Sacred City

by Theodore C. Van Alst

  “Ain’t no way about it, man. Fuck you.”

  See what I mean?

  “Never mind, Folks,” I said, “’t’s all good.”

  We sat in silence. JD stirring the shit out of his coffee.

  “Knock it off, man. Just drink it already.” I still hate the sound of clinky spoons in coffee cups. When I’m at home I even put the powdered creamer in the cup before the coffee just so I won’t have to stir it.

  “Fuck you. What do you care?”

  See?

  “Whatever, man. It’s fucking annoying. That’s all. Maybe you should pop a couple of those Valiums. Whatever.”

  “Whatever.”

  Jo brought my food. I’m about to tear it up.

  “Can I have some of your fries?” he said.

  “I thought you weren’t hungry.”

  “Yeah, well. A little, maybe.”

  “Hold on,” I said.

  “Jo,” I said, raising my voice a bit.

  “What do you need, sweetie?” she said, coming back over to our booth.

  “Can I get an extra plate, one of those little ones? I’m sorry. I should’ve asked you for it when I ordered,” I said.

  “That’s no problem, baby. I’ll be right back.”

  JD reached for a fry. I smacked his hand.

  “I’m getting you a plate, fucker,” I said. “Just hang on a second.”

  I really hate people touching my food, putting their hands near my plate, any of that shit.

  Jo came back. “Here you go, hon,” she said, setting a plate between me and JD.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No worries. Anything else you need right now?”

  “No. We’re good. Thanks.”

  I followed her exit, and as I did I saw this guy sitting at the counter. He had a grey fedora sitting on the stool next to him along with his cigarettes, smoked Chesterfields. I recognized the pack, cause that was Grandma’s brand. Vitalissed hair, red bumps on his neck from a super-close shave, especially around his Adam’s Apple. Starchy white shirt, but shitty-ass shoes. Pretty rough, light-brown lace ups that had seen way better days. You can’t front when it comes to shoes. Those are always the tell on a man. Check the shoes. I thought he was looking at us, but he was looking past us two booths back. At this family of towheads. Mom, smoking like a chimney, Dad, same, with a work shirt (“Mike”) and greasy blue pants, two yowling white-haired kids, maybe four and six years old, a boy and a girl. Shit all over the table, napkins on the floor, lots of bouncing in the booth. Damn, I thought. Don’t give your kids pop. What the fuck do you expect?

  “Hey, Teddy. Remember that humbug with those Mexican Playboys at the bank parking lot?”

  “What?” I asked, snapping back.

  “That one where we were gonna move on those MPs and then Big Taco showed up and shot that one kid?” JD said. “The one when the Grease helped us out?”

  “Man what the fuck are you talking about?” I said.

  “You know, Midget. That time with Giggs.”

  “You better quit with that shit,” I said.

  “Man, that shit was crazy, ennit?” he said.

  “Motherfucker, you were like eight—you weren’t even there!”

  “Yeah, but when shit is legendary, it’s like you were,” he said. “Tell me the story.”

  “Nah,” I said. “It’s time to eat.” I threw a handful of fries on the plate and pushed it JD’s way. “Pass me that ketchup. I wish these fuckers would get that malt vinegar like they have at Arthur Treacher’s.”

  We ate in silence for a while.

  “What do you want to do after this?” JD finally said.

  “I don’t know, man. Why we always gotta be doing something?”

  “I don’t know. Fuck, man. Just asking.”

  “You finished eating?” I said, noticed the three or four fries on his plate.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “No you ain’t,” I said. “Don’t waste that shit.” Sounded just like the old man, right there.

  “Fine,” he said, dunked the fries in my ketchup pile, popped them in his mouth.

  “Goddamnit, JD,” I glared at him.

  “Sorry man,” he laughed. “I forgot.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, drank some water.

  The towhead kids behind us were starting to whine. I looked around for Jo or someone to shut them up, defaulting to expecting some mom to intervene. But it seemed that here, like my own life, was lacking that possibility. When I cut my eyes over to the waitress station, Grey Fedora was staring past us again. The kids whined even louder. Mom and Dad smoked, bitched about the size of the check.

