He sits down. ‘Have a visit.’
I sit on one of the armchairs.
‘You’re admiring the floor,’ he says after awhile. ‘People do. He laid that pattern. Fourteen years ago. After we knew we were going to stay.’
After another pause I say: ‘When do you light the stove?’
‘Never.’ He half smiles. ‘Has no stovepipe. He just liked the look of it.’ He speaks slow, like doing it singly is still new. ‘Fools ’em all.’ I see that pleases him. ‘I remember how you beat him. He talked about it for days.’ By now he’s on his feet, fiddling at a counter. ‘Coffee?’ In a couple of minutes he serves it, from a tray on the pot-belly. The espresso is neat, with a thick cuff of foam.
On one wall is a wastebasket in a hoop of iron, so you don’t have to bend down. My chair has a side-pocket with mail in it. ‘You have lots of nice arrangements. Nice to look at.’
‘And for comfort. All his,’ he says, following where I look. ‘That’s why I keep on with the shower. Don’t need the income. I’ve a pension. And he was always doing it for free. Did it for the company that came in, he said. And because he never had showers as a kid.’
He’s talking better. In between he stares at the black-and-tan zigzag floor. ‘Started it when the public baths were banned.’ Glancing at me, eyebrows raised, to see if I know what that meant. Smiling when he sees I do. ‘You’re not gay though? No. I remember those two characters who brought you in. Took you for a patsy. They were wrong.… They’re gone.’
‘Scrammed?’
He shakes his head. ‘Gone.’ It echoes. Like from a battle.
I say, ‘Let’s have a game.’
‘Me? He could always beat me. And you beat him in three moves. I can remember him saying it.’
‘This’ll take longer. Like when you’re thinking of alternatives. Like—this game, it’s for me. That’s why I came.’
He’s interested, like maybe nothing new has happened to him.
The board comes out of a drawer. Same old beauty, old-style crimson and shiny black, the counters grooved deep, and cool to the touch. He says: ‘Gadroon-edged.’
I take the red counters, laying them along the board. Leaving him the black. Finally, he sets his up. We sit.
After a while, when neither of us moves, he says: ‘What are those alternatives of yours?’
Why did I choose the red? We hadn’t tossed for it. Or for the first play. ‘The red—I guess that’s me up to a certain time.’ My hand hovers over that line up.
‘And the black?’
‘Where it stopped. Or I did.’
‘How come?’
‘I told somebody I was twenty-eight. Only last year. I thought I was. Because I’d stopped there. Out of circulation. And later—just not calculating.’ But that’s over. ‘I’m thirty-six.’
‘Nothing like a dame,’ he says. ‘But you still look very good.’
‘Wasn’t vanity. Or else, so down deep—’
‘Hah—I know that kind. He was in his twenties, me in my late forties, when we bumped into each other. “I’ll always be younger,” he said.’ He spreads his hands. And now he is. Always will be.’
‘I remember that ring you’re wearing.’ Darting across the table at me with its gold-flecked, flamy eye. ‘That was his, wasn’t it?’
‘I’m not for rings on a man. But he asked me to. So I do. “Twist it,” he said, “and I’ll be there. You won’t get rid of me.
‘Never seen a stone like it.’
‘Fire opal. Not sure it’s real. He went for the red. Sure enough did that.… So, the black’s me, huh; you saw that. Somebody had to be, around him.’
‘We’re not playing for him.’
‘I can’t play for you, gal. Besides, I’d lose. Whyn’t you play against yourself? Seen people do that. Not him. He never would.’
‘You played a lot?’
‘Only when he wanted to win at something. Because I supplied the bread.’
‘Oh?’
‘Salesman, church supplies. I had the whole top field, city wide. Votive statues, priests’ albs; you name it. No greeting card calendars, none of that small stuff. Maybe a breviary now and then. No, I stocked the big stuff. Ciboriums—you know what they are?’ He sees I don’t. ‘For the reservation of the Eucharist’—he almost chants it. ‘Thuribles—he said the catalogue was like a church service, when I recited it. And what do you know, he asked to be buried from one of my customers. That church they call “Smoky Mary’s.” Pounds of incense they must use, yet not a soul coughs. Beautiful. And they’ll bury those from that line around the corner here, even. By special dispensation. Bar none.’
