South Street

by David Bradley

  “All right, I’ll listen to your goddamn pome.”

  “I appreciate that,” Brown said. “Why don’t you have a beer?” He reached down and pulled up a frosty can, popped the top, and handed it over.

  Jake lowered himself onto the concrete walkway with a contented sigh. He sipped the beer. “Hey, damn, this here’s still cold.”

  “Naturally,” Brown said. “I don’t like warm beer. Nobody does except Englishmen, and they are clearly insane.”

  “How you keep it cold?” Jake said, sipping with great interest.

  “I drink it,” Brown said, “as rapidly as is humanly possible.” He pulled out a can, popped the top, and poured half the contents down his throat.

  “You gonna get sick that way,” Jake said.

  “Never,” Brown said. “Now, for the poem.” Grasping his beer firmly, he climbed up and perched on the bridge railing. Jake stared up at him, mildly amazed. “This poem,” Brown announced, “is called ‘To a Sin-City.’” Brown pumped his arm for balance. “Whoops.”

  “After you kill your ass, can I keep the rest of the beer?” Jake asked.

  “Only if you shut up an’ listen to ma damn poem. I set here half the fuckin’ night makin’ up the muthafucka.” Brown cleared his throat. “In the sheer-walled canyons, beneath the glassy eyes of ten thousand windows, the City sings its lies. Hymns of patriotism, dirges of brotherly love, rounds of—” Brown broke off. “Goddamn, I forgot it.” He lowered himself and straddled the rail.

  “You sit like that an’ you subject to forget all about rememberin’,” Jake said, helping himself to another beer.

  “Hell,” Brown said. “Well, anyway, here’s another one: A single smokestack, choking out its black despair on the rising sun.” Brown stopped, looked expectantly at Jake. “Well? What you think?”

  “Not bad. What is it?”

  “Japanese haiku,” Brown said.

  “Imported, huh?” Jake said. “An’ here I thought it was Schmidt’s.”

  Brown looked at him, shook his head, dropped back to the walkway. He gulped the rest of his beer and tossed the can out over the railing.

  “You hadn’t oughta do that,” Jake said.

  “That river’s so damn dirty already it don’t make no difference.”

  “That’s what the last guy threw a beer can in said.”

  Brown nodded. “You’re right.”

  “At ma age,” Jake said, “y’ain’t got no time to waste bein’ wrong.”

  “I read you, brother.”

  Jake looked at him. “You sure do talk funny.”

  Brown sighed, leaned back against the bridge railing, took out another can, opened it, and dropped the tab back into the bag, where it rattled against the full cans. “That’s a nice sound,” Jake said.

  “I thought you didn’t hear good,” Brown snapped. “What you mean I talk funny?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Jake said. “Just sometimes you sound like everybody else, an’ sometimes you sound like you pass the time readin’ dictionaries.” Brown snorted. “An’ sometimes …” Jake stopped and looked at Brown.

  “Sometimes what?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “What?”

  “All right. Sometimes you sound like you was speakin’ Eyetalian or somethin’. You know, kinda like you was diggin’ around for the right word.” He looked at Brown anxiously. Brown nodded slowly. “It ain’ ’zactly like you was makin’ nothin’ up or nothin’,” Jake went on. “More like you was tryin’ to remember somethin’.”

  Brown stared at him. “Where’d you come up with all this?”

  Jake shrugged. “Only way you live to be ma age is by keepin’ your eyes wide open an’ both ears on the ground. I hear pretty good when I hear,” Jake said modestly. He placed his empty beer can on the sidewalk beside his first one. Brown hospitably extracted another can and popped the top. “Put the tab inside,” Jake said. “It improves the flavor.” Brown shrugged, complied, and handed the can over. “Thank you,” Jake said. He peered at the label. “Damn. It is Schmidt’s. Thought you said it was some kinda Japanese typhoon or somethin’?”

  “That,” Brown said icily, “was the poem.”

  “Oh,” Jake said. “’Scuse ma ass. I don’t know nothin’ ’bout pomes. Or Japanese, neither. Rayburn’s your man for that. Went there in the Koreen war. Said he drank socks an’ ate octopuses an’ fucked gushy girls.”

  “Do tell,” Brown said shortly.

  “I speaks a little French an’ some Spanish an’ a touch a Portuguese.”

  “Uh huh,” Brown said.

  “Bet you’re wonderin’ where I learned all that, ain’tcha?”

  “Readin’ the State Store price list,” Brown said.

  “Smart ass,” Jake said. “I speaks Latin, too.”

  “Every damn nigger in the world speaks Latin,” Brown said.

  “Ooyay antkay,” Jake said.

  “Ukfay offnay,” Brown replied.

  Jake grunted and reached for another beer. “You can’t do pomes worth shit,” Jake said.

  Brown set his beer down and glared.

