South Street

by David Bradley

  “Did you find the key?” Brown snapped.

  “Nope.”

  “Well,” Brown said, “if he ain’t got no key, maybe there ain’t no key.” He stepped down onto the landing, tried the door. It swung open.

  “You pretty smart, Stonewall,” Vanessa said.

  Brown glared at her. She smiled innocently. Brown bent over Rayburn. “Hey, man. Can you walk?”

  “Walk?” muttered Rayburn. “Hell yeah, I can walk. I can fuckin’ fly. I was in the fuckin’ air force. Ask anybody. I’ma fly me right outa here, soon as I gets maself together.”

  “Lemme give you a hand,” Brown said. He thrust his hands beneath Rayburn’s armpits and lifted, sliding his back up along the wall.

  “Whee!” Rayburn said, “I’m flyin’.”

  “Yeah,” Brown grunted. “Now let’s see can you walk.”

  “Sure I can walk. Man can fly, he sure can walk,” Rayburn said. He took two unsteady steps, then collapsed on the landing in a loose, sour-smelling heap. “Tole you I could walk.”

  Vanessa snorted. Brown glared at her, looked at Rayburn, sighed. “Okay, baby. You gonna get that airlift.” He grunted, hauled Rayburn to his feet, pulled him onto his shoulder, straightened.

  “My, ain’t we strong!” said Vanessa.

  “Shut up,” Brown said. He carried Rayburn through the door. Vanessa trailed along behind. “Which way’s the bedroom?” Brown said.

  “How the hell would I know?” Vanessa snapped. “You think I’d go to bed with that?”

  “I don’t care if you screw squirrels, this sucker’s heavy, an’ I can’t be standin’ around here all’ night.” Brown turned carefully so that Rayburn’s dangling arms and legs and head wouldn’t hit anything too hard. He spotted the dim outline of a doorway, headed for it. Vanessa started to follow him through but stopped at the sound of crashing pots and pans and shattering crockery.

  “Oww,” roared Rayburn.

  “Shit,” said Brown.

  “That mattress must be a killer,” Vanessa called. Rayburn’s legs reappeared as Brown backed out. “Oh,” said Vanessa, “ain’t that the bedroom?”

  “No, it ain’t the fuckin’ bedroom,” Brown snarled. “Why don’t you pretend you’re useful an’ find the goddamn light?”

  Vanessa moved away. “I done crashed,” Rayburn said.

  The lights came on, illuminating the littered living-room floor, the greasy furniture, the peeling walls. “God,” muttered Vanessa.

  Brown headed into the bedroom and deposited Rayburn on the bed. He held his breath while he pulled off Rayburn’s clothes, not being too careful about buttons. He dropped the clothes on the floor, pulled the sheet over Rayburn, who snored his appreciation, rolled over, and farted his thanks. Brown backed away. “He do stink, don’t he?” said Vanessa from the doorway.

  “He do this often?” Brown said.

  “Only on George Wallace’s birthday an’ when his wife leaves him,” Vanessa said. Brown sniffed, moved past her. Vanessa looked at Rayburn. “He’s just a sad old muthafucka. Ain’t got no harm in him. Ain’t got no room for harm, he’s too full a shit. He stinks.” She whirled and looked at Brown. “You stink too.”

  Brown ignored that. “You gonna stay here with him?”

  “What for?” Vanessa snapped.

  Brown looked her up and down. “There’s some folks ain’t above friskin’ dead men,” Brown said.

  “I see. Meanin’ there’s some people who likes to roll drunks.”

  Brown shrugged, turned away, headed for the door. Vanessa came after him, stumbling through the littered living room as Brown turned off the light and stepped out onto the landing. In the darkness she ran into the back of him. “Yuk!”

  “Watch where you’re goin’,” Brown said, starting up the darkened staircase.

  “Hey,” said Vanessa. “Where you goin’?”

  “Home,” Brown said.

  “You live up there?”

  “No, I’m climbin’ the steps for exercise. Good night.” At the top of the steps a door slammed, leaving Vanessa in darkness.

