose said, It’s my gift to you. Your erection, Rose said.

  My face was smiling. I stopped smiling. Sat and held the erect pink penis in my hand, not the way you’d hold a pipe but the way you’d hold your erect pink penis.