In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  THE THIRD TIME I saw Umbrella Red Shower Curtain was in Tribeca. I’d walked down to a greenhouse and nursery down there to check out their cherry trees. I was looking at a Kwanzan cherry, looking at its beautiful peeling purple-red bark, when I heard the plastic against the sidewalk and looked up to see Umbrella Red Shower Curtain and the tarred feet. Humming the same song.

  Then, a couple of weeks later, in Dog Shit Park again, on the green bench, morning coffee and com muffin again, talking to Ruby again, just like that, Umbrella Red Shower Curtain came walking and plastic-sliding and humming by. I stopped mid-slurp of morning coffee and listened hard. Then I said it. “Famous Blue Raincoat!” I said.

  Umbrella Red Shower Curtain said, William of Heaven! So nice to see you again.

  Susan Strong? I said.

  Fiona, Fiona said. Ruby Prestigiacomo gave me my name, remember? My whole name is Fiona Yet. When you knew me I wasn’t quite Fiona Yet.

  Fiona’s laugh just like her mother’s.

  Fiona opened the shower curtain and said, the way you’d say come into my apartment, she said, Come in! Come in!

  My open palm against the red; I stepped inside under the umbrella.

  Bad breath. Sweat. Fiona put her arms around me, her big red leather purse in one of her hands. I thought she was embracing me, but she was just closing the curtain.

  Mustn’t let them see! Fiona said.

  See what? I said. Fiona, what are you doing?

  What was two inches from my face was a face I barely recognized. No red lips, no eye makeup. Her blue eyes were bloodshot and puffy, the scar above her lip a blue-scarred bruise. I didn’t recognize the body either.

  Shit happens. Fiona was pregnant.

  Fiona smiled. One of her front teeth was missing.

  What happened to your tooth? I said.

  Tooth? Fiona said.

  You’ve lost a tooth, I said.

  Tooth fairy! Fiona said.

  Then: I’ve seen you all over the place, I said, The past month or so. When did you get back from Connecticut? How’s your father? Where are you living? Why are you dressed like this?

  Fiona was wearing a wife-beater and men’s boxer shorts with I NEW YORK on them.

  I touched her hair, all matted together, and said, What? Are you going Rasta on me?

  Fiona reached up to my neck, the buckskin bag in the palm of her hand. I like your medicine bag, Fiona said. Cool!

  Then: You’re going to need all the medicine you can get your hands on! Fiona said. There’s going to be a war!

  Fiona’s arms were so thin, her legs.

  War? I said.

  Here! Fiona said.

  In America? I said.

  Here! Fiona said, and pointed her finger down to the sidewalk.

  You mean in New York? I said.

  In Dog Shit Park, Fiona said. Here! Soon!

  When the horse shit hits the fan, Fiona said, You’ll know where to find me. I’ll be right fucking here.

  Fiona stamped her bare foot on cement.

  Fiona’s face was dirty, her eyes not on the premises; her breath stunk, and her hands and arms and legs and feet were almost black with dirt and grease.

  There was no stepping away.

  Where are you staying? I said.

  In here, Fiona said. In the Famous Blue Raincoat. You know in the song when Leonard sings, Did you ever go clear? Well, one night, I’d bought a bottle of Everclear. I was in Connecticut then. I’d just got out of Silver Lake. How long ago was that? God, what a dreary place that is! Makes Betty Ford look like Betty Crocker! I was on the ramp for the train heading back to the city, Fiona said, And I had my Walkman on, and I was drinking my Everclear and just as I took a swig, Leonard Cohen sang Did you ever go clear?

  And I went clear, Fiona said. Completely clear. It isn’t present so much that you want to be completely in. It’s clear where you want to be completely in, Fiona said.

  Fiona turned just her eyes up at the umbrella and how it was attached to her head. It looked like a crown of coat-hanger wires. Fiona dragged her long fingers against her red plastic shower curtain. I looked at it. In all the world, under Fiona’s umbrella, a pack of white wolves on the shower curtain. Some of the white wolves howling, some of them lying in the snow, wolf puppies wrestling with each other.

  My home’s a trip, Fiona said, don’t you think?

  The wolves, I said.

  Cool, huh? Fiona said.

  Way cool, I said.

  What’s the rent? I said.

