In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Don’t say fuck in front of the children!

  Mom! Dad!

  This is Dog Shit Park! You can say fuck in fucking Dog Shit Park!

  I’m sure if Muffy thinks it’s OK to walk through here, it’s OK to walk through here!

  My name’s not Muffy!

  I’m sure if—Susan Strong—thinks it’s OK ...

  Don’t patronize me!

  Who’s patronizing? I’m just trying to remember your fucking name!

  What are you afraid of? This is a city park!

  Goddammit, why do we always go through this?

  Because your daughter is an asshole!

  Always something to prove!

  Don’t call your sister an asshole.

  Then: But she is an asshole.

  It was Fiona’s mother. It was Margo. Margo wasn’t yelling, she just said it, and everybody stopped. Even Fiona.

  Muffy was an asshole, Margo said, And Susan Strong is an asshole, and whoever she’s going to be next will be an asshole too, Margo said.

  Dave and Hunter and Gus were all standing together. Fiona wasn’t standing with them, she was standing alone. Margo was standing alone too, leaning. Margo’s blue eyes on Fiona’s blue eyes. Fiona’s blue eyes back.

  Harry had his hand on his chest.

  Harry’s lips at my ear: Bitch fight to the death.

  And so am I, Margo said to Fiona. A liberal rich-bitch Connecticut Democrat asshole.

  Mother and daughter’s lips large, laser.

  First time ever when Fiona had nothing to say.

  Margo took one long stride over to Fiona. Fiona didn’t move. Margo looped her arm, the same white as Fiona’s, inside her daughter’s arm.

  He lives around here, doesn’t he?

  Who? Fiona said.

  Robert Mapplethorpe, Margo said.

  Then mother took daughter’s arm. They walked that way, those females, through the wrought-iron arched gate of Dog Shit Park.

  Abandon all hope! Margo said, her large hand waving an arc under the wrought-iron arch, TOMPKINS SQUARE PARK, Ye who enter here!

  This ain’t no walk in the park! Fiona said.

  Fiona’s head-back laugh, just like her mother’s.

  Dave and Hunter and Gus and Harry and I followed.

  Fuck Hope.

  INSIDE DOG SHIT Park, the trees were big shadows hanging in the wind above us. Through the low brush, a couple of small fires. Shadows sitting around the fires. What kept us walking was that Dog Shit Park still looked enough like a city park: winding sidewalks, benches along the side, lamp-posts from the turn of the century—some of them still working. Dave knew the name of the style of lampposts they were and who designed them. There were wrought-iron fences and gargoyles and lions and fountain stuff made out of concrete that Dave knew the names of too.

  Margo’s low heels on the winding sidewalk and Fiona’s stilettos and leathers and chains were the only sounds beside the wind above us in the trees. Now and then low sounds from one of the small fires we passed by. I suppose we were about halfway through the park when Margo moved in closer to Dave and Fiona walked closer to me and Harry, and Hunter and Gus moved in closer too. None of us were talking, not even our leather tour guide, Fiona.

  Then all at once, through the dark trees, out of the navy blue sky, a bright silver moon was above us.

  Oh! Margo said, Look at the moon!

  A gibbous moon, Dave said.

  Right next to me, Harry looked up, the moon on his face, one of those immortal marble-statue expressions on Harry’s face.

  In all the world, there we were, the Macllvanes and Harry and me, huddled together in a clearing in Dog Shit Park staring up through the trees, glow-in-the-dark statues in the silver light, staring at the moon.

  I looked down, and right next to me, right by my leg in the silver light, on a bench were the faces of two children asleep under a black plastic bag.

  Then through the trees and out of nowhere, out of the dark, just like that, all around us, under blankets, coats, clothes, canvas tarps, plastic, people of every color and size you can imagine sitting and lying on the benches, looking up at the moon.

  This one woman lying on the bench next to Harry put out her hand, palm up. The moonlight on her palm.

  Harry gave her a dollar.

  She said, Thank you. She had no teeth.

  At the band shell, a sign was stretched across the stage. There was a fire burning in a barrel just under the sign, the red letters, red paint running down.

  HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS.

  The moon in the navy blue sky, the wind in the trees, the red dripping words HOMES FOR THE HOMELESS floating back and forth, back and forth, above the barrel of fire.