‘That line. I walk past it sometimes.’ All types, like in a play. Male prossies mixed with yearners. Habitués of the sex fix. ‘Still going. People watching say they can’t believe it, given the times. But I can. For some it would be because there would be no place else. But for some it would be—because you join the street.’
‘For the principle of the thing, hah. He said that. He joined that line openly in the end. I knew he’d been sneaking around the corner for years. Joined it with a bandage on his bare skull and walking with two canes. “They still pick me—” he said.’ He bends over his row of counters.
The checker board is still neatly aligned. I could hate it for that.
‘Wasn’t so long ago you were here, gal; he went quick. “Beaten by a dame,” he said, “—how’d she ever get so good?”’
‘Taught by dames,’ I say. Not to make anything of that. ‘They would play against each other. Only in demonstration. Not to win. They were teaching me.’ And they did. That I was the game.
‘So play. Be the red, be the black. I’ll be kibitzer.’
‘Star salesman?’ I can hear that push. ‘Thanks, no. I better go.’ I make like consulting my wrist, where a watch used to be. Had the days of the week on it as well. Gave it to the boy in the halfway house; laid it on his bed, he asleep when I scrammed. ‘It’s Sunday, by now.’
‘Got somebody, huh?’
‘No.’ All of a sudden, bending over the board, I move a red. ‘I used to swing.’ Stretching across the board, I move a black. ‘Now—I don’t even date.’ I look at the two chips, positioned blind. ‘Only right now with a—I dunno. Not a diary really. But those years I lost, I got recorded by other people up to here. Now it’s my turn.’
‘Hah. You the manifesto type, huh? The Village wouldn’t be the Village without you.’
I can laugh. ‘Come on. You yourself keep an open door.’
‘With a buzzer under the mat.’ He lies back in his chair, squinting at me. ‘Can’t tell what you’re carrying the torch for, but you sure are. But it wouldn’t be just for dames or guys—right?’ He looks me over. ‘And something tells me—let me walk on eggs here—that it’s not—just for skin?’
‘No. Walk on. But I don’t know how to say it, really. Except that it’s not a military campaign.’
‘They all get to be. Anybody who isn’t like yours truly gets to be a gook. Like in that war.’
‘Your friend. He favor the streets?’
‘Him? Not on your life. He wanted to rise. Wanted us to. And we did. Some. Classy dinners, travel. Little jobs he got to have; he had his crowd. At the end, true, he wanted to be out there, on line. He’d get ripped off now and then.’ He looked down at the big ring. ‘That’s when he gave me it.’
The dead guy hadn’t played that well. All stylish moves, like he was fencing. At checkers! ‘It took me more moves to beat him than he said,’ I say. ‘He was pretty good.’ I get up to go.
‘You remembered us, dolly. That’s nice.’
‘Yes—’ I say, ‘I remember.’
‘We were never in the closet, God knows. Except uptown, at my job. Last time he went on the line he said, “Go with me. It’s not just for pickups I go anymore. It’s like you say your stuff is. Votive.” He could tell I thought he was shitting me. But he was almost blind. I went.’ He’s smoothing the checkers into their
bag. ‘“If somebody latches onto me, Joe, let him,” he says to me. “Compassionate visit, Joe. They get us home.” So we walk out there. Seen it, haven’t you?’
I have to nod. The men, boys, walk round and round the block. Getting picked off. Getting left out. Maybe you’re votive. Maybe you’re not.
The checkers are in the bag. He pulls the string tight. ‘I walk with him on that goddamn line, thinking maybe he’s just showing off what he’s still got at home. But then, somebody latches on to me, by God. And Lee feels for my wrist and says, “You fool, you must have worn that watch he’s after. Go on home.”’
He’s folding up the checker board. ‘So, not much later, two of them bring him in. Right through that door, they dump him. And one of them steps on the buzzer. “It’s a plant!” he yells, and they scram.… I shouldn’t tell a woman this.’
‘Go on.’ I feel like a Dr. Cee.
‘So he says, weak as a kitten, “We never got to do anything, Joe—be compassionate. Long time no see.” … I was in health, you see. So we hadn’t. He says, “You’re my pickup now. And I knew you weren’t wearing your watch.”’
He claps the board together hard. ‘And at four am that morning he goes to the hospital. Lee.’
