In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  The WALK changed to DON’T WALK on Fifth Avenue.

  Behind us, the cardinal was a darkness inside a shadow.

  Rose was a lump that sat down heavy onto the steps just where I’d been sitting. His combat boot kicked at the pile of cigarette butts.

  Looks like somebody’s been smoking here, Rose said. How long you been waiting?

  Shouldn’t we get out of here? I said.

  Nah! Rose said, We’re as safe as Bette Midler in the baths.

  Somebody’s bound to see him, Rose, I said. The cardinal could start waving with his free hand.

  Rose’s head was hanging between his knees.

  Who? Rose said.

  There was no dawn in the dark sky yet. The night was a cool summer night. You could see a few stars.

  In all the world Rose and I sat there on the stoop of Saint Patrick’s, staring way up past the top of Rockefeller Center, to the stars in the sky.

  No traffic. Silence. The silence just before the sun rises. Entre loup et chien.

  Rose reached in his backpack, pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier VSOP and a plastic snifter.

  I left the Baccarat at home, Rose said.

  Rose handed me the plastic snifter, pulled the cork on the VSOP, poured two fingers into the snifter.

  A toast, Rose said, To Shy Hunters! Rose said. And to the unrelenting darkness of their city!

  Rose’s hand in mine, together we raised the plastic glass to the darkness that was New York on the other side of Fifth Avenue.

  Here’s to the City of Shy Hunters! Rose said.

  To the City of Shy Hunters! I said.

  Rose drank first.

  Then me.

  Rose’s shaky hand poured two more fingers of VSOP.

  I rolled cigarettes, one for Rose, one for me.

  Rose was dripping sweat, so I put both cigarettes in my mouth, lit one for Rose, one for me. Put Rose’s cigarette between his lips.

  Rose inhaled deep, exhaled. Rose’s cats-fucking laugh bouncing off Saint Patrick’s, off Rockefeller Center, off Saks Fifth Avenue, bouncing off horizontals and verticals all around the city.

  Why wish for the stars when we have the moon? Rose said.

  What? I said.

  Rose coughed and coughed.

  Oh, never mind, Rose said. That’s why I love you so much!

  I love you too, Rose, I said. I hope I haven’t betrayed you.

  Rose’s beautiful black eyes yellow and red and full of tears.

  Was it as good for you, Rose said, As it was for me?

  Rose’s cats-fucking laugh bouncing off the buildings, louder and louder. Wasn’t long and the whole city was just Rose’s cats-fucking laugh.

  Rose put his hand open palm on my open palm, lifted my hand up with his. He shook our hands back and forth, back and forth, the way you do when you’re the champions.

  Only in New York City, Rose said, Would I meet the likes of you, dear William of Heaven. To Manhattan! Rose said.

  To Wolf Swamp! I said.

  To the city, Rose said, Who daily sells its soul for an image of itself!

  To Harlequin, I said, And the city of fools!

  Rose reached in his backpack, pulled out a bottle of pills, emptied the blue pills into his Sahara Desert palm.

  Valium? I said.

  Morphine, Rose said.

  Where’d you get morphine? I said.

  Never you mind! Rose said. A girl has to have some secrets.

  You going to share? I said.

  No no Yoko Ono, Rose said.

  Rose lifted his Sahara Desert palm, poured all the pills into his mouth.

  Jesus, Rose, I said, Isn’t that too much?

  Nothing’s too much, Rose said.

  Why you doing morphine? I said.

  Because I’m a chicken-shit asshole, Rose said.

  What? I said.

  Just shut up and pour me some more brandy, Rose said.

  I emptied the VSOP into Rose’s glass.

  L’amour de la bouteille! Rose said. The last drop, Rose said.

  Rose tried to stand but couldn’t, so I stood up and Rose took my hand.

  Get me my backpack, would you? Rose said. Be careful!

  The backpack was heavy.

  I got to piss, Rose said. Help me back to the doors.

  Rose put his arm over my shoulder. I put my arm around his waist, and we walked that way, back to the bronze doors.

  Rose’s hand was shaking so much he couldn’t undo the cassock buttons, so I undid them. Had to pull up all the cotton robes. Rose pissed on the opposite side of the cardinal, into the corner where the bronze door met granite and cement, A long line of piss, a little yellow river just south of the Courvoisier bottle and the snifters, flowing down the steps.

