The headlights on Crystal were spotlights. Crystal was the host of the cabaret.
The black guy stepped around to the driver’s door.
The brown guy and I got our shoulders underneath True Shot’s arms, lifted, and when we got to the cab door, we looked at each other and just let True Shot fall, like a large bag of potatoes, into the backseat of the cab. We folded his legs up and closed the door.
I got in next to the cabbie. He looked Armenian, and there was sweat running down his forehead.
I rolled down the window. In the mercury-vapor light, Crystal was brown-gray-purple.
Now, Crystal said, Give us a kiss.
I leaned up and out and kissed Crystal on the cheek, just below the purple bump.
Crystal, I said, Thank you. What can I do for you?
The wind blew hard just then, and a New York Post scraped along the sidewalk.
Crystal was sucking on the joint again, a Lakota Sioux James Dean.
Just come back and see us sometime, Crystal said.
As he spoke the smoke in him came out his nose, and he laughed a quick up-and-down of the chest, and then he coughed, and coughed, and coughed.
THE CABDRIVER wasn’t Armenian. He was part Greek and part Moroccan and his friends called him Jusef. He lived in Queens with his grandmother, his mother, his wife, his sisters, and a granddaughter.
When I tipped him ten dollars, Jusef offered to help me get True Shot out of his cab.
It wasn’t pretty. True Shot had gone shit spray. And it was just Jusef and me, pulling and shoving True Shot out of the back door, the same way True Shot and I had pulled and shoved Ruby out of the basement.
The eleven steps up the stoop were the hardest. Just me and True Shot and the cold wind. One step. One step. One step.
Inside my apartment, I laid True Shot on the floor next to the futon.
My Art Family were all dressed in Halloween costumes: a clown, a queen, a sailor, a cowboy, and an Indian.
True Shot stank even worse inside, so I got his red corduroy shirt off and his Wranglers, his socks, and his stretched-out shit-stained gray-brown Fruit of the Looms. I tried to undo the knot on the buckskin strand the beaded-blue horizontal and the red-beaded vertical buckskin bag hung from, but the knot was tied too tight.
I opened all the windows.
In a garbage can outside, I dumped his clothes.
I filled a pan with hot water and got a washrag and a bar of Ivory soap and started scrubbing. True Shot’s skin was turning back to cinnamon brown inside in the heat. I washed his face, the big brow hanging over his eyes, his delicate eyelids, down the sides of his long nose, his cheekbones, above the curve of his lips; washed his lips, his chin. Held his head up and washed underneath the buckskin bag with the blue-beaded horizontal and the beaded red vertical. Washed his arms, under his arms, his big hands, and long fingers. The fingernails so beautifully oval. All his silver rings were gone.
I washed down his chest, his extra-lovely nipples. Washed his extra-lovely belly and down to his privates. Washed everything extra-lovely down there too. A grower, not a shower. Anteater. Washed down his legs, his feet, his toes.
I got him rolled over. Washed his shoulders, his back, his butt, down inside the nasty shit-spray butt crack, down his legs.
I turned him over again and lifted True Shot up from his waist, put my legs under him, scooted the pan of water closer, and put the pan under his head.
When I put the Herbal Essence shampoo on his head and started scrubbing, True Shot opened his eyes. I’d never been that close to him before, looking into the jade-green Saint Vitus’ dance of his eyes.
I smiled. Stopped smiling.
True Shot hit me with his open palm, hard in the chest, stood up, weaved around, knocked the pan of water over, and crashed into my Art Family, knocking them every which way.
Apartment Cauchemar.
True Shot! I yelled. Lie down! You’re sick!
True Shot kept stumbling around, shampoo dripping into his face and eyes. He fell against the east wall, then against the west wall. True Shot bouncing off the walls.
When he found the bathroom, he dropped to his knees and barfed like Bobbie, real loud, into the toilet, for what seemed like an hour. I sat with him, the washcloth on his forehead, almost barfed myself a couple times.
When True Shot was just sitting there on the floor holding onto the rim of the toilet, when he was deep inhaling and exhaling, I said, True Shot, I said, You’re sick, real sick. We need to get you to a hospital.