  South Street slumbered in the night, black and quiet, heat-softened tar firming in the growing cool as the nighttime darkness flowed on toward dawn. Yellow streetlamps dripped gold light that pooled at the bases of rotting poles, buildings lounged against the sky, gap-tooth rows like an old man’s mouth—ceramic fillings and shocking breath. South Street slept in a thousand snores that rumbled out of open windows, tiptoed from behind closed doors, lurked around the alley mouths, in the sleepy sounds of pleasure and pain, banging bedsprings, glugging drains. In the dim recesses of Lightnin’ Ed’s, Jake snored and snorted and clutched his gut, twisting on the rotten canvas of Leo’s army-surplus cot. Leroy Briggs, the muscle man, sweated his substance into the night, forcing one more heroic spasm out of aching lungs and emptied loins to satisfy his ladylove, who tugged and clutched and screamed for more. South Street tied the city’s rivers like an iron bracelet or a wedding band, uniting the waters, sewer to sewer, before they met at the city’s edge. In their apartment near the Schuylkill, Brother and Mrs. Fletcher slept, holding hands beneath the sheet. South Street, once a youthful strumpet, now old and ugly, beyond the days when lonely men would buy her body, accepted Big Betsy’s rancid sweat, while blocks away, on the other side of the river that somehow drew a line, a woman stood on a balcony, looking out at the sleeping city—streets, rivers, bridges—and traced the row of yellow lights amidst the white of the vapor lamps. That was South Street. The hippest street in town. She thought of Brown. Rayburn Wallace turned and moaned, flopped on his back on the grimy sheet, threw out an arm, called a name. No one answered. South Street slept.

  Brown stood under the cold shower until he felt like he was capable of imitating someone who was completely sober. He stepped out, shivering, pulled his robe around him, draped a towel over his head and rubbed his hair briskly as he went through the bedroom to the kitchen. He raised the towel and reached out to turn on the gas beneath the coffeepot, but discovered that the burner was already on. “I figured you’d want some,” Vanessa said from behind him. Brown jumped two feet, twisting around in mid-air like a cat. “Jumpy?” Vanessa inquired sweetly.

  “Don’t do that any more,” Brown said. He took a mug from the cupboard, poured himself a cup of coffee, added milk and four sugars.

  “You gonna drink that?” Brown looked up at her, then at her cup, which held black coffee.

  “Nope,” Brown said. “I’m going to shove it up your nose unless you get the hell outa here.”

  Vanessa smiled. “Can’t I finish ma coffee?”

  Brown stared at her. “What the fuck do you want anyway?”

  Vanessa raised her cup, sipped daintily, put it down. She smiled at Brown, rose gracefully, moved around the table. Brown moved quickly to keep the table between them. Vanessa stopped, put her hand on her hip. “God, you sure is jumpy!”

  “Just somethin’ I picked up playin’ with frogs,” Brown said.

  “What do you play with now?” Brown glared at her. “Careful, darlin’. Your kids’ll be idiots, an’ you could go blind.”

  “All right,” Brown said. “Now will you please get outa here and let me get some sleep?”

  “I could use some sleep maself,” Vanessa said.

  “So get it,” Brown said.

  Vanessa looked at the door to the bedroom.

  “No,” Brown said. “Thank you.”

  Vanessa looked at him. “You queer or somethin’? I ain’t never known nobody to turn it down that wasn’t queer.”

  “Yeah,” Brown said, “I’m queer.”

  “Well, don’t worry ’bout that, sugah. I know all the tricks.”

  Brown looked at her. “Yeah,” he said drily, “I can just believe it.”

  Vanessa smiled. She kicked her shoes off and moved around the table, pressed herself against him. Brown’s hands stayed motionless at his sides. She pressed her cheek against his chest, leaving dark smears of make-up on h
is robe. Her hand moved toward the belt. “You’re wasting your time,” Brown said. “I don’t have any money.”

  Vanessa jerked away from him, slammed a fist into his stomach. Brown grunted. “You sonofabitch,” Vanessa said. She backed toward the door. “You think I got to be standin’ here beggin’ some square-ass half-queer muthafucka for some a his little shit? I’m sorry Mistuh Mother, I didn’t know I was talkin’ to Jesus Christ.” She glared at him for a solid minute before she burst into tears.

  Brown sighed. “I’m sorry, okay. I didn’t mean—”

  “You think you’re sorry now, you wait ten minutes. You gonna be wantin’ to change your mind but it’ll be too damn late. Christmas don’t come but once a year, an’ reindeer ain’t got no reverse.” She wiped her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

  “Look,” Brown said, “you want another cup of coffee?” He grabbed her cup, poured it full again. Vanessa stayed where she was. “Come on,” Brown urged.