  I looked Grey Fedora up and down, winced at the shoes. They made me wonder a little more about him. The incongruity of the pressed shirt and the shit shoes, like he was trying to make his top half presentable, will folks to only look at his head and shoulders, never mind what was happening downstairs. That made me pause. And when he kept looking and writing in a Moleskine, I had to know what was up.

  “I’ma go grab some mints. I’ll be right back,” I said.

  “Okay,” JD said, lighting a smoke. “Take your time.”

  “I will,” I said.

  I slow strolled up toward the counter. As I got to Grey Fedora, I stopped and pulled out my smokes, made a big to-do about pulling one out and lighting it. As I did, I looked over at his open journal.

  Holy shit.

  He had sketched out the towhead family. Mom, Dad smoking cigarettes, the kids, exaggerated kidly features like the big eyes and bashful faces; all were kinda crammed in the booth, in pretty accurate detail, and he had included himself.

  And all their eyes were X’d out.

  Their throats were all cut.

  Charcoal-sketched blood pooled onto the table and down the sides of the booth he had drawn. And he was doing shit to the kids.

  What the fuck.

  I slowed a little, glanced at his face in passing, paused at his dead blue eyes. He was still watching them, his pigment-free gaze unwavering, unblinking.

  I kept going, hit the counter. Grabbed a handful of mints, even used the scoop instead of my hand.

  When I walked back, stuffing them all in my mouth at once, I stuck my elbow out, bumped him while he was staring over his cup of coffee. I could see right through his irises.

  “Sorry, man,” I mumbled.

  He looked through me for a second, turned back to the towheads.

  Jeezus.

  I walked back to the booth.

  “How about we hang out here for a minute?” I asked JD, slumping back into the booth.

  “Did you bring me any?”

  “Any what?” I said.

  “Mints? Mints, fucker.”

  “No, man. No mints,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” JD said.

  See?

  “You can get some on the way out,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “How long are we gonna sit here, innyway?” That accent . . . he’s starting to sound like an Indian.

  “I don’t know, man,” I said. “I need to think for a minute.”

  What I thought about was this .25 in my jock.

  “I gotta go to the can,” I said.

  “I ain’t stopping you,” JD said.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said.

  I went to the john, headed into a stall. I locked the door behind me, set my smoke on the toilet-paper dispenser and pulled up my shirt, grabbed the pistol. Checked the chamber (empty) and dropped the clip. Only five shells in there. Someone got shot, or someone got scared. That’s okay. I’ll take five out of six. I racked a shell, put the gun back in my waistband, flushed the toilet, and grabbed my smoke. Unlocked the stall and headed back out the door.

  “You weren’t gone long,” JD said.

  “You worried about me, Folks, need to know my piss habits?” I said.

  “Nah. Just, whatever.”

  “Fine. Fuck you man,” I said, probably amped up from fucking wit
h the .25.

  I finished my coffee, took a couple quick drags off my cigarette, and stubbed it out in the ashtray, closing one eye against the rising smoke.

  “You alright, man?” JD said, looking over at me from his side of the booth.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, eyes wandering over to lock on Grey Fedora.

  “Well you don’t look fine. What the fuck are you thinking about?” JD asked.

  “Nothing, man.”

  “Well shit, man. Maybe you should relax or something. I can feel the vibe coming off you.”

  “I’m good. Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Hey JD,” I continued, “how would you feel about offing some Okie motherfucker?”

  “I don’t care. Whadda ya got?”

  “There’s a short-eyes fucker over at the counter. Grey fedora, peeping the booth behind us.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yup. Have a look, but turn around slow, cause I wish this motherfucker would, but not in here.”

  JD slinked around, saw who I was talking about.

  “Yup,” he said. “You ain’t kidding.”

  “You should see what he’s drawing in that book of his.”

  “For real?”

  “Yup.”

  “Let’s do him. I hate assholes like that.”

  “What if he’s your dad?” I said.

  “Fuck you, Teddy.”