No hospital! True Shot yelled. Hospital is where you go to die! I’m not dead yet! True Shot said.
Can you stand up? I said. Let’s get you into the shower.
True Shot used the wall. He put his one arm over my shoulder, I put my arm around his waist, and we got him in the shower. The water was cold at first, and he yelled so loud I thought my heart had stopped beating. Then the water got warmer and True Shot leaned against the shower stall and put his head under the water. I got the Herbal Essence from the front room and handed it into him. True Shot looked at the bottle, tipped the bottle up, and started to drink.
Jesus Christ! I yelled, and yanked the bottle away. For your hair! I yelled, the way you yell at people who can’t hear. Shampoo! Shampoo!
I need a drink, True Shot said, and leaned back into the water.
I took my shirt off, stepped partway into the shower, squeezed Herbal Essence into my hand, scrubbed True Shot’s long black hair.
With the clean towel, the blue one, I rubbed his back, down his back, his legs. Dried the water from his face, his chest, his arms, under his arms. Brought the towel down over his cock but didn’t stop there—kept going straight down to his legs. Then I stood on the toilet, True Shot leaning against the shower, and I rubbed his hair dry.
True Shot put his arm over my shoulder. I put my arm around his waist, and we walked that way to the futon. True Shot lay down on the futon and I pulled the covers over him.
I need a drink, True Shot said. Get me a drink.
There’s nothing to drink here, I said.
But it wasn’t the truth.
How many beers, how much wine was in the refrigerator? The bottle of tequila above the refrigerator.
True Shot kicked the covers off him, starting yelling something, then rolled back and forth on the futon. I tried to hold him, hold on to him, saying, True Shot! True Shot! This is William of Heaven, True Shot! You’re safe here!
Who knows how long True Shot thrashed around.
Finally, about 4 A.M., he crawled to the corner and lay down among my Art Family. He put his head to his knees, curled into a ball, and fell asleep.
Slow, like a flower blooms, my Art Family each placed an open palm onto his body.
Quietly, quietly, I got the bottle of Laforet, the bottle of Domaine Chandon, the six-pack of Budweiser, the half-gallon jug of Gallo red, and the tequila into a big brown paper bag, the erect pink penis and the bag of rabbit-turd Sho-ko-lat, tiptoed to the door, unlocked the locks on my door, opened the door, then pulled the door closed. Locked the door.
Upstairs, Maria Callas was real loud singing “Norma.” Rose opened his door. He had his Dolly Parton wig on and a red bustier and a red slip, fishnet stockings, and black stiletto heels. Mascara was streaming down from his eyes. In one hand, he was holding a snifter half full of VSOP, in the other a Gauloise.
Bonjour, Rose said.
It’s soir, I said.
Details, details, Rose said.
The dogs were running around, barking barking.
You feeling OK? I said.
Fine, Rose said, Just fine.
But it wasn’t the truth.
The black snake coiled up in Rose was spitting.
Rose, I said, I wondered, I said, If you could keep this stuff for me. For a couple days.
Rose looked at the bottles in the bag.
Are they empty? Rose said.
No, I said.
Then come right in! Rose said.
I put the bag on Rose’s fuchsia kitchen counter. There were still Elizabeth Taylor rose petals everywhere in the room. The kitchen table a mound of pills, pill bottles. Dirty dishes in the sink, cockroaches.
Maria Callas was so loud, I had to shout. You got anything for the DT’s?
You got the DT’s? Rose said.
No, I said. It’s for a friend.
I do not have the DT’s, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. I am merely having cocktails.
Not you, I said, My friend True Shot. He’s downstairs in my apartment. He’s in a bad way.
Rose walked like you do when you’re wearing skyscraper heels, over to the stereo, and turned down Maria Callas, then walked into the bathroom, pulled open a drawer, and took out a Mason jar full of pills.
Your jar of Valium? I said.
And other things, Rose said.
Rose poured out a handful of pills into the Sahara Desert palm of his hand, and picked out the round yellow ones.
These are Valium, Rose said and counted out twenty into my open palm.
How many should I give him? I said.
As many as he needs, Rose said.
Not all twenty? I said.