  Vanessa looked at him sourly, came over and sat down. Brown handed her the cup. She raised it, her dark eyes showing over the rim. Brown sat down across from her, rocked back on the rear legs of his chair. He looked at her musingly. Vanessa slammed her cup down on the table. “Why you keep starin’ at me like that?”

  “I was just wondering why you—”

  “Just lucky I guess,” Vanessa said sarcastically.

  “Good answer,” Brown said. “Wrong question. I was trying to figure out why you made me a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh,” Vanessa said. She peered at him. “You talk funny, you know? Like you was a schoolteacher or a professor or somethin’.”

  Brown looked at her steadily.

  “Well, are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Some kinda schoolteacher or somethin’?”

  “Yeah,” Brown said. “Or somethin’. You hungry?”

  “Huh?”

  “Hungry,” Brown said. “Food. Eaty-eaty. Big nigguh buck gonna make-make wid da cook-cook. You wantum eat?”

  Vanessa stared at him for a minute, then broke into a fit of laughter, throwing her head back and bringing her hands up beside her face and grabbing the top of her head as if she were trying to keep it from coming off. The laughter went on for too long, took on a harsh, rasping undertone. Brown moved uneasily. Vanessa stopped laughing suddenly, as if someone had thrown a switch. “I’m all right.”

  “Sure,” Brown said. “You want somethin’ to eat?”

  “Like what?”

  “Eggs,” Brown said firmly.

  “I don’t like eggs.”

  Brown shrugged philosophically. “Me neither.” He grunted and rose from the chair, went to root around inside the refrigerator.

  “Hey,” Vanessa said, “you better get a longer bathrobe or paint your ass blue to match.”

  “It’s a normal ass,” Brown said. “You may turn your head, regard it in quiet reverence, or kiss it. Take your pick.”

  “Yeah,” Vanessa said, “I heard all about how you likes folks to kiss your ass.”

  Brown had been backing away from the refrigerator, his arms loaded with eggs, bacon, cheese, and bread. He stopped dead. “Where’d you hear anything about me?”

  “It’s all over the street that some cat named Brown made Leroy Briggs eat shit.”

  “Oh,” Brown said, “that.”

  Vanessa looked at him. “‘That’ could get you killed.”

  “I’m worried,” Brown said. He began breaking eggs into a bowl one-handed, moving in an easy rhythm, box to bowl to garbage bag. Vanessa watched him with interest. Brown took the fourth egg from the carton, cracked it on the counter, allowed the contents to fall into the garbage, and dropped the shell into the bowl. He looked down, shook his head. “Shit.” He began fishing out the pieces of shell.

  Vanessa giggled. “You know what that reminds me of? That cartoon, you know, with the horse, an’ he’s shootin’ this gun an’ then he blows the smoke away an’ shoots it again only one time he blows when he should be blowin’ an’ shoots when he should be blowin’, you know, an’ he blows his head clean off.” She grinned at Brown, but the grin faded. “You don’t remember that?”

  “Not exactly,” Brown said.

  “I guess you never watched much TV. I useta watch it all the time, ’fore they came an’ took it back.”

  “Well,” Brown said drily, “it’s just as well they took it back. It woulda kept you off the streets.”

  “Damn,” said Vanessa. “What kinda cheap shit is that?”

  “Brown cheap shit,” Brown said. “Sorry. I got a weird sense of humor.” He opened a cabinet and began taking down spices and sauces. Vanessa’s mouth dropped open as he started dumping things into the bowl with the eggs.

  “What the hell are you puttin’ in there?”

  “A shot a salt, a pinch a pepper,” Brown said. “Plus oregano, paprika, garlic, Worcestershire sauce, ketchup, A-1, mustard, grated cheese, parsley—”

  “An’ you’re gonna eat that?”

  “God, no,” Brown said. “I’m gonna turn it into a steak first.” He waved a fork above the bowl, mumbled a few words, started to whip the mixture up, using strong sharp flicks of his wrist. He started to whistle, stopped in surprise, and chuckled at himself. He looked at Vanessa and shook his head in wonder, then turned back to the stove.

  “You ain’t nothin’ like I figured you’d be,” Vanessa said. “I figured you’d be like Leroy. Big, tough, mean.”

