When he arrives early he discovers that the line is much longer than ever before. Is that any way for them to show their appreciation? They’re backed up outside the building and around the parking lot. He has to shove and kick his way into the building; some of them think he’s one of them, and try to force him back to the end of the line.
He walks up and down the line attempting to make conversation, but they won’t reply to any of his questions, merely nod or shake their heads, wring their hands. A few weep quietly. Can’t they see he’s trying to help them?
At nine he gives up, unlocks his office door, and sits behind his desk. There is some shuffling outside as a committee of the poor checks their line-up sheet to see if anyone’s missing or wants to trade places, and then they send the first one in.
It is a tall, thin, quiet man with dark circles under his eyes. He looks as if he hasn’t slept, or eaten, for a week. He sits down in the chair before the desk, and stares.
The poor man stares for several minutes, making him feel like an intruder in his own office. Then finally the poor man says, “I want a wife.”
He stares at the poor man in fascination. How could he request such a thing?
“I’m afraid I cannot provide that for you. I’m sorry,” he tells the poor man.
“I’m lonely, I need someone,” the poor man tells him.
He rummages through his desk trying to find a form for the poor man to fill out, some kind of application, anything to distract him. He slides a form in front of the man. “Do you need a pencil?”
The poor man starts to fill out the form. It’s a request for an emergency gallon of gasoline. He hopes the man won’t be able to tell the difference.
Perhaps I could give him my wife, he thinks, and is ashamed of the thought.
There seems to be a gradual change in the poor, the first change he can remember. The line seems to have broken down into little groups, little conclaves. What could the poor be planning?
Perhaps they’re plotting for more bread, sex, and rest? Or maybe they’re planning to kill police officers, politicians, social workers?
Each day he goes home, his wife asks him, What are they doing today?
They’re plotting, he tells her. They’re seeking to overthrow our present form of government.
She nods in feigned interest.
He and his wife seem to have little time for each other any more. It’s too time-consuming just making a living, trying to maintain current standards, trying not to be poor.
The poor have moved into the trunk of his car.
He went into the garage this morning, opened the trunk to load his briefcase, and the old poor man who’d requested a wife was lying curled up in the trunk.
You can’t be here, he told the poor man. This won’t do at all.
The poor man just stared at him sadly. No doubt waiting for his wife.
You can’t have my wife, he told him.
At work the poor were in his office. You can’t be here, he told them.
But they said nothing. They sat on his desk. They lay under his desk.
Several had tried to sit in his chair, but the chair had broken.
The poor were in the bathroom, hundreds of them, living and sleeping there. The poor filled the parking lot with their cooking pots and sleeping rolls.
The poor are everywhere, he tells his wife in the kitchen at home. Several poor people are sitting at their kitchen table.
There are twelve poor people living in his garage, and six more on the patio.
I know what you’re planning! he tells them hysterically.
One morning he finds a poor woman with her lips clamped around his car’s exhaust pipe.
Another afternoon there is a poor couple trying unsuccessfully to make love in his back seat, their starved and tattered forms smacking together futilely. He finds one in his living room, lying in front of the TV, and he beats it with a broom.
He finds one hanging from the lamp in his bedroom and he violently jerks it down.
He discovers one curled under his easy chair and he stomps it until it’s dead.
The poor are living in his trash.
They’re living in his bed with his wife.
The poor are dying. He beats them and they’re dying.
He finds the dead bodies stacked in his garage like cordwood. He finds them piled in the study.
Small, emaciated bodies, the flesh fragile as paper, the mouths pulled back in a rictus.
The poor want too much from him. They want all the little things he has. How can he take care of himself?
The bodies of the poor fill his bedroom. He can’t even find his wife any more. The dead hands try to catch his clothes; the dead, widening mouths want to eat him.
They know they will always be poor. They know the wealth will never filter down through all the widening hands to their own thin hands.
No, no! he tells the dead bodies spilling over his bed. I have an office. I’m there to help.