  Ocean is big because ocean is lower than rivers.

  The darkness across the doorway was purple, silent.

  YOU’RE GOING THIS way and then shit happens and then you’re going that way.

  There was a handcuff click sound and then Rose took my hand. His hand was so hot.

  Rose’s other hand was handcuffed to the other bronze door.

  Rose? I said.

  Rose put the handcuff key in his mouth, swallowed the key.

  More handcuffs? I said. Rose? You said we were going home.

  Rose pulled his top lip under his bottom lip. His chin and his lips were moving in a way I’d never seen. Rose’s jaw was up and down, up and down, teeth against teeth.

  Look who’s stuttering now, Rose said.

  This, Rose said, Is our final chapter. Now listen to me!

  I pulled Rose away from the door, shook him by the shoulders.

  Fuck final chapter! I said. Unlock that shit! Come on! Let’s go home!

  Rose took my chin in his hand, held my chin up, kissed me hot and wet and full and fast. He leaned heavy against the bronze doors, then bent over slow, pulled the jug of gasoline out of his backpack.

  Only silence. In all the world, in all of Manhattan, only silence.

  Dead silence.

  I couldn’t feel my arms, my legs. God in heaven! I said.

  Exactly, Rose said. I’ve strut and fret my fifteen minutes. Now it’s time to exit stage left, Rose said. Something dramatic, with a bang, a big fucking bang! No whimpers here!

  Time to say good-bye, Rose said.

  I grabbed for the bottle of gasoline.

  No! I said. You can’t do this!

  Rose’s black eyes, ebony stones rolled smooth, went deep into my eyes. His Sahara Desert palm grasped the bottle.

  The lucid compulsion to act polemically.

  This is my death, Will, Rose said. Capisce?

  My breath in. My breath out.

  My open palm onto the beaded blue road, the beaded red.

  My feet walked backward to where the steps started.

  Thank you, Rose said.

  I put my arms out, hands palms up at Rose.

  Rose, I said, If you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do with that gasoline, you’re just another black queer scapegoat!

  You said, I said, That on TV black people never make it to the next episode. Rose! I said. What about the next episode?

  Read up on the Cambodian monks who self-immolated, Rose said. There’s no victim here! This is my final act as a Shy Hunter, Rose said. A Shy Hunter always chooses life until he chooses death.

  Rose unscrewed the lid to the gallon of gasoline.

  Then: Rose, I said, Who will anoint your body?

  So strange just then, Rose’s laugh coming out of him.

  Ah! My dear dear William of Heaven, Rose said, Thou hast already anointed me. But to make sure, Rose said, Bring your body back over here for a minute.

  Eleven steps back, over the yellow river of piss, back to Rose. I put my palm out and touched Rose’s face. His prizefighter bump, his eight-ball cheeks, the clitoris bump between his eyes, his lips, the lines from his nose wings to the corner of his mouth, his keep-your-chin-up chin, his shiny bald head.
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  We’ll perform a sacrament, Rose said. Extreme Unction, the Last Rites. We’ll anoint the body before it dies, Rose said.

  Reach down inside your pants, Rose said. Touch your cock, Rose said.

  Rose, I said.

  Reach! Rose said.

  I reached down in my pants, touched my cock.

  The end of it, Rose said. Touch the end, the piss slit.

  I touched the end of my cock, the piss slit.

  It’s wet, isn’t it? Rose said.

  Yes, I said.

  Now draw your hand across your asshole, Rose said, and anoint me, Rose said.

  I pulled my two fingers across my piss slit, gathered the moisture there, then up through my crack, across my butt hole. I brought my fingers out, brought my fingers to Rose’s forehead, made a vertical and a horizontal on Rose’s forehead, on his lips, on his heart.

  The top of the head too, Rose said.

  A vertical and a horizontal on top of Rose’s head.

  And at the navel, Rose said.

  I reached in, lifted the white cotton robes, made a vertical and a horizontal on Rose’s belly button.

  And the cock, Rose said.

  Rose’s cock, the 2001 monolith hard.

  Wow! I said. What a piece of work is man!

  And that’s after a pound of morphine, Rose said. Death be not proud! There’s so much hope in a hard-on.