  “Them pomes sounded like a damn white man. You wanna hear a pome, now I got a—”

  “Yeah,” Brown said sarcastically, “let’s hear a poem from the wino.”

  “Beero at the moment,” Jake said easily, “an’ you, youngblood, are miles ahead a me. I was young once too, you know.”

  “So what?”

  “They don’t call you a wino until you gets old an’ smells bad an’ sleeps in alleys. If you live in some room someplace, then you’re just a common drunk, an’ if you’re young an’ lives in an apartment, why then you’re a heavy drinker.” He paused and looked at Brown. Brown said nothing. “An’,” Jake went on, “if you’re white, you gets to be an alcoholic, an’ if you’re white an’ rich an’ you live in someplace like Bryn Mawr, then you ain’t an alcoholic, you’re a national problem.” Jake sucked on his beer. “Bein’ a wino ain’t easy, you know. You gots to give up a lot to be a wino.”

  “Like what?” Brown said.

  “Damn near everything, one time or another. You gots to work harder to be a wino than you does to be President. You got to give up—bein’ reglar. Can’t be worryin’ ’bout no clothes. Can’t be worryin’ ’bout no car. Can’t get uptight ’bout no house, or no job. Can’t be too worried ’bout food. An’ women—no women. I tell you, Brown, women’s been the downfall a many a good wino. That’s why it’s hard for a young man to make the grade. Young man like you, you give him a choice ’tween gettin’ drunk an’ gettin’ fucked, thirteen an’ a half times outa fourteen he gonna get laid. It’s a big temptation. But you take an old man like me, he don’t get too much pussy tossed at him to begin with, an’ when he does, ninety-two times outa a hundred an’ four he’d rather drink. Eleven times outa them other twelve it’s some fat old cunt been around so long it’s like a cross between a sewer pipe an’ a pickled egg, an’ that one last time that he does get interested an’ the woman’s still warm an’ got two legs an’ don’t look like a damn buffalo, he’s either gonna come in his pants or hang there like a dead squirrel.”

  “Uh huh,” Brown said. “That the way it is with you?”

  “Hell, no, you silly-ass muthafucka!” Jake roared. “I ain’t got no problems like that. I got women hangin’ over me all the damn time. I just ain’t after it no more. Women’s too damn much trouble. I’ll take me a bottle a red wine any time. It keeps you warmer, it don’t keep on after you if you don’t want no more, it don’t wake y’up in the middle a the goddamn night an’ it don’t never complain if you roll over an’ goes to sleep soon as you’re done with it.”

  Brown laughed shortly and reached for another beer.

  “Yessir, youngblood,” Jake said. “All the time folks be tellin’ you what’s good for you. Guvment says you can’t smoke without you catch cancer. Drinkin’ does somethin’ else to you, messes up your guts or somethin’. Shit. I tell you, youngblood, there’s more
niggers died climbin’ onto some damn woman than ever died just sippin’ a little wine. An’ there’s ten times as many died chasin’ pussy as ever caught up to any. An’ if you don’t die chasin’ it an’ you don’t die fuckin’ it, then you get a goddamn ulcer worryin’ ’bout who been gettin’ into it when you ain’t around.”

  “Don’t worry me,” Brown said.

  “It will,” Jake said. “You keep on chasin’ pussy, specially the pussy you been chasin’, an’ it will.”

  Brown looked at him. “What—”

  “I know what I know. You keep on chasin’ pussy, an’ sooner or later you end up dead. You so hot on poetry, I’ma give you a pome.”

  “All right,” Brown said.

  “First give me a beer.” Brown handed it over. Jake cleared his throat. “You think I oughta stand up?”

  “Why sure,” Brown said. “You can’t lay down heavy shit while you sittin’ on your ass.”

  “Mostly I do lay down shit while I’m settin’ on ma ass. But I guess this here’s different.”

  “Definitely,” Brown confirmed.

  Jake nodded, rose carefully, pausing to rub his stomach. He swayed in the nonexistent breeze. “Damn, I’ma fall in the river.” He took a swallow of beer. “You ready?”

  “Lemme get another beer here.”

  “I’m the poet now, dammit,” Jake snapped.

  “All right, sorry,” Brown said. He set his empty can down and rooted around in the bag.

  “Ain’t all gone, is it?” Jake said anxiously.

  “Unh, unh,” Brown said. “Can’t be.” He pulled out a full can, began to put the lined-up empties into the bag.

  “Hell,” Jake said impatiently. He staggered over and place-kicked the empties into the river. He spun around and glared at Brown. “You don’t know shit about pomes, you know that? Why hell, that piss you was squirtin’ a while ago didn’t even half rhyme.”

  “Wasn’t sposed to,” Brown said.

