In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  In all the world, Lone Ranger Hiyo Silver Sergeant White sat there on the horse in the park under a tree like a statue of a cop on a horse in a park under a tree.

  Ruby brought his body up along mine, shivering. That’s all this shit is about, Will, Ruby whispered. Power, Pentagon, politics, governments, money—what it comes down to in Wolf Swamp is one very simple thing: a man and his cock, how a man is with his cock, the stuff of great literature, great art, man, me and it, tragedy or comedy hanging down there between your legs. That’s all it comes down to.

  Ruby coughed, his whole body coughed. He hacked and spit.

  Lips at my ear: Some day soon, Ruby whispered, Mark my words, some day I’m going to kill that cop!

  When I looked again through the hole between the arborvitae branches, in the streetlamp light, Sergeant White Supremacy and his white horse were gone.

  SUN WAS COMING through the arborvitae branches when I woke up. Tree shadows and sun on Ruby’s body. Ruby’s head was still on my chest and his open palm was on my cock. I stayed that way, awake, for a while. My leg was asleep and I didn’t know if I could move my leg.

  I managed to move Ruby off, got the blood back into my leg, zipped up my pants, and moved the cushion and put the cleanest part of the cushion under Ruby’s head. For a moment, I thought Ruby was dead he was so stiff and gray-looking, but then he pulled his legs up and put his hands between his legs, and I was glad to know it was only sleep. I brushed myself off, trying to look presentable, then laughed because I was in Dog Shit Park.

  Touched him, Ruby, a little on the shoulder before I left to get coffee. His pant legs were up around his knees and his legs were brown and purple sticks into his boots. His ball cap was off. Two moons tattooed on his forehead. Ruby was smiling a little. Even in sleep, Ruby had a smile.

  THAT MORNING, WHEN I ducked out from under the branches of the arborvitae, I had no idea it was the morning that after everything was different.

  America—the land of the free and the home of the brave, O beautiful for spacious skies—was never the same again.

  The fog settled. Outside was inside.

  I was at the center of things, face-to-face with the monster in the labyrinth.

  This is where I started to notice.

  ALL AROUND ME, far as I could see, people were lying on the ground. Looked like the whole world was lying on the ground. Piles of people like in movies of concentration camps or a battlefield after war.

  In the night, while Ruby and I were sleeping, the riders had come again and slaughtered the people. Or a bomb was dropped or poisonous gas or The Andromeda Strain or Planet of the Apes—something science fiction, On the Beach—and only Ruby and I, in all the world, left alive.

  But it’s not the truth.

  I walked, and with each step I wondered if the step would reach the ground, or with each step maybe I’d start floating up, over buildings, Manhattan below a grid, just a street map, the street map a state map, the state map a map of North America, North America the world, the round globe hanging in the blue firmament, the globe a postage stamp on a letter, a stone on a gold ring, a flake of bright dust.

  I stepped on somebody’s hand and the guy called me a stupid son of a bitch, so after that, I walked policing my body, new-shoe stiff, through the bodies, careful where I stepped.

  A little girl under a gunnysack waved a fly away from her nose. A man in a dirty yellow sleeping bag scratched his gray beard. A skinny brown dog wagged his tail. A woman lay on top of a man under a green blanket, kissing. A young woman with dirty-blond hair wearing a purple muumuu sat on a bench, her baby sucking at her breast—the woman smiled at me. Her smile was old. A man snored by the boarded-up rest rooms.

  No Charlie 2Moons.

  I looked again, squinted my eyes over the bodies as far as I could see, and the bodies weren’t dead, the bodies were moving with breath.

  Kiev was the closest restaurant open, and I bought two cups of coffee and some chocolate doughnuts. Everybody was staring at me in Kiev, and I got to thinking maybe I smelled like dog shit, and then I thought, Who cares what a bunch of assholes think?

  The sun was shining full and bright and in Dog Shit Park steam was rolling off of things. People were standing up and stretching, taking their morning pees. A radio played “Born on the Bayou.” Farts and groans. I policed my body back through the crowd, postured disregard, savoir faire, acting as if I knew things and belonged there.