  Under the banner, huddled around the fire, people, hundreds of people, lying on the ground.

  My God! Dave said. I can’t believe this!

  Dogs were running all over.

  No Charlie 2Moons.

  Harry and I took the lead. The winding winding sidewalk. We came to a place where the lamppost was working, shining silver light out, a closer moon, silver light through the leaves, shadows of leaves—a place in a park under a lamppost just like the place in the park in the movie in Manhattan where Fred Astaire and Cyd Charisse dance in the light and the shadows and sing a romantic song.

  In the lamppost’s silver light was a woman hunched over on a bench. She had no hair. When she looked up, at first I thought it was the shadow, but then I could see, under her eyebrows around her eyes, was painted black. She was wearing nothing, no shoes. The woman’s body was white arms and legs and thighs and breasts and shoulders naked. Skin on a body naked and glowing in the light.

  A man in a ball cap with a stringy ponytail—he had all his clothes on—a gold ring on the side of his boot, was kneeling in front of the woman. A scarf was tied around her upper arm, a scarf around his upper arm too. He was sticking the needle in the woman’s arm, pushing the needle in, slowly up and down, side to side. They were making low heroin sounds.

  The man looked up, his eyes scared rabbit in the headlights. Above us, birds flew out of a tree. What we saw in the man’s eyes we all looked away from. We on the tour made a wedge, walked closer together, faster, counting every step, past the kneeling man and the naked woman.

  When we were in the English elms, Avenue B almost right next to us, almost safe out of the park, we were all breathing easier. Harry O’Connor stood up on a bench. Behind Harry’s head from where I was standing were the bright red letters: Life Café.

  Harry raised his arms, cleared his throat dramatically. Margo, Fiona, Dave, Hunter, Gus, and I looked up at Harry with all the hope of theater to lay bare the human heart.

  Quiet only New York can get that fast.

  Harry’s Irish tenor booming through the English elms, through the park, out all over Manhattan. Harry sang:

  I’ll be homeless for Christmas,

  You can forget about me.

  Reagan got my dough,

  And I’m so po’.

  Were peasants throughout the country.

  Christmas Eve will find me,

  Where food stamps redeem.

  I’ll be homeless for Christmas—

  If only this all was a dream.

  Just like that, applause and cheers from the crowd underneath the juniper bush.

  Harry bowed deeply.

  I put my arm across Harry’s legs to hold him steady.

  Margo and Dave and Hunter and Gus and Fiona and I—we all looked at each other in the silver light and laughed at the surprise applause and cheers from the crowd under the juniper bush.

  In all the world, two liberal Democrats, two YUFAs, a leather dominatrix, Harry and I and a world of homeless people, everybody clapping clapping.

  Standing ovation.

  * * *

  THINGS START WHERE you don’t know.

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

  That’s when the heroin guy, gold ring on his
boot, jumped from nowhere out of the bushes. Out of the navy blue night, just like that, he was a dark figure between us and the mercury-vapor light on Avenue B, his ball cap, his ponytail bouncing.

  Harry was still standing on the bench. Dave and Hunter and Gus quick stepped in front of Margo and Fiona—Dave in the middle, Hunter on one side, Gus on the other. The men locked their arms together.

  Fuck this shit! Fiona said, and pushed Hunter or Gus aside, stepped out in front, next to Harry on the bench, behind me.

  The heroin guy was yelling something. I didn’t know what he was yelling. I knew it was English and it was loud and you could see spit come out of his mouth with the light the way it was, and also you could see the bruises and purple bumps on his arms and you could see he was weaving back and forth.

  Then: This is my home! the guy was yelling. Fucking yuppies get out of my park!

  The wind in the English elms, the mercury-vapor light through the leaves, pieces of light the color from another incarnation moving moving all over the ground, around us.

  The guy stepped or tripped forward even closer to me, and the light was plain as day on the knife blade side to side, up and down.

  I could smell the guy, he was that close.

  First the eyes. His eyes in between, somewhere else. Not on the premises. And then his smile, the light on the knife blade hand to hand, back and forth, up and down under his smile.

  His smile, that smile. A finger drawing a circle around my heart. Ruby Prestigiacomo, what am I going to do with you?