  You can’t imagine people’s reactions, Fiona said. Those who are brave enough to talk to me, after they step in and I close the curtain behind them—these brave souls tell me the most incredible things. I’m like a walking confessional, Fiona said. One guy told me he raises chickens in his backyard, and when he wants a chicken dinner he fucks it and he kills it and eats it, Fiona said. This one woman told me she was the incarnation of Cleopatra. She was a stunning black woman, and she said it was her karma in this incarnation to be the most beautiful woman in the world and be black because Western civilization won’t cop to the fact that Cleopatra was a black woman. Another guy told me he was afraid of falling asleep. That his little brother died in his sleep and as a kid he got it in his head that if he falls asleep, he’ll die. He asked me what he could do, Fiona said, So I told him to just go ahead and die.

  Fiona’s lips at my ear.

  The horrific whisper: Everybody dies.

  How about a Sabrett? I said. Or Shrimp Fried Rice and barbecue ribs from the Bamboo House? I said. Or maybe some Chicken Tandoori at Panna?

  No, Fiona said.

  Then: Fiona, I said, Where’s your father? Do you have your father’s phone number? I said, Why don’t you come home with me now?

  Who knows? Fiona said. These days who can tell? Did you know they were changing the name of the Village Voice to the Inner Voice? Or is it the Village Idiot? Fiona said. Or maybe the Inner Idiot? Anyway, who cares what a bunch of assholes think.

  Where in Connecticut does your father live? I said. Is it Greenwich?

  Green Witch, Fiona said.

  Green Witch? I said.

  Then Fiona’s smile, big smile. The gap between her teeth. The bruised blue scarred lip. Fiona put her arms around me and hugged me.

  Oh, Will! Fiona said. I’m Diogenes and you’re my honest man. It’s so good to see you, Will, Fiona said. We must get together soon sometime. Maybe next week?

  Sure, I said. How about tomorrow, Monday? I said. I’m off. Dinner at my place?

  I’d love to see your Art Family again, Fiona said. I’d appreciate them so much more now. But I’ll have to check my schedule. I’m so fucking busy with the cure and all.

  The cure, I said.

  Oh, fuck, Will, Fiona said, I didn’t tell you? Oh! Jesus Christ! What, am I losing my mind? It’s only the total basis of my very existence right now!

  I had to step back some so Fiona could dig through her huge red leather purse. She pulled just about everything out of it—matches, Chinese takeout, a bra, candy wrappers, dominoes.

  In all the world, under an umbrella, surrounded by a Conran’s red plastic shower curtain with a pack of white wolves on it, pressed up against a skanky Fiona Yet in Dog Shit Park.

  Here it is! Fiona said, and held a dirty Extra Strength Tylenol bottle up to my eyes.

  The cure! Fiona said. I’ve found the cure for AIDS!

  Only silence. Dead silence.

  Cool, huh? Fiona said. I worked with the doctors while I was in Silver Lake and our studies are conclusive.

  Extra Strength Tylenol? I said.

  No, silly, Fiona said, That’s just the bottle. We put the cure in this bottle so nobody can see. If it gets into the hands of corporate America we’re all fucked!

  What is it, I said, The cure?

  Don’t tell anybody, Fiona said. Quiet is kept. Loose lips sink ships. I’m taking the cure to the exactly right most perfect person. I was just on my way, Fiona said, When I saw you.


  Fiona kissed me on the cheek.

  My lovely lovely Will, Fiona said, Oh, I miss you so much! Got a cigarette?

  Pouring out the tobacco. The papers. Tough rolling in the cramped space.

  Fiona put the cigarette right where the scar lifts her lip. I lit the cigarette. She inhaled hard, blew smoke out through her nose.

  I also took a course in belly dancing, Fiona said. Silver Lake had all the comforts of home. Can you imagine a course in belly dancing in an insane asylum? Wealth and privilege! Cool. I’ll have to belly dance for you sometime, but now I’ve got to run.

  Maybe I could walk along with you, I said. I’d love to meet this exactly right most perfect person you’re going to give the Extra Strength Tylenol to.

  Fiona grabbed my earlobe, pulled hard, hung on.

  Ouch! I said, Fiona! Shit!

  Get this straight! Fiona said. It is not fucking Tylenol, OK? It’s the cure for AIDS!

  Fiona’s blue eyes, cloudy blue into my eyes. A deep breath of bad breath into my face.