  Under the arborvitae, where I left Ruby, Ruby was gone.

  I sat under the arborvitae, where we’d spent the night, waited for Ruby, drank both coffees, and ate the doughnuts waiting for him, but he didn’t show.

  I started thinking about Charlie lying out somewhere, just another body on the ground.

  Only sleeping. Charlie 2Moons on the ground, not dead, only sleeping.

  Things started getting hot and my skin felt greazy. All around me people were talking and moving around, and then two teenage girls sat down on the cement thing and started in with the needle. I had to get out of there. Left a ten-dollar bill under the cushion Ruby had vomited over, crawled under the arborvitae branches, and got out of Dog Shit Park quick, through the bodies, over the bodies, through the gate, over the curb of running shit.

  I was walking East Village streets I’d walked so many times. People sat in sidewalk cafés same as ever, reading the Sunday Times, coffee, omelets.

  Everywhere, all around me, law and order prevailed.

  But in my heart, there was no home.

  At Stranded Beings Searching for God, I walked down the three steps to the door, and that morning the poster of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the three Polaroids were different too. As if I’d really never looked at them before.

  Ruby possessed by the devil. Ruby being healed by the Word of the Lord. Alleluia Alleluia. Ruby healed. Alleluia Alleluia.

  Rose possessed by the devil. Rose being healed by the Word of the Lord. Alleluia Alleluia. Rose healed. Alleluia Alleluia.

  Charlie possessed by the devil. Charlie being healed by the Word of the Lord. Alleluia Alleluia. Charlie healed. Alleluia. Alleluia.

  In my apartment, the red to pink walls, Rose’s poster as Antigone, the drawing of Daniel’s beer-can dick, the futon, the Father Knows Best table, the ladder, the broken green plate, the boom box, the wagon-wheel lamp with cowboys and Indians on the lampshade.

  Hi, honey, I’m home! I said. My Art Family was the cast from Les Miserables. They all smiled, whispered quick things to one another.

  I took off my black cutoffs, my black T-shirt, the pearls, socks, and combat boots, my underwear. My God, the shower! I was so happy to be in my shower! Even the cockroach in the shower. I opened all the windows.

  My bare feet, just a towel wrapped around me, I walked the thirteen steps up to Rose’s room. Knocked.

  No dogs.

  No Rose.

  I left a message on Rose’s machine.

  Vive la Rose! I said, Where are you? Give me a call.

  THAT EVENING, THE red light on the red answering machine was blinking.

  Ruby.

  I stood in front of the red telephone and the red answering machine the whole time, stood among my Art Family, through all the beeps, through the whole long message Ruby left, Ruby’s quarters dinging in the pay phone, stood and listened, for the last time ever, to Ruby’s voice, to Ruby far away trying to get to his voice.

  Do you still respect me? Ruby laughed his low laugh and coughed and started singing, Just call me angel of the morning.

  Then: You men are all alike, Ruby said. He cleared his throat, spit, coughed. So, Ruby said. I’m calling from a phone booth somewhere in the Midwest, Ruby said. Midwest Manhattan. Actually I’m calling from the special phone booth I pointed out to you one day, the Saint Jude phone booth, in Alphabet City somewhere in the southeast. Last call, Ruby said.

  Lletre ferit. The word that hurts

  I’ve got to tell you some things. First off, Ruby said, I loved holding your cock all
night. I knew it would be beautiful. Wish I could have seen your legs, your chest. I got close enough to smell, though, and I must say, William of Heaven, you smell like heaven.

  Then: Now listen up, William of Heaven, because this is important. Fools and pharisees, Will. When I’m done telling you this here stuff you should know, I’m going to hang up and go kill me a cop, going to find that motherfucker Sergeant White Supremacy and kill him dead.

  Today’s the day, Ruby said.

  Your girlfriend, the one with the white skin that looked like piece of moon—her name has to be Fiona or Phaedra or Persephone or Daphne, or the fair Ophelia, one of those fucking f’s—the chick in the leather outfit, she’s a damn fool, Ruby said. And last night she was Harlequin, a fool in costume.