  A vertical and a horizontal on Rose’s extra-lovely cock.

  Now my glistening perineum, Rose said.

  Your glistening what? I said.

  Between my asshole and my balls, Rose said. The root chakra.

  A vertical and a horizontal on Rose’s glistening perineum.

  Rose’s silver revolver was in Rose’s Sahara Desert palm.

  Here, Rose said. You’re going to need this.

  I am? I said.

  You are, Rose said.

  Rose’s silver revolver in my hand again, so heavy, slick, shiny.

  Then Rose’s lips at my ear:

  Doubt thou the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the sun doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar;

  But never doubt I love.

  Rose placed his palm against my heart, a steady push away. My feet walked back to where the steps began. My foot hit the Courvoisier bottle, and the bottle rolled down the steps of Saint Patrick’s. Broke on the third step.

  Turn around now, Rose said, And keep going. And put the revolver in your pocket.

  I stared at the silver revolver, put the silver revolver in my front pocket.

  That a forty-five you holding, Rose said, Or are you just glad to see me?

  Rose, I said.

  Turn around! Rose said. Get your ass out of Dodge!

  I was just over the yellow river of piss, just about to the steps when Rose said, Will?

  I turned around.

  Got a match? Rose said.

  Language my second language.

  In my back pocket, Fish Bar matches.

  I pitched the blue pack of matches, an arch through the night air, into Rose’s free hand, palm up.

  Thank you, Rose said.

  Now whatever you do, don’t look back! Rose said. Or you’ll turn into a pillar of salt.

  Rose’s chin up up, his eyes rolled back in his head, Saint Theresa Gone to Heaven.

  My feet were soldiers, new-shoe stiff, about-face.

  The splash of gas.

  Left, right, left, right, my red Converse tennis shoes walked down Saint Patrick’s steps.

  The unmistakable sound: the match.

  The cardinal a raven’s scream, high-pitched, off, wrong, horrible, ripping the duct tape.

  My breath in. My breath out.

  Just like that, I turned slow, like an old snake in the sun. In my ears, the air imploded. In front of my eyes, a brilliance.

  The touch of the match covered Rose’s cassock and roman collar like a blue flame ghost.

  A big bang, a big fucking bang.

  The scream from Rose from another incarnation. Wild, finally home.

  Finally free.

  The scream we all live for.

  Rose’s lips, the inside color of his lips on fire, his shiny head, his ears, Rose’s extra-lovely Sahara Desert palms on fire. His eight-ball cheeks, the prizefighter bump of his nose, the black serpents in Rose’s eyes on fire.

  Rose’s free hand went up. Perhaps it was his final good-bye, but to me it looked like a fist.

  Inside Rose, there was a crumbling down and back, like he’d leaned up against the fire, and a far greater fuchsia flame burst up, high sparks into the great Manhattan, into the greater dark sky.

  Tiny illuminations in the dark.

  The cardinal had the bronze door pulled open all the way. He was standing behind the door. The silver cuff hooked to the handle was all you could see.

  Another crumbling and Rose was on his knees.

  Rose was only fire now.

  And smoke. Billows of fuchsia smoke.

  The only sound was flames—and something else.

  The muffled whimper from the tiny Catholic heart in the darkness behind the bronze door.

  AT 50TH STREET, the WALK/DON’T WALK was WALK. I didn’t look back, just walked. In Saks Fifth Avenue, the two skinny Art Family women in the little black dresses held their hands over their eyes.

  In all the world, this distracted globe, policing my body, new-shoe stiff, my heart, the broken pieces scratching against my chest, my red Converse tennis shoes step by step, all the way down Fifth Avenue, along the windows of Saks, in each window, each of the Art Family people inside there, the men in tuxedos, the men in sports clothes, the women in navy blue suits and hats with veils, the woman in the long shiny red evening gown, every one of them, weeping.

  Weeping.

  The gnashing of teeth.

  Weeping.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Anything can happen, now that everything has.

  Who knows how long everything happened after Rose died: three weeks, three years, three days.

  On the evening news, Channel 7 had a special about a bum who’d been set afire by a gang of punks on the steps of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.

  The black woman newscaster, holding the microphone with TV-7 on it, said, So if you’re going to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral you must use the side entrances.