Not at once, Rose said. Unless, Rose said, That’s the way he wants it. In that case I probably should give you twenty more.
These should be enough, I said.
This your Indian buddy? Rose said.
He’s not Indian, I said.
I’ll light a candle for him, Rose said.
And some clothes, I said. He’ll need some clothes.
Is he a winter or a summer? Rose said. Couture or Camp?
Sweatpants would be fine, I said. Maybe some underwear and socks and a shirt, a winter coat if you got an extra one, and some shoes.
Rose walked like you do when you wear skyscraper heels into the bedroom. He came out with a pair of pink bikini briefs, black sweatpants, a gray sweatshirt that said FUCK THE NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS on it, a pair of white socks, and his combat boots.
What size shoe does he wear? Rose asked.
Extra lovely, I said. I’m sure they’ll fit.
The coat was a faux leopardskin, collar and cuffs faux mink.
It’s not too much, is it? Rose said.
Nothing’s too much, I said. Then: Rose, I said, What did you have for breakfast this morning?
Wheaties, Rose said, The Breakfast of Champions.
And lunch? I said.
Braised breast of duck veronique, Rose said.
And your AZT? I said.
American Zero Tolerance? Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. No thank you.
I was just closing Rose’s door, when Rose said, Yoo-hoo!
In Rose’s Sahara Desert palm was a pair of sunglasses. The cat’s-eyes kind, with a rhinestone swoop above each eye. Mirrored sunglasses.
I think he’ll be needing these, Rose said.
* * *
THREE DAYS IN a row, I called in sick to Café Cauchemar. The third day it was Daniel on the phone.
John was cremated yesterday, Daniel said. They sent his ashes home to Cincinnati.
Silence on the phone, all across, in between us, inside the phone wire: silence.
And Joanie? I said.
She’s lost thirty pounds, Daniel said.
Then: Spud, Daniel said, You aren’t going to die on us too, are you?
No, I said. I just got a personal problem here I got to take care of.
Now listen up, Daniel said. You fucking listen up, Spud! Are you going to come back to work at all?
I’ll be back, I said. Just give me a week.
You’re a good man, Daniel said. Rare to come by. And I think of you as a friend. But I can’t let you have too many more days off, Daniel said. My brother the boss says he won’t allow it.
OK, I said.
Then: Daniel, I said, How are you feeling?
Like hell, Daniel said.
I BOUGHT A foam rubber pad, laid the pad down just across the room from the futon. In the night, in the mercury-vapor light, True Shot rolled back and forth, back and forth, his arms fighting the air.
After the first week, he didn’t scream out or yell. He cried softly to himself, the way a baby cries when he’s cried so hard there’s nothing left.
UPSTAIRS, ROSE WAS into his second week of heavy drinking. Mary, Mona, and Jack Flash were all lying on Rose’s bed. They didn’t bark when I came in.
Rose’s breakfast table was covered with medicine bottles and boxes of pills, and piles of pills, and saucers and cups of pills, and black Magic Markers, and a thermos of coffee so thick it poured like syrup.
Lamu coffee, Rose said. The real stuff.
The roses from Elizabeth’s visit were dead and wilted, and the vase water was stinking. There were stains on Rose’s Hawaiian muumuu, the pink and red one.
Rose, I said, When’s the last time you slept?
Rose had invited me up for coffee and bagels, but there were no bagels. Only Lamu coffee, and the pills, and the black Magic Markers.
No time for sleep now, Rose said, The battle lines are drawn. He uncapped a black Magic Marker that smelled of poppers.
Rose had taken down a photograph of Elizabeth Taylor in Jane Eyre that used to hang in the kitchen. Rose stood next to the sink, pointing at the bare fuchsia wall, like the wall was a blackboard and he was the teacher and I was the student.
With each word Rose wrote on his kitchen fuchsia wall, the black Magic Marker against the plaster sounded like a tiny animal screaming.
My reasons for killing Ronald Reagan, Rose said.
Rose, I said, Have you been taking your Xanax? I said.
Fuck the meds! Rose said. I didn’t ask you up here to talk drugs, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. I have something very important to outline here for you, and I’d hoped you’d be considerate enough to listen.