  It remains to be seen, Ruby said, Whether or not this Fiona knows what the fuck she’s doing—whether or not she knows she’s a fool. And if she knows she’s a fool, does she knows she’s hiding? I gave her a hard time, Ruby said, Which she deserved. She’s one of those Helen Reddy women with a Lolita problem. They think all they have do do is put some tiny thing on, tits and ass, and the world is theirs. Trouble is, in most cases it’s true. More power in a pair of tits than any chariot. But I think your friend Fiona might be all right. Just be careful. Before you fall in love with her, make sure she knows what the fuck she’s doing, because falling in love is always trouble, and if she don’t know she’s a fool, if she ain’t Harlequin, you’re in for a world of hurt.

  Wish I could give the bitch a run for the money, Ruby said, But by the looks of the inside of this telephone booth here, I’m out of the running altogether.

  Ruby dropped another quarter in. I heard only street noise for a while and then: The singer’s OK too, Ruby said. Got a voice on him, a little too opera pants for me, but a good spirit. You’d be better off falling in love with him. You could help him with the high notes. But the rest of them, Ruby said, The rest of your friends last night—pharisees, Will. Be careful.

  Last night, being in between things like I was. There you were, at first just another yuppie fucking-pharisee asshole in my park trying to exploit me, and then all of a sudden it was you, my sweet William of Heaven, and it was satori, and my life went by me in one flash, just like they say in the books.

  Ruby’s voice was higher now, or lower, just different, like you do when you come to the end of something, and you make your voice higher or lower because it’s your last chance to make it sound good.

  The hope of theater to lay bare the human heart.

  Ruby put another quarter in. Sirens. Cars, trucks.

  True Shot said he finally told you the secret of Wolf Swamp, Ruby said. That’s good. Myself, Ruby said, I think the words themselves, the words of the story of Wolf Swamp have a power, the words transform you, so when you hear them you’re never the same.

  William of Heaven, Ruby said, You’re never going to be the same.

  When the veil falls, Ruby said, Manhattan is only a foggy swamp, a pack of wolves, a damn damsel in distress, and a scared stallion.

  My money’s on True Shot to fall in love with, Ruby said. He’s a fat old fart and full of tall tales and spooks and soccer games—all that male stuff; only cock he’ll ever hold is his own—but still my money’s on True Shot. There’s so many ways to love. And when the shit comes down, Will, when the truth comes out, don’t be too hard on him. He’s a lovely man and only done right by me.

  Ruby was coughing so hard. Ruby’s cough rattling around and around on the tape of my answering machine, all over the apartment, all of us, me and my Art Family, still completely present, listening.

  I feel a song coming on, Ruby said, and then he’s singing:

  Fools rush in where wise men never go,

  but wise men never fall in love.

  So how are they to know.

  When we met I felt my life begin.

  So open up your heart and let this fool rush in.

  Life Café, Ruby said, his voice all wavy, Travel mode’s the key.

  Then: William of Heaven. What am I going to do with you?

  Only silence, for a moment, in all the world, all of New York, only silence. Dead silence.

  Well, buddy, Ruby said, It’s the puritan undertow you got to beware of. I’m tired of these fucking pharisees. Time to kill me a cop.

  I could hear Ruby smile.

  Liberation from suffering can be found in any moment, Ruby said. Having a wonderful time, Ruby said, Wish you were queer.

  Then it was the dial tone. Ruby hung it up and it was the dial tone.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Aweek or two later, True Shot’s voice on my red answering machine.

  I found Ruby, True Shot said.

  The tape of my answering machine rolling around and around. All over in the apartment, all of us, me and my Art Family, still, completely present, listening.

  He’s dead, Will, True Shot said. Murdered.

  Sergeant Richard White, I said.

  My Art Family gasped, darted, ran for cover.

  True Shot’s breath in. His breath out.

  Will, True Shot said, You’re going to have to help me on this one.

  TRUE SHOT PICKED me up in Door of the Dead van. The sound of the van door opening, the smell inside, the seat against my butt and back, the hole in the floorboard, the heater going full blast.