  Just what the fuck is so fucking funny? Ruby said, looking up at Harry on the bench. What the fuck you singing about, man? Ruby said. These are my people!

  Stick ’em! somebody under the juniper yelled. He’s going to stick ’em!

  Dave stepped out next to me, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses back onto his nose, holding his leather wallet out.

  Here, take our money!

  Ruby’s smile, Ruby’s gone eyes. Knife blade, the light, hand to hand, back and forth, up and down.

  Fuck you, pharisee! Ruby said, And your fucking money!

  Ruby fell to one side, grabbed onto a tree limb, shook his head, talked for a while so you couldn’t hear.

  Then: Who’s the singer? Ruby said.

  Knife flash at Harry.

  Who’s the leather chick? Ruby said.

  Knife flash past my arm.

  You fuckers! Ruby said. Think you can come here in your yuppie sex leathers and sing and dance?

  Harry held his hands out to Ruby, palms up. Hey, I’m sorry, man, Harry said, I was just—

  Ruby stomped his foot down on the sidewalk, strands of red-blond hair in his face.

  This is my fucking home! Ruby yelled. Dark veins in his forehead and his neck. Don’t you understand? This is where I live, man! Ruby yelled. You’re in my fucking living room! You’re standing on my fucking couch!

  Harry moved his head, looked down slow.

  Drops of sweat on Ruby’s couch around Harry’s feet.

  Dave stopped holding out his wallet.

  Ruby, I said.

  Ruby was so close.

  A siren. Shouts. Somebody screamed. Stick ’em! He’s gonna stick ’em!

  Ruby, I said.

  Under Ruby’s smile, the shine of the knife blade hand to hand, back and forth, back and forth.

  Just what the fuck is so fucking funny? Ruby said.

  Ruby, I said.

  Fiona grabbed my shoulder, pulled my shoulder back.

  Shut up, Will! Fiona said.

  Fiona was standing next to me, moving between Ruby and me.

  We meant no harm! Fiona said.

  Ruby’s smile up Fiona’s body, up to her face. His face leaning closer in to her face.

  What are you? Slumming? Ruby said. His spray of spit in the light. Want to see how the other half lives? Ruby said.

  Shouts and screams and people were running. Stick ’em! He’s gonna stick ’em!

  Then there were horses. All around us, I could hear horses running.

  Ruby! I said. Life Café, man! I said. Travel mode’s the key!

  Ruby stopped his smile, stopped with the knife, squinted hard in my direction.

  Quiet only New York can get that fast.

  Hey! I said, my arms open wide. Hey, dude! I said. Ruby Prestigiacomo! I said. Where’s True Shot tonight?

  Will? Ruby said.

  Then: William of Heaven! Fuckin-A, man! Is that you?

  All around us, sirens, shouts from inside the park. A woman screamed, more screams. Horses running.

  Ruby put the blade back into the knife against his leg, slid the knife into his front pocket, stepped toward me.

  I caught Ruby in my arms.

  Ruby bones.

  Lips at my ear: Hey, I’m fucking sorry man, Ruby said. No offense, huh?

  His chin sharp against my upper arm.

  Ruby’s ribs, I could feel every rib. His clavicle. Ruby’s shoulder bones hard in the palms of my hands. His breath against my neck. Puke smell stronger than horse piss.

  Ruby put his hands onto my chest, the bones in his hands. Ruby pushed himself back.

  Ruby’s smile.

  William of Heaven, Ruby said, What the fuck are you doing with these people? These people are pharisees, Will.

  Then: When’re you going to call me back, motherfucker? Is red OK? True Shot said I should buy the red answering machine. Said he had a vision, man, that red was the color for you.

  Ruby put his open palm on the back of my neck, steadied himself with me, put his forehead onto my black T-shirt, onto my pearls, for a moment. The part in Ruby’s hair, a tiny road to nowhere.

  Now here.

  William of Heaven, man! Ruby said. You got to understand. There’s so much you don’t know about Wolf Swamp, man! This place’ll eat you up! You don’t know it but you need me! I was just like you when I got here! I know a lot. I could save you from going through this shit! We need to talk, man!

  Both Ruby’s hands on the back of my neck. He was shaking me.