But the mouths say nothing.
The poor are his.
PREPARATIONS FOR THE GAME
It’s the day of the big game. He has a date, oh, a beautiful young date. A member of a leading sorority on campus, auburn hair, perfume behind the ears and down her cleavage, a lure for his young red alcoholic nose. Could there ever be better times?
Certainly not. Not when he has such a beautiful date, his first date in months, and not when they’re doubling with the president of his fraternity, who just happens to be seeing his beautiful date’s best friend.
Things are looking up for him, oh, certainly.
They pull up in front of his apartment. I’ll just be a minute, he says cheerily. Just a change of clothes. His pennant. His flask. Once out of the car, he gazes back in at their fixed smiles. The fraternity president scratches his wool pants. The beautiful date’s best friend rubs at her cheekbones distractedly. He reaches into the car and pulls his beautiful date’s hand from her fur muff. And grasps rods of bone, well-articulated, carpals and metacarpals.
But no. Just the effect of thin winter air against skin. He looks down at her small, narrow hand, with its pale white flesh. So delicate.
It’s going to be a great game, he calls, jogging up the apartment building steps.
In his apartment he rummages through piles of clothing. What to wear? He picks up his checkered gray slacks, throws them behind the couch. He picks up the dark blue monogrammed sweater-shirt, tosses it on top of the refrigerator. He stumbles through piles of books, garbage, unmatted prints with curling edges. What to wear?
He is aware of a skeletal hand curled around the front doorknob. Without looking around he tells her, I haven’t the time. I’ll be late for the game.
It suddenly occurs to him it’s the first time anyone has ever visited his apartment.
But still he tells her, I just haven’t the time, I mustn’t be late for the game. She slides around the doorframe, her short red shift tight over her emaciated figure, her thin hands twisted into tight fists.
It suddenly occurs to him she may be out to spoil his good time.
He turns around, pretending that she isn’t there. He picks up a Nehru jacket, casts it away. He picks up his bright red turtleneck, and drops it on the coffee table. I haven’t time, I haven’t time, he pleads softly, then silently to himself.
She steps toward him, her eyes two dark stones. He clumsily avoids her, almost tripping over a pile of shoes.
She swings the edge of a cupped hand toward his face. He steps quickly once to his right, his eyes averted, still seeking something to wear to the game. Her blow misses.
What does she want from him? Why doesn’t she leave him alone?
Now he is forced to look at her. He’s cornered at one end of the small breakfast bar. I’ll be late for the game, he repeats, almost crying. Her black hair is filthy, plastered to her skull.
He sidesteps past his television set. Something metallic shines in her moving hand. She smashes the screen. I�
��ll be late, he whimpers. She steps closer. He senses just a hint of corrupted flesh beneath her rough, bluish lips.
The blood is rising into her cheeks and eyes, suffusing them with a light pink color. She swings her hands back and forth, in slow motion.
And still, he attempts to ignore her. He puts on his heavy coat, the dark brown with contrasting tan pattern. He slips his bright orange scarf around his neck, still walking away from her, adjusting the thick folds so that they cut across his neck at the most aesthetically pleasing angle, and still she follows him, swings her hands at him, misses him, and again he stumbles, slightly, before catching himself. His steps become quicker. He attempts to make his movements unpredictable.
He says it rapidly to himself, a magic formula, a prayer. I can’t be late for the game. I just can’t.
Again, from the corner of his eye he can see she is approaching. He walks briskly, still seeking his spectator’s wardrobe, falters briefly, his gaze distracted. She steps around the low couch, directly behind him now, reaching for his coat. Mustn’t be late, mustn’t be late, he mutters to himself, suddenly deciding to forego the proper dress, to leave now. For wouldn’t it be a graver offense, to make the president of his fraternity late for the game, not to mention his beautiful young date and her best friend?
He hurriedly, almost running, makes it to the door, jerking it open as she makes a final, determined lunge. He hears the faint knock of her knuckles or perhaps, cheekbones rasping the door panel as he runs down the stairs pulling at his ill-fitting pants, tucking in his shirt, running fidgety hands over his improper clothing.