  Don’t fucking patronize me, Will! Fiona said. This is serious shit! You fuck with me and I’ll kick your ass!

  OK! OK! I said. Let go my ear!

  Fiona pulled down harder, then let go.

  You need an earring! Fiona said. Right ear or left ear? Queer Ear or Beer Ear? Ah-hah! Fiona said. Both ears!

  My earlobe was hanging down around my chin.

  Where is this exactly right most perfect person? I said. Who is he?

  What makes you think it’s a he? Fiona said.

  Who is she? I said.

  She is Auden, Fiona said. And Argwings Khodek and Rumi and Chief Joseph and Princess Diana and Leonard Cohen and Julie Christie and Joni Mitchell and Ethyl Eichelberger and Martin Luther King, Jr. and John Kelly and Malcolm X and Harvey Milk and the Dalai Lama!

  He is the Virgin Mary, Fiona said, And Rosa Parks and Gandhi and Tarkovsky and Vanessa Redgrave and Marilyn Monroe and Mathilde Krim and Cavafy and Leonard Peltier and Larry Kramer and Meher Baba and Baba Ram Das!

  And where is this person? I said.

  I’m not sure, Fiona said. I keep ending up back here in Dog Shit Park, but everybody’s not doing the belly dance all together yet, and dancing and dancing yet, and singing “The Song of Bernadette.”

  Fiona, I said.

  I know it sounds crazy, Fiona said, But actually it’s very similar to something you once told me about Charlie 2Moons and the game you played on your horses.

  Going Slack? I said.

  That was it! Fiona said.

  Well, Fiona said, Here in Wolf Swamp, we call it Walk/Don’t Walk.

  Wolf Swamp, I said.

  You’re the one who told me about Wolf Swamp, Fiona said. And Walk/Don’t Walk started as soon as I got back to Manhattan, Fiona said. As soon as I got safe in my new home.

  Fiona touched the red plastic shower curtain, the howling wolf’s head.

  Here’s how you do it, Fiona said. When you come up to a comer, the direction you go is the direction the sign says WALK. The direction you don’t go is the direction the sign says DON’T WALK. When one sign says DON’T WALK and the other sign is flashing DON’T WALK, you can exercise your own free will to don’t walk, or to dash for it, or to go back the way you came, or to take the wild card and go in the Fourth Direction.

  Amor fati, love of one’s fate, Fiona said. Walk/Don’t Walk leads those who will; who won’t, they drag.

  They keep dragging me here, Fiona said. Dog Shit Park. So I got to trust it, that’s all. Even though some of the time I feel like I’m lost in a labyrinth. But I just got to honor my practice!

  Your practice? I said.

  Complete acceptance of whatever the Divine sets in my path, Fiona said.

  What if there isn’t a Divine? I said.

  Fiona’s bruised blue lip curled up.

  You stupid asshole! Fiona said. Believe that it hath been given, Fiona said, And it shall be given unto you.

  Fiona looked up at me like I was a camera she was pointing at herself. Her blue eyes cloudy blue, too close to the fire blue.

  So, Fiona said, it looks so far like the right place is Dog Shit Park. Now I just have to wait.

  Wait for what? I said.

  It has to be a certain way before it can start, Fiona said, The belly dancing and the singing. I’ll know when the extra right most perfect person is here, Fiona said. When in all of Wolf Swamp—or at least in all of Dog Shit Park—when every person in the park will all at once make the same movement. That movement is the first movement of the belly dance. They’ll be singing, and what they’ll be singing is “The Song of Bernadette,” Fiona said. And that’s when the exactly right perfect person will show up and that’s when my inner voice—not the Village Voice inner voice but my own inner voice—will tell me and I’ll know.

  Did you know the belly dance is really a dance for men and is called the Dance of the Wounded Male? Fiona said.

  Fiona put her bottom lip over her top lip, stretched the blue scar, then opened her mouth.

  My inner voice, Fiona said, Says the war is coming any day now.

  Fiona, I said, Come with me to my apartment. You can take a shower and we’ll listen to music. Order Chinese.

  My inner voice, Fiona said, Says to remain situated.

  Does your inner voice, I said, Say it’s OK to give me your father’s phone number in Connecticut?