So that’s their names: Lee. And Joe.
‘Here.’ He hands me the board and the sack of chips. ‘Thanks for the game.’
Clutching both board and chips my hands are full, a warning sensation. ‘Gosh. I forgot my Shelter-Pak.’
‘Oh boy. In the station? Too bad. Lots of those around now. But they cost.’
I feel in my slacks pocket. Martyn’s keys. I’d been taking just those when on short errands from the pad. They look at you funny otherwise, in the food stores. ‘No—it’s okay. I left it where I’m—where I work.’
‘Work.’ He brightens. ‘I’d like to go back now. But they have somebody.’ He gets me a shopping bag. ‘Here. You got car-fare?’
‘It’s only to the fur district. I’ll walk.’
‘Fur—’ he says. ‘You’re not—standing on those corners—at night?’
‘Me?’
‘Used to be boys there. No cops.’ His mouth tics. ‘Long ago. Excuse it.’
‘No, the girls are over on Fourth. Real beauties. High-class.’ Long silk legs, and in winter, fur coats blown wide. ‘No, on our block there’s only the anti-fur activist. She stays late. But I don’t think she tricks. Except maybe for the animals.’
I’ve made him laugh. Good crowns on his teeth. I see him easy among the church purchasers, in a white shirt and bible-black tie.
‘So, one of your old pals put you up, eh? Maybe a guy?’
‘Just a friend. He’s in Africa.’ I like mentioning that. A friend, a pad, a favor given. It grounds me. Which even the confirmed floater can now and then crave. It brings me out of the cold. But should I want to be?
The shopping bag he’s brought is gray with a white cross on its front. ‘So what did you commit? To have to do time for so long. Riots? Get dragged from the White House lawn? Hunger strike?’
I shrug.
‘So it’s over. Like when I finished my military service. And you don’t know what you did it for either, do you.’
‘Keep your shopping bag,’ I say.
‘Ah, come on.’ He’s stashing in some green.
‘Don’t do that. No.’
‘Tide you over. Or maybe you’re already on the welfare.’
Disability—I have the disability. Once I could say that like a password. Why’s it sticking in my craw?
‘I have a—family trust.’
When I raise my eyes his face has got it, that stare. When people look too long. ‘So that’s it. I should have known. But you’re—so together, otherwise.’ He touches my shoulder, a finger brush, like he might get a shock. ‘Maybe you do have that pad; maybe you don’t. You haven’t been to the shelters yet; I can tell. I won’t ask what you do. You hang out that area though, there used to be security guards; they could be rough.’ He’s talking fast now—the way he would’ve to Lee, when they first met? ‘Case you get stuck, there’s a priest runs a damn decent soup kitchen. Near that Limelight disco, used to be a church I supplied.’ When he hunches up the fringe of hair on his nape shows dyed. ‘Maybe it still is a church, daytimes.’
He refolds the shopping sack and presses it on me.
I take it. ‘I’ll remember you guys.’ I see that’s thanked him. ‘And the board is a doozy.’ I smooth it. ‘Just to carry it gives me an air of distinction. Like if I had an Italian bike.’
To weave that in gives me a real sensation, like I’m linking the bad times, mending them into the now. Cold turkey is not that good for the now.
He thinks I’m being funny? So why not be?
‘Maybe I’ll start a checkers club.’
He shakes his head at me. Like when the hospital aides guided some of us on practice trips downtown, and passersby at first took us for girls on an outing from some private school. ‘Must have been a charmer, when you were—twenty-eight. Or younger.’
‘Uh uh. In college, I was the one got charmed.’
‘Knocked up?’
‘Group charmed.’
‘Hah. See a lot of that, down here. Can turn you a loner, on the rebound.’
‘Loner?’ I scan the musty arrangements, this waiting-game he still plays. On the one memory, hoarded. While outside, out that door, on line or not, the city’s monuments at least join up with you as you meet them. The pavement strides under you. The heads populate the air. ‘Maybe. But in company.’
In a pause like that, in such a house, I swear you can hear the pillows mewl.
‘I have company—’ he says. The words shake, like a rattle he keeps handy. ‘You don’t have another person’s load in your life—you don’t have a life.’
I ease toward that door always kept ajar. I can see Lee’s reason for it.