  There’s only two kinds of people in Wolf Swamp, Ruby said, Fools and pharisees, Will. You should call me back on that red fucking phone of yours. Did you get my messages? You should have called me back, Will. Pharisees are why the fools are homeless, man. Why the fuck haven’t you called me back?

  A woman holding a child in her arms ran past us. Two old men running. Dogs barking. Breaking glass. Shouts. Screams. The red-and-white flash of cop cars.

  Then Ruby, still hanging on me, forehead up and down on my black T-shirt, turned his face to Margo and Dave and Hunter and Gus, to Fiona and Harry.

  You all, Ruby said, Had better get your bourgeois butts out of this park! Hear that? Ruby said. The Riders are here for their routine head bang. And Riders don’t give a fuck if you’re Gucci or not. You better get out of here or you’ll never look so pretty.

  All the Macllvanes, and Fiona, and Harry, looked at me.

  This is Ruby, I said. This is my friend Ruby.

  My face was smiling.

  Tennis anyone? Ruby said.

  Will? Fiona said.

  He’s OK, he’s OK! Ruby yelled at Fiona. William of Heaven’s in good hands! Ruby yelled. Now get your posh fucking asses out of here! Run along and play croquet or you’re roadkill!

  THE WHITE STALLION and the cop on the white stallion jumped out of nowhere through the bushes, and the people under the juniper were yelling and running every which way. Fiona and Margo and Dave and Harry and Hunter and Gus were running too, through the English elms onto Avenue B, across Avenue B.

  Margo Macllvane stopped on the avenue. She was looking up and down the street, waving her big hands in the air for a cab. Fiona yelled, Jesus, Mother! and grabbed her mother and they ran into Life Café.

  There were more horses, cops on the horses, cops with clubs beating the bushes. In all the world, so many people yelling and screaming.

  Ruby grabbed me by the arm and we were running running through the dark, with other p
eople and dogs, running past trees and bushes and benches, jumping over people lying on the ground, speeding darkness, speeding light.

  Between a cement thing and bush, at the base of a big tree, Ruby jumped into a bush and I jumped in after him, landed on top of him, rolled over.

  The sweet smell of evergreen, the smell of dirt. Ruby and I breathing breathing.

  Secret place, Ruby whispered. Riders don’t know about yet. Keep your ass down.

  My breath going in and out of me.

  Ruby put his hand on my shoulder.

  You got your mother’s nerves, Ruby said. It’s OK. We’re safe here.

  I could smell dog shit and wondered if I was lying in it. But it was Ruby. I wormed myself around, put my head on my elbows, and looked around. The bush was an arborvitae, the branches draping over us to the ground. There was just room enough to sit up. There were plastic cups and Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes lying around. A cushion from a chair.

  Home Sweet Home, Ruby said.

  Screams. More gunshots.

  A horse ran by so close you could hear horse flanks.

  William of Heaven, Ruby said, What am I going to do with you?

  Ruby covered his mouth. He was coughing. He jumped toward the chair cushion and held the cushion while he threw up.

  My nose went right into my armpit.

  Ruby’s body was all bones under his khaki pants and Hawaiian shirt and there were dark-brown bumps up and down his foreams, the backs of his arms, on his neck.

  Ruby Prestigiacomo, I said, What am I going to do with you?

  Ruby’s smile. Skeleton poking through.

  Then: Shh! Ruby whispered, wiped his mouth.

  I took a breath and Ruby took a breath.

  Ruby pointed his long bony index. Through a hole in the arborvitae branches, in the streetlamp light, next to an English elm, was a cop on a white stallion.

  Sergeant Richard White.

  You see that fucker there, Ruby whispered, On the white horse? Kind of looks like Porky Pig? Around here, they call him Sergeant White Supremacy. And talk about short. His dick is ugly! Tiny little pink thing, no bigger than your thumb. Likes to get drunk and come down here. Likes black men with big ones. Gives the brothers a vial or pays ’em—five, four, sometimes only three dollars—to fuck them. I hate the motherfucker. Fucked me one night. I’ve got one big Mussolini myself so he liked me. Gave me some cocaine, but it was cut with something awful—made me fucking sick. I was throwing up my deepest guts, man, while that fucker White was pounding my ass.