  I had that one coming.

  “Alright,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  I threw that five and a handful of change on the table, pushed it all in toward my plate on the wall side. Gotta keep people honest. I sat back in the booth one last time. Looked up again at Grey Fedora.

  This time he looked back.

  And not through me this time.

  I stared at him for about ten seconds. Shot a quick glance back over my shoulder at the towheads, then back to him. And in that moment of recognition, my acknowledgement of who and what he was, of human eye contact, I knew I had probably saved a life or two.

  But I wanted to make sure.

  “Let’s go, punk,” I said.

  “I’m ready, fucker,” JD said.

  As I scooched my way out of the booth, the .25 tipped up out of my pants and loudly onto the floor. I quick scooped it up, but in that splittest of seconds I knew. When I looked up, Grey Fedora had ghosted through the door, his stubby Chesterfield still burning in the ashtray.

  At least not today, I thought.

  Not today, you motherfucker.

  19.BOY JOE

  You from Mike Merlo’s?

  —CHARLES DEAN (DION) O’BANION

  Me and Vassily, one day we take the El. I like riding the train. Vassily, he likes driving, but his limo is in the shop, getting an oil change plus detailed. I hope they clean the piss out of his car. The front seat is a fucking pigsty. I think we’ve talked about this before, but yeah. He’s kind of a slob up there. So we hop on the Blue Line; he wants to head out to the airport, to O’Hare, see what everyone else is driving these days. Maybe that’s what limo drivers do. I couldn’t care less; I just want to get out of the neighborhood for a minute. I used to go to the airport when I was a kid, watch the planes take off. Man. That was so cool. Back then you could even walk onto the planes without a ticket. One time I was with some buddies. We walked around, went to the cockpit, were shooting the shit with the pilots, talking about flying and whatnot. After about ten minutes of talking and fucking with all these switches, one of them says,

  “So hey. Going to Kansas City, huh? Do you have family there, or . . . ?”

  “Holy shit,” we say. “We ain’t going to Kansas City.”

  The pilots laugh. “You are now,” they say.

  Dang.

  “Hold on a minute,” he says around the cockpit door. “Don’t close that up yet. You better let these boys out. I guess they don’t want to go to Kansas City.”

  “Hahahaha,” he says. “Don’t forget your wings.”

  But now, nah. You can’t do that anymore. Shit. Can’t do nothing no more. But still, it’s okay to look around, see all the different people. Like the woman who knits her own hats. Who lives alone. Who’s prepping for old and age and solitude. Cool people.

  But you meet all kinds of people at airports. And sometimes coming or going to those airports.

  Okay. Well maybe you don’t meet them, maybe you’re better off not meeting them, but you meet them in your heads, and well, yeah. You know you shouldn’t meet them.

  We met a couple of them. On our way home.

  They got on the train at Belmont. I know that neighborhood.

  So I’m looking at these two guys, occasionally in the face, but mostly their reflection in the glass. The one is pretty intense, and his eyes move around a lot. I’m pretty sure his name is Boy Joseph, full name only, and NEVER the initials. His buddy is Ned Lick—sounds like Nedly when you say it out loud.

  This Boy Joseph cat’s got red medium-length hair held back with sunglasses, like a manband, a guy’s hairband; he’s a forty-two-year old Irish gangbanger eating a sandwich, mouth wide open the whole time, bologna and miracle whip and shit coming out when he chews, black tank top, Black Panther leather jacket one or two sizes too big, a shitty version of Gary Oldman’s Jackie from State of Grace, white-gold eyebrows and a red, red face, smugasfuck eyes looking at everyone on the train as his future victim. And if you peeled off that skanky tank top, you’d find that he’s kind of guy who jerks off to the Nüremberg journals and has bathtub drain plug rings in his at-home nipple piercings.

  Nedly is his crew-cutted duller-than-a-boiled-egg-fart sidekick with the low-key perpetually surprised face of a barely functional dipshit whose plodding approach to criminality is as rigid in its application as his sinister sometime-boss and all-time “best friend” Boy Joseph.