At the curb he halts in dismay. The car is gone with the president and the two pretty girls inside. The stadium is miles away; he’ll never make it in time. What will they all think of him? He sits down on the curb, the sound of footsteps on the staircase growing louder behind him.
He has been unable to leave his apartment for weeks. He sleeps days at a time, his moments awake so brief they seem like dreams to him. Dinner comes at 2:00 A.M., breakfast twelve hours later. He throws the garbage into a cardboard box under the sink.
One twilight he remembers that he has a date set up for that day. They are all going to the big game. He, his beautiful young date, her best friend, and the president of his fraternity who he had never really talked to and probably still wouldn’t have gotten to know if their beautiful young dates hadn’t been such good friends. What time is it? He’s going to be late. The phone is ringing. His parents again? While not quite deciding not to answer it, he fails to answer by default.
He rummages through piles of clothing, attempting to find the one proper outfit for his venture outside, to the game.
He needs to go to the bathroom, but not wanting to walk the ten yards or so down to the restroom in the hall, he walks over to his sink and begins urinating there.
He is aware of a skeletal hand curled around the front doorknob.
Without looking around he tells her, I haven’t the time. I’ll be late for the game.
It occurs to him it’s the first time anyone has ever visited his apartment.
But still he tells her, I just haven’t the time. I mustn’t be late for the game.
She slides around the door frame, her short red shift tight over her emaciated figure, her thin hands twisted into tight fists.
It occurs to him that he’s seen her before, at one of his fraternity’s dances. She danced with Bob, Tom. Perhaps she even danced with the president. It occurs to him that maybe even he danced with her that night.
He can’t remember her name.
She approaches him slowly, her arms outstretched. He stumbles backwards over the couch. The phone is ringing again. I can’t be late for the game, he pleads with her.
The phone stops ringing. Outside a horn is blaring. It must be his fraternity president, his beautiful date, her best friend. He lunges toward the door, forgetting his good clothes. I can’t be late for the game, he cries it now. He can hear her quickening steps behind him.
At the curb he halts, looking about in confusion. The car is gone. He’ll never make it in time. He suddenly realizes that he is naked; his legs startle him with their chalky whiteness. What will they all think of him? He hears her footsteps behind him. Looking down, he discovers that his feet are bare, bleeding from all the broken glass in the street.
He races down the street. He figures that if he can just find the proper bus, he can make it to the game on time. I mustn’t be late, he mutters, then grows selfconscious and worried, thinking some passerby might have heard him talking to himself, and think him strange.
His heavy coat tails, the dark brown with contrasting tan pattern, flap in the wind. His bright orange scarf hangs loosely around his neck, untying itself with his exertions. His hands grab at the material, trying to maintain his neat appearance.
Occasionally he looks around to see if she is following. Small dogs growl at his feet.
Ahead of him, he thinks he sees the back entrance to the bus station, a tall white-washed building with a blue roof. But he can’t remember which bus it was that traveled the route to the stadium.
He races up the back stairs, seeking information. He pushes open a steel door at the second floor, turns left, and jerks open a wooden door.
And he is back in his own apartment once again, the unmade bed, the scattered clothing, the sweet ripe smell of garbage under the sink. She has been waiting for him, his small Boy Scout hatchet clutched tightly in her hand. I can’t be late, he starts to whine, then stops. He can’t hear his own voice. She walks toward him now, the hatchet slightly raised.
He finds it difficult to move. What is her name?
He sits in the restaurant across from his apartment, sipping his morning coffee. The big game is today, and he waits now for the president to arrive with his late model Chevy, and their two beautiful young dates. He doesn’t know the president well, but hopes that will soon change. He is wearing his very best clothing: his brown heavy coat with the tan pattern, his orange scarf, his dark alligator shoes with the small tassels. They’ll be here in an hour, he thinks with satisfaction, preparing to eat a leisurely pre-game breakfast.