  Brown sighed. “At least I’m mean. Now if it’s not against your religion, would you mind explainin’ why you spend so much time worryin’ about me?”

  “It was either you or some other gorilla,” Vanessa said. “An’ it costs thirty cents to get to the zoo.”

  “Uh, huh,” Brown said. “Interested in primates, are you?” He poured bacon grease into a skillet.

  “Yeah,” said Vanessa. “See, I been tryin’ to finish ma education so I can get a good job, maybe be a go-go dancer or a secretary. Only I don’t know if I can stand the cut in pay.”

  Brown poured the mixture into the snapping grease, stirred it around with a fork. “You sure you don’t want no food?”

  “I told you, I don’t like eggs.”

  “Ain’t eggs,” Brown said. “Didn’t you see me turnin’ it into steak?”

  “Hell,” Vanessa said, “I ain’t fallen for that kinda shit since this old man told me he could change ma pussy into silver. He did, too. Took me back in the alley and stuck his finger up me for half an hour an’ then he give me a quarter.”

  Brown said nothing. He watched the bubbling eggs, stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon.

  “That turn you on?” Vanessa said.

  “I ain’t no pinball machine,” Brown said.

  “Oh, I am,” Vanessa said. “‘Slot-machine ’Nessa. Five balls for a dime.’ That’s what they used to call me, ’fore I got smart an’ stopped givin’ change, just like the subway. How ’bout that?”

  Brown flipped the omelet over.

  “See,” Vanessa said, “I got your ass figured out, professor. You one a them social-workin’ muthafuckas come down here to see what’s happenin’ with the fuckin’ natives. Doin’ some kinda bullshit study for the guvment so they can figure out some kinda poison that’ll kill off all the rats an’ roaches an’ the dirty-assed niggers without hurtin’ y’all knee-grows. I got your bag figured.”

  Brown slid the omelet onto a plate, carried it over to the table, and sat down. “Good. You got me figured. Now you can get up off me for a while.”

  “Aw, professor,” said Vanessa, “don’t you want to hear no more stories ’bout what it was like growin’ up in the ghetto? You can make a whole book outa it. Call it Slot-Machine ’Nessa. Don’t you wanna hear how I first got turned out?”

  “Not while I’m eating,” Brown said.

  Vanessa settled back into her chair. Brown forked food into his mouth, chewed diligently. He stared out the window. “Shit,” Vanessa said. “I thought you was somethi
n’ special. I figured you had to be, frontin’ off Leroy an’ gettin’ the whole damn street runnin’ around tryin’ to find out who you are.”

  “I sent my Superman suit to the cleaners,” Brown said.

  “Yeah, well, I guess you can’t do me no good then, can you? I guess you’re just doin’ your silly little thing like every other simple fool.”

  “Probably,” Brown said. He put the last forkful of egg into his mouth, stood up, put the plate in the sink. The fork slid off and clattered loudly against the stained porcelain. When he turned away from the sink, she was looking at him, or he thought she was until he realized that her eyes were staring right through him. He sat down in the chair and looked at her. “I’m a bartender,” Brown said.

  Vanessa sighed.

  Brown nodded. “Yeah. An’ how the hell did it get to be any a your damn business what I am, or what I do?”

  “I better go home,” she said, rising. Brown got up too, stepped behind her as she went to the door. She opened it and turned, brushing against him. She looked up and Brown saw tears in her eyes. He stood woodenly, staring, while the tears spilled over and ran down her face, eroding deep gullies in her make-up. Brown patted her arm awkwardly, and she let herself sag against him. Brown felt an unmistakable warming in his body, and it amused him and disgusted him and made him feel foolish. She slipped her arms around him. Her face, muddy with make-up, rubbed his chest. Brown shifted his weight, trying to avoid the friction and warmth, but she followed him, rubbing against him like a cat, purring softly. He sighed and stroked her back. “You want me,” she said softly. There was a note of wonder in her voice. She pulled her face away from him, ran her fingers lightly over his arm, his chest. She raised her hand and pulled his head down.

  Brown kissed her dutifully, allowing her probing tongue to force his lips apart. Somewhere in the moist darkness her tongue met his and a darting battle began, his tongue forcing hers back, pursuing it hotly into the cavern of her mouth. Brown felt her hands on him. He tried one last time, tried the trick of sliding out and looking down from above and laughing at himself, but he found himself chained by her tears and warmth and darting hands. She stepped away.