  “Well what damn kind a pome don’t rhyme?” Jake demanded. “Now here’s a pome for you. It rhymes. An’ it’s got, what you call it? A message. Yeah. See, too much pussy-chasin’ turns a man into a fool. It turns his brain to oatmeal an’ it makes him tend to drool, ’cause his mouth is gettin’ mushy. An’ he has a runny stool. An’ he pisses out his money while he wears away his tool. See, when a nigger wants some nooky he’s got to go through shit. Gots to give up all his gamblin’ for a little squeeze a tit. He’s gotta quit his cussin’ just to pat a little ass, an’ to get down to real fuckin’ he puts water in his glass. But he goes ahead an’ does it, ’cause he’s hungry for a feast. He opens up his zipper an’ he limbers up his piece an’ he gets into that pussy, yeah, he proceeds to bang away. His joint is full a juju an’ his ass is full a play an’ he’s snortin’ an’ he’s gruntin’ like a constipated hog while the stupid bitch is layin’ there just like a half-dead log. Well he can bang away till midnight, fuck on to the risin’ sun, but when he’s damn near killed hisself she say, ‘Baby? Are you done?’ Oh he jumped on like a fuckin’ lion, but he crawls off like a lamb, an’ deep inside his gut he knows it wasn’t worth a damn. Bet you thought I didn’t know no pomes. Gimme a beer.” Jake took a final swallow and tossed his can away with a Byronic flourish.

  Brown took a deep breath, swallowed heavily. His expression was that of someone who bit into an apple pie and got a mouthful of black pepper. “No,” Brown said weakly, “no, I figured you knew some poems.” He handed Jake a beer.

  “That there was a hell of a pome, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh yeah,” Brown said quickly. “That’s just exactly what it was.”

  “You oughta be makin’ up pomes like that, ’stead a messin’ around with them Japanese hootchikoos.”

  Brown raised his beer and took several deep swallows. Jake sniffed and, relaxing from his pose of recitation, leaned back against the heavy concrete barrier that sealed the sidewalk off from the street. Two feet away, through the cement, cars moved by, dropping off the crown of the bridge and into the depths of South Street. Jake sipped his beer. “This here’s a damn fine spot for drinkin’. Can’t nobody see what you’re doin’. You could put a whole damn quart in one end an’ piss it right out the other, all without movin’ a step.”

  “Jake?” Brown said suddenly. “Is it like that all the time? A lot, I mean?”

  “Like what?”

  “The woman layin’ there, not doin’ nothin’.”

  “You a virgin or somethin’?” Jake asked.

  “Or somethin’,” Brown said.

  “Whores a little outa your reglar line, huh? Now, now, I know what I know.”

  “Well, does it have to be that way?”

  “How the hell would I know that? I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that kinda shit. You the young man, you sposed to think you know all about ’em. Well, lemme tell you one thing, there ain’t nobody that knows nothin’ ’bout women. Not even women. ’Specially not women. They think they make sense. Believe me, ain’t nobody knows nothin’ ’bout women. Ain’t nobody never did. Ain’t nobody never gonna. Best thing’s to get drunk whenever you around ’em. An’ since there’s always some woman poppin’ up somewhere, the best thing to do is stay drunk. Pass an old man another beer.”

  Brown took Jake’s empty can and put it into the bag. He handed Jake a fresh one. Jake popped the top, slurped at the foam that welled from the keyhole-shaped opening. “Drink faster, youngblood. This stuff’s gettin’ warm.”

  Brown raised his can half-heartedly but lowered it immediately. “Well, dammit, you gotta know somethin’.”

  “Have another beer,” Jake said easily.

  “I drink too much damn beer,” Brown said.

  “Hell,” Jake said. He peered at Brown over the top of the can. “Some woman been on your ass ’bout drinkin’?”

  “I’m on ma ass about drinkin’.”

  “If there’s some woman ridin’ your ass that hard, you best just leave her go. An’ if you ridin’ your own ass that hard, somethin’s the matter with your brain. Probly too much—”

  “Pussy,” Brown finished for him. He swallowed the rest of his beer, reached into the bag and fumbled around. “Damn.”

  “Ain’t no more?”

  “Nope,” Brown said. “We done killed it.”

  Jake dropped his eyes to the can he held in his hand. His fingers tightened slightly, then he shrugged. “You want some a this here?” He raised his eyes and looked at Brown.

  Brown smiled slightly. “You go on,” he said. “I had plenty.”

  Jake swallowed, hesitated. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” Brown said. “You go ahead.”

  “All right,” Jake said. He raised the can, drained it quickly, lowered it, belched. Brown reached out and took the can, added it to the collection in the bag, and then rose to his feet. The lights of the city twisted, the afterimage hanging on his eyes like splashed oil. Points of light moved, becoming multicolored streaks, and moving lights, on cars, an airplane, became thin sheets. Brown sank down again, closed his eyes. “Had a little much?” Jake inquired politely.

  “Let’s see you stand up an’ walk a tightrope,” Brown said sourly.

  Jake sniffed and pushed to his feet. “See here, youngblood, I was—” He stopped, grabbed at his stomach