‘Free shower, any time—’ he calls after me. ‘Only if you don’t have the crabs.’
So you can only qualify here if you’re not lousy to begin with.
As I edge further, he calls like an echo: ‘What’s your na-ame?’
I see his misery. Lead a too personal life and your woe will be custom-designed.
I can’t think of any of my names I would want to leave here. In this halfway house, where the stove that should warm has no pipe.
Quick, ankle it over the sill.
‘I’ll send you a card.’
This is a Friday dusk. Everybody on the avenue knows that; so do I. Offices are letting out as daily, but there’s an edge to the voices saying, ‘Good Night.’ A weekend flurry is in the air, even for those who have no weekends. I am walking back to my office. The calendar, whether I keep to it or violate it, has been seeping into my bones.
Also—have I begun to cherish events that face me toward others? Or even to initiate those? The accidental graze, for which one apologizes? The weather-chat? The smile at a child? I have taken the subway—countermanding the walking code. To a man who boarded a bus without the proper change, I was the first to offer. I have entered shops only to dally. My infringements have been endless, given the logic I had been living under. Yet I feel less and less reprobate.
On exiting Joe and Lee’s I had an impulse to turn down Christopher Street and join that line. I knew better than to do so. To impose what I am not on what they are—as they might see it? That warmth, that solidarity, that intermittent agony, was not for me. Nor the sex. And Christopher Street was not on my way. Yet I had the impulse—toward.
In the hospital, we were all wary of that recommended reaching out. On my ward of eight to twelve youngish men and women, everyone sensed when a member was ‘going off of sick’ as it were—that is, relearning the manners of health, or able to assume those sufficiently. Those patients, as they left, were seen as traitors to the madnesses or mental injuries that whelmed the rest of us, and which also were the hospitals raison d’etre and research glory. The cured were seen as mercenaries for the
norm.
And we could clock the terms of the cure, in our deviantly uncanny way. We knew what health was in the way a man with one leg observes a man with two.
—‘What’s going on in me is like an inner tuning,’ my room-mate, shortly to be released, confided. ‘It’s like in your body, your head, there is a pattern violin. And each day, you tighten the strings. Then play.’ Of course we were a mildly non-delusionary, non-violent ward, mostly obsessives of familial despair. Or broken world-crockery, like yours truly.
‘Madness is bad melodrama,’ my actress room-mate says scornfully. ‘It’s no wonder we can each see each other’s, but not our own.’ Health—or cure, crept up on you, a delicate accretion that you had best keep mum about. For since it was never totally positive, perhaps merely not negative, and often only an acceptable equilibrium, it was simply there or not, explicit as a chord. And you couldn’t just evoke it. ‘Or God knows, cheer it on.’
For even a cure could rampage, to a fine or classic result. On the day Heather (diagnosis, ‘involutional despair’) was leaving to resume touring with the company she had been invalided out of two years before, she reported to me: ‘That art therapy aide I loathe, the one that’s always encouraging but really believes we’re all too eccentric to make real worthy use of our talents.… So when I came to say goodbye—for I’m really trying, y’know, she said: “Now Heather, smile. Like they say Leonardo even meditated with a smile.” And I said: “And breathed from the diaphragm”—and barfed all over her smock.’
Then she hugged me, Heather did. We had never. ‘Remember me, Carol. Memory is faith.’—And now I have. With a smile.
When I let myself in, the Shelter-Pak left behind when I’d rushed out is sprawled just inside the door. Its sides are caved in, like a cat’s after giving birth. Each day I have mined it more. On foot, one keeps a hard core of necessaries ever at reach. Now they have entrenched themselves in the places that habit appoints. Toothbrush in the bathroom glass, jacket on the hook. Towel and extra panties on the bathroom line. My wallet still lies within, along with a passport case big enough for all the archive of identity I must present to keep my allowance coming. I have no need here for alley comforts like the pewter flask for water, and the collapsible cup, so they too are in the pocket reserved. In the pocket next to those, the sanitaries, and a small pouch containing a nail scissors, file and tweezers in golden German brass, that I bought the minute I came out of jail. The hospital had confiscated them, then returned them when I left. They are more than implements. They are history. Like the one prescription, which is out of date.
In the Slammer With Carol Smith Page 14