  Fiona dug through her red leather purse and on the inside flap of a White Horse Tavern matchbook she wrote her father’s phone number.

  Fiona, I said, Promise me you’ll stay here on the green bench. I said, I’ll only be a half hour.

  I’ll remain situated, Fiona said.

  I opened the shower curtain, stood for a moment, and looked at Fiona. Her face was greasy white, marble white, her blue eyes painted onto marble, the scar.

  Promise? I said.

  Promise, Fiona said.

  I closed the shower curtain and ran to the pay phone. The receiver hung down like my limp dick, out of order. I didn’t have change anyway, so I ran to my apartment and made the call on my red telephone. A pleasant computer voice said the phone had been disconnected. I tried again and the pleasant computer voice said the same thing. Again.

  Then I called information to see if I had the area code wrong, and I didn’t have it wrong, so I called for directory assistance.

  David Macllvane, I said.

  That number has been disconnected, sir, the operator said.

  Is there a new number? I said.

  No new number, the operator said.

  I ran the whole way back to Dog Shit Park, ran to the green bench.

  Fiona was gone. Not on the premises. Nowhere. Lost the way. Lost the world. Lost for words. Lost on the blue road. No Lost and Found. No no Yoko Ono.

  TWO DAYS STRAIGHT, True Shot and I drove Door of the Dead van around not-looking for Fiona Yet. We stayed mostly in the Lower East Side, but didn’t see her, so we drove to Tribeca and didn’t see her, then drove to the Phoenix on 14th and didn’t see her.

  The second day, a hot muggy industrial-gray day, Door of the Dead van’s heater was melting the rubber on my red Converse tennis shoes.

  Did you use a rubber? True Shot said.

  I jumped so high off the seat I hit my head on the headliner.

  No! I said. It was this overwhelming thing that came over the both of us.

  It is this way, True Shot said. Yadda yadda yadda! Next time use a rubber.

  Fuck you! I said.

  Rubbers are in the glove box, Papi! True Shot said. So’s the cigars!

  WHEN TRUE SHOT dropped me off at 205 East Fifth Street, he shut off the engine. I went to grab for the door handle, but True Shot put his extra-lovely arm out, touched my shoulder with his open palm.

  Wait a minute, True Shot said. I got something to say.

  I sat back, pushed my back against the seat.

  My breath in. My breath out.

  How long ago has it been, True Shot said, Since Ruby
and I let you off here that first night?

  Almost five years to the day, I said.

  True Shot took off his swooped rhinestone mirrors, folded them, put them in his shirt pocket.

  You and me, True Shot said, We’ve had us quite the times together, haven’t we?

  True Shot, I said, What’s going on?

  One tear right under True Shot’s swooped rhinestone mirror, slow rolling down his cheek.

  What you’re thinking, True Shot said, Is making me very very sad.

  True Shot? I said.

  I must take the medicine bundle back to the Blackfeet nation, True Shot said, And I must do it soon. I was planning on taking the trip with you. Going back to Idaho with you.

  True Shot’s open palm in mine. A crooked rectangle of sun coming in hot through the windshield.

  True Shot lifted my hand up with his and shook our hands back and forth, back and forth, the way you do if you’re the champions.

  It would be fun, True Shot said, You and me on the road in Door of the Dead van, finally out of this fucking Wolf Swamp, wouldn’t it?

  Flies all over the garbage cans. A smell like something dead and over-ripe bananas.

  True Shot, I said, I—

  It is this way, True Shot said, I know you can’t go. You’ve got Rose and Fiona, True Shot said, And now maybe a kid. It’s no time for you to leave.

  But, I said, You’ll be back in a couple weeks?

  True Shot let our hands down slow, let go of my hand, put his thumb and index on his nose, in between his swooped rhinestone mirrors. He shook his head.

  Months? I said.

  No, True Shot said. I’m not ever coming back to Wolf Swamp.

  My open palm to the blue-beaded horizontal, the red-beaded vertical.

  Maybe you can come see me, True Shot said, When your task is over?

  Mrs. Lupino and the yellow New York drop-dead fuck-you cat were looking out her window at us.

  Task? I said.

  It is this way, True Shot said. You’ve still got to kill the monster and save the maiden.

  I wiped the snot off onto my wrist, snuffed up, pulled my head back, looked into True Shot’s swooped rhinestone mirrors.