  True Shot’s face was hanging on his skull. When he shook my hand, it was not the square firm handshake I remembered.

  True Shot, I said, Where have you been? Why haven’t you called?

  True Shot’s mirrors looked back only to show a contorted circus me on the surface of his mirrors.

  True Shot parked Door of the Dead van on East Eighth Street, not far from Saint Jude phone booth, just east of Dog Shit Park. There were all kinds of parking places because there were no cars. True Shot cut the engine, shut off the headlights.

  Next to me, True Shot’s mirrors reflected nothing.

  Our breath together, in and out, in and out.

  The buckskin bag with the beaded blue horizontal beads and the red vertical beads on the buckskin strand around True Shot’s neck. The silver rings on his fingers, reflecting moon.

  True Shot took off his mirrors, folded them up in the leather Armani case, stuck them in his vest pocket, snapped the pocket shut, opened the door, and got out of the van. So did I. He slammed his door and I slammed my door.

  Up and down the dark empty street, the only sound was the doors slamming.

  True shot had picked up a body bag on one of his Spirit Schleps. The body bag was hanging over True Shot’s shoulder next to True Shot’s hair, which was hanging down in one long braid. I carried the rope, looped around my shoulder.

  He’s in there, True Shot said, and pointed at the front door to a condemned building.

  The building leaned over us, a slanting rectangle black against the dark burning sky. Big planks were nailed across the door and a NO TRESPASSING sign, and spray-painted words covered the front of the building. You could see where people had been going in and out, through the planks, the wood worn smooth like the poles of the corral behind the barn where Bobbie and I kept the horses.

  True Shot hunched his extra-lovely body and pulled himself through the worn place between the planks. I was right behind him.

  Inside, in the narrow dark hallway, all around us, cold and dark. The only light we had was True Shot’s flashlight, the kind airplane guys use to signal planes. Just one circle of bright with True Shot’s cowboy boots and my combat boots on the cracked-open green linoleum floor. One circle of bright down through the dust of the long hallway, on the spines of glass in the window, the exploded stairway, the caved-in ceiling.

  A rat ran along the wall. I followed True Shot, my hand on his shoulder and on the plastic body bag, his braid now and then brushing my hand.

  Under what used to be the stairway, True Shot shined the flashlight into a doorway. A gray mop, a can of Drano, cockroaches overflowing the t
oilet.

  I jumped away and ran into True Shot’s extra-lovely arm he quick stuck out.

  Don’t move like that, man! True Shot said.

  True Shot shined the circle of bright onto a hole in the floor right next to my foot. The hole was the size of a manhole cover. I leaned over True Shot’s arm and looked down. Bright circle showed water below.

  He’s down there, True Shot said.

  True Shot squatted by the hole. I held the flashlight and pointed the circle of bright at the water, and just like that, True Shot jumped down off the world into the hole, bright circle all on the splash.

  You all right? I yelled down. My voice like talking through a long tube. How deep’s the water?

  Couple inches, True Shot said.

  Then: Tie the rope around the newel post, True Shot said. A slip knot.

  One circle of bright on my boots. One step, two steps, three steps to the newel post. I stuck the flashlight in the crook of my arm, and as I lashed the rope the circle went wild on things in the dark—an archway up the stairs, a deco ceiling light, dark wood molding around a door, circle of bright up and down a broken hand rail, up and down the balusters—the strange extreme baluster shadows alive on the gray wall. I tied the slip knot and pulled hard. The newel post didn’t budge.

  Throw down the rope! True Shot yelled. His voice like in a tank.

  I threw the rope down, the circle of bright onto True Shot’s face.

  You’re sure the knot is good? True Shot said.

  Yeah, I said.

  And the newel post’ll hold?

  Looks like it, I said.

  Now you got to jump down here too! True Shot said.

  My mother’s nerves.

  I hunkered down, gave True Shot the flashlight, handle first, the light in my face, in my eyes.

  There’s a terrible smell, I said.

  Wait till you get down here! True Shot said.

  All daring and courage, all iron endurance of misfortune, I held my arms close in and jumped.