But then he looks up at the clock; hours have passed, the game already started, half over by now he thinks. He rushes out of the restaurant, looking frantically up and down the street. No sign of cars. He suddenly thinks of all the times he’s been forgotten, the times left at the playground, the school parties missed. But they must have come by, waited for hours he thinks, and somehow he didn’t know they were out there. They finally had no choice but to leave; they couldn’t be late for the game.
He walks across the street and climbs the narrow stairs to his third floor apartment. Opening the door he sees her sitting stiffly on his couch, hands clenched in her lap.
Her black hair is filthy, plastered to her skull. He senses just a hint of corrupted flesh beneath her rough, bluish lips.
He thinks he recognizes her. The president had brought her to the house initiation night. After the blindfolded bobbing for peeled bananas in a tub of pudding, after the nose-to-anus farting matches, the hard licks with the paddle and the naphtha poured on the groin, they’d been led one by one into her room. She’d been pale and silent, her high cheekbones flushed in the dim light, and they’d each fucked her, a minute or two apiece.
Her nose had been running the whole time, he remembers.
She rises from the sofa and approaches him. Livid scars crisscross her wrists and forearms.
He gazes about his room, looking for a nice outfit to wear to the game, pretending she isn’t there. His eyes rest on a pile of soiled, stained underwear by the couch. He can’t smell them, but imagines their corpse-like scent, like a pile of dead white sewer bats. He is suddenly anxious that she might have seen them. He stares at her in intense agitation as she reaches her arms out for him. He is filled with acute embarrassment for himself.
After blocks of strenuous running, he finally makes it to the bus, leaping to the
first step just before the driver closes the doors. The driver pays no attention as he drops his coins into the metal box. He momentarily wonders if he could have gotten away without paying, so intent is the driver on some scene ahead.
He strides to the middle of the bus, slightly out of breath, grabbing a seat near the side doors so he can hurry out when they reach the stadium.
The bus contains a half dozen passengers, all of them old, quiet, and somewhat unattractive. One old man has a large purple birthmark covering the side of his face; wart-like growths, also deep purple, spot the area under his right eye. He suddenly realizes he can’t hear the sounds of the traffic outside.
When the bus pulls to his stop he leaps out the door, and momentarily the illusion of soundlessness follows him into the street outside. When the traffic noise returns, he is staring up at a white-washed building with blue tile roof, his apartment house.
He begins climbing the stairs to his apartment on the tenth floor.
Three of his fraternity brothers pick him up at the restaurant across the street from his apartment building. He’s just had a leisurely breakfast of coffee, cereal and eggs, the waitress was pretty and smiled a lot, and he is now ready to have a wonderful time at today’s big game.
When he gets into the car, the late model Chevy, his three brothers compliment him on his choice in clothing, the heavy brown coat with tan pattern, the orange scarf. They joke a bit, slap each other’s shoulders, and pull rapidly out of their parking space.
His brothers ask him if he’d like a little sip from their flask. He replies no, thank you, I have my own. But as he reaches into his back pocket he discovers it missing, dropped out somewhere in the scramble to be on time, no doubt, so yes, he would care for a small slug.
He raises the flask high over his mouth and pours the warm yellow liquor. Some splashes on his bright orange scarf. He feels panicky, has an urge to wipe it off before it stains the beautiful material, but for some reason seems unable to. He drinks, endlessly it seems. He drinks.
The brothers sing old fraternity and college songs, between various versions swapping stories of fraternity life. Rush. Initiation night and all the fun they had. How all the girls are dazzled by a fraternity jacket. The dumb pledge who almost suffocated when a five-foot mock grave collapsed on him. Chug-a-lugging “Purple Jesuses”: Vodka, rum, grapes, oranges, and lemon juice. The night they caught a pig, beat it, kicked it, dragged it across the parking lot, hung it up by the snout, and then finally drowned it in the bathtub.
City Fishing Page 3