  Behind her was Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. There was a big white tent in front of the bronze doors.

  The headline in the Daily News was BUM BURNED.

  The headline in the New York Post was ST. PAT’S INFERNO.

  I shaved my head and mustache. Got a heart tattooed over my heart, a red heart, with a black circle around the heart. Across the top of the heart, an arc of black Magic Marker words, William of Heaven. I got my queer ear and my beer ear pierced. Gold loops.

  Sleep was something I forgot how to do. Eating something I forgot too.

  My Art Family and I stayed up all night, most nights, talking talking, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, drinking beers, tequila, Courvoisier VSOP, toking Rose’s rabbit turds in the lovely erect pink penis, listening to WBLS at the end of the dial.

  One night, I stood in the middle of my Art Family, and my Art Family held hands around me like in the hippie days trust-falling, and we sang “Slow Poke” or “My Buddy,” or harmonized on the “Idaho State Song” or “Song of Bernadette” or “Famous Blue Raincoat” or “America the Beautiful.”

  We started writing on the red walls with Rose’s black Magic Marker: Amor fati. Asobase kotoba. Complete presence. Wolf Swamp. Crossover. Shy Hunters. Vertical incest. Horizontal incest. Hero. Monster. Savage beast. A fuck-you kind of motherfucker joy. Tiny Catholic heart. Antigone. Polynices. The putrefaction of the flesh. The joke was on the white man. New York’s only Irish Catholic homosexual. James Joyce’s idiot savant daughter fucked a truck driver. Vin et Vous. Fuck hope. Sexy Totale. YUFAs. Even myself, I am just here, isn’t it? Green Date. Fools and pharisees.
To admit ignorance is the highest knowledge. Shit happens. The red road. The blue road. Noam Chomsky. Tony and Tina. Savoir faire. Postured disregard. Nowhere. Nowhere. Autumn Sonata. Stranded Beings Searching for God. The three Polaroids. Self-immolated Cambodian monks. The map of the Known Universe. Divide and conquer. Travel mode’s the key. All daring and courage, all iron endurance of misfortune, make for a finer, nobler type of manhood. In this distracted globe. Hell of a fix. Up Shit Creek. In a world of hurt. Complete acceptance of whatever the Divine sets in your path. The lucid compulsion to act polemically. The space in between. Gordito. Lletre ferit. Policing my body. New-shoe stiff. The hope of theater to lay bare the human heart. The rule is to have some rules. The Badland Boys. Perfect, just perfect. Chaos is unrelenting brightness. If wishes were horses then beggars would ride. The only way out is in. Harlequin is the fool who knows he is hiding. Performance art is a man dancing alone in his room. Make it aware, make art out of it. Trickle down. Ronald Reagan and Nancy. No no Yoko Ono. Solitary illuminations in the night. Horrific whisper. Lips at my ear. Responsibility of the survivor to tell the story. Swooped rhinestone mirrors. With every gift there is a sacrifice. Never touch me. It’s all drag. Never call Elizabeth Taylor Liz. Law of the jungle. Vicious Totalitarian Assholes ‘R’ Us. A talent for reality. Not on the premises. Revelation the result of covering up. I can fuck you blind and keep it simple. Try me. Scared stallion. Exactly right perfect person, WALK/DON’T WALK. Wounded Male belly dance. The Song of Bernadette. Extra Strength Tylenol. The cure.

  THE NEXT DAY, the headline in The New York Times was:

  CARDINAL O’HENRY TAKES LEAVE OF ABSENCE.

  WILL WORK IN UNDISCLOSED HOMELESS CHARITY.

  The first two weeks, I was able to go to work, but not much more than that. I started getting afraid of the ironing board and the iron, so for those two weeks I bought myself a new white shirt every day I worked, and finally had to buy two more pairs of black pants. I was afraid of the ’53 DeSoto too. I would stand in front of the ’53 DeSoto, shaking shaking, my hand too afraid to reach out and take the handle, and at the same time I was crying because I knew it was stupid to be afraid of a refrigerator. I had to start drinking my beer warm.

  The shower too, I was afraid of the shower. Washed my face and hair, sponged off my pits and butt crack and crotch at the kitchen sink. But I couldn’t step into the shower.