Rose stopped. His black black eyes looked hard at me. At first I thought he was going to attack me, the black coiled-up snake, but then his eyes got soft, got the love for me back in them.
I’m going to kill Ronald Reagan, Rose said. I mean soon, Rose said. Time is running out.
But Rose, I said. I thought you were going to infect the cardinal?
Only silence. Rose’s red velvet curtains were closed and the Italian chandelabra above us was on bright, unrelenting. Rose sat down hard in his purple-velvet overstuffed chair, lit a Gauloise, crossed his legs.
There’s this film, Rose said, Called Autumn Sonata. It’s about a mother and her two daughters. One daughter is mentally ill and bedridden. The mother, Ingrid Bergman, is a famous pianist, and her daughter—the one who is caring for the mentally ill daughter—is Liv Ullman. At the climactic point in the story, Liv Ullman goes ghetto on Ingrid and reads her beads. And then Ingrid Bergman says this wonderful thing.
A talent for reality, I said.
How did you know? Rose said.
I saw the movie, I said. Bergman, I said.
Ingrid, Rose said.
* * *
THIS MAY HAVE been a dream.
One night, when I woke up on the foam pad, True Shot’s ear was on my chest and the rest of his extra-lovely body snuggled up against me. His hand was around my cock and balls.
True Shot? I said.
Uh-huh? True Shot said.
What are you doing?
Proving that Ruby was wrong, True Shot said.
What? I said.
That the only cock I’d ever have in my hand would be my own.
True Shot! I said. Are you back?
I’m back, True Shot said, But I’m not True Shot, I’m Peter Morales.
Peter, I said, Morales.
It’s nice, True Shot said. You got a nice cock.
THE NEXT MORNING, somebody was poking me in the shoulder. I opened my eyes to a cup of coffee and a chocolate doughnut on my white dish.
Wake up, buttercup, True Shot said. It’s ten o’clock.
When my eyes came back to this world, what my eyes saw I could
n’t believe.
True Shot with a crew cut.
He looked like a Catholic school kid, or a drill sergeant.
Then there was his New Age rhinestone-swooped mirrors. The black sweatpants with the pink bikini briefs under them, the gray sweatshirt that said FUCK THE NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS, the combat boots. The buckskin bag with the beaded blue horizontal and the beaded red vertical hanging down his neck. The red bandanna tied around his head.
Geronimo on acid.
True Shot sat down on an orange vinyl chair I’d found in the garbage. I put my blue terry-cloth bathrobe on and sat on the second rung of the ladder. Our cups and spoons and the doughnuts all together on the Father Knows Best table.
True Shot wasn’t drunk, and he was in my house.
The bright gray sky came in through the window, onto the shiny table-top, on our hands, the cups, the doughnuts, the spoons, onto the wood floor, onto my red to pink walls.
My Art Family was in the comer, acting as if we weren’t there, like at a party when a famous person has just arrived and everybody pretends they’re not interested.
True Shot was treating them the same way.
Then, after the second doughnut: Who’s the crowd? True Shot said.
True Shot—I mean Peter, I said. What the fuck is going on?
Bright gray daylight on the bright gray table. True Shot rubbed his hands where his silver rings used to be. Put his hands all the way around the backs of his arms, held himself in a hug.
It is this way, True Shot said.
Bullshit, I said. It ain’t no fucking way, Peter Morales. Just tell me the truth.
True Shot’s extra-lovely chest up and down, FUCK THE NATIONAL ENDOWMENT FOR THE ARTS up and down.
True Shot’s hand came over the bright gray shiny table, past his cup, past his spoon, across the bright gray air, the hand shadow across the bright gray table. His hand past my cup, my spoon, into my open hand palm up.
My face on the New Age rhinestoned-swooped mirrors was circus wide and flat.
Will, True Shot said, I’ve got something to do first. Then I’ll tell you the whole story. The truth, True Shot said. I promise.
My Art Family had stopped not-listening. They were all ears.
I reached up, took True Shot’s New Age rhinestone-swooped mirrors between my thumb and forefinger, pulled them down to the end of his nose. Put the end of my nose to his nose. Looked inside deep right into the dance of his eyes.
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 49