  Vassily is kind of nodding off, dreaming of Ukrainian goat fucking or whatever, and doesn’t see what’s going down here, so I keep going, checking them out.

  Boy Joseph and Nedly lost the benefits of their whiteness at about age twenty-three and then the longer prison stretches came. These two are up to more no good in one day on the outside than most people can imagine in their heads—drunk, high, or flat-out lunatic. I look close right quick when I see they’re preoccupied with intimidating my fellow train lovers, starting to zero in on a victim, and looking at their eerie glow under the buzzy lighting I think white folks aren’t pale, they’re just continuously haunted . . . and for them, the fascination with Lestat and Hannibal Lecter, those cleaners, those refusers of freckles and the shallow and the subpar, reveal that haunting.

  I’m not afraid of too much. Sometimes I think about things too much, like the conversation you have at that certain age; the one that connects old to young, when you have to decide which is worse, waking up in the casket under six feet of dirt or headfirst in the locked oven, the gas jets just turning up. Like that. But people? Not too much. I remember this one time I was working at Dreamerz and the Mentors played upstairs. My girlfriend at the time—who is way less afraid of people than I am—refused to wait on them, so they were more belligerent than usual. They finally came downstairs as I was closing up the bar. Because I am who I am, we were all getting along good, having some drinks and doing the white. I still had to close up though, so I was wiping down the tables after doing lines. I finished one and I looked up to see El Duce leaning over the bar to grab something out of the cooler.

  I walked over, pulled a red cocktail straw out of the dispenser on the bar next to the napkins, and stuck it in his ass crack.

  So, yeah. Not afraid of much.

  I watch these two watching people. Well, okay, let’s be real, it’s Boy Joseph watching people and Nedly digging blackheads from his neck and smelling them. Boy Joseph’s eyes light up when he spots, on this heretofore arrestingly dull day, a woman, Misty maybe, but really Ruth, or Lisa, who looks like a stripper on her day off trying hard to not look like a stripper on her day off. That she looks this way is not in any way an invitati
on to victimhood, but Boy Joseph and Nedly . . . don’t care.

  I believe they’re answering in a very bad way the question I ask myself sometimes: Is life that full of sex and violence, or is it just full of the desire for sex and violence?

  She knows it, knows that look Boy Joseph is giving her.

  She looks up at the route map above the doors.

  Next stop we’re about to head underground, and I watch her calculate, say fuck it, and make to get off this goddamned train.

  I nudge Vassily.

  “Get up. We’re getting off.”

  “Why doing this to poor Vassily?”

  “Just trust me, man. We’re getting off at the next stop.”

  “Fine, fine. But owe Vassily drink. Is this Polack neighborhood?”

  “Shut it. Let’s go.”

  If we get up now, it won’t look like we’re following Boy Joseph and Nedly, who I know are about to get off and pace this woman.

  We stand at the doors at one end of the car; she stands at the other end.

  Boy Joseph and Nedly get up, stand behind us. All I can smell is bologna and curdled miracle whip, white bread and rank vodka. Maybe even some Richard’s.

  When we hit the underground stretch, the lights kick on in the car and buzz back the reflection of Boy Joseph staring at my neck. Vassily senses what’s happening, does what he does.

  “Holy shit. Smell like some goddamn bologna here,” he says.

  Fuck. I try not to laugh.

  “You’re drunk,” I say.

  Boy Joseph runs his thumb and forefinger down the corners of his mouth.

  Nedly farts, or has exhaled and needs to see a dentist.

  The train stops and we get off.

  “The doors are closing.”

  I slide my eyes over to the windows whipping by and watch Boy Joseph watch Misty.

  She stops by a stanchion. Waiting for the next train, looks like.

  Me and Vassily smoke cigarettes. Talk shit.

  Boy Joseph and Nedly look at each other. Scheme. Try to figure out what’s up.

  One train goes by. People come and go.

  She sits. Waits.

  The platform clears out.

  Boy Joseph and Nedly dart their eyes around. Nedly pisses off the platform, but never hits the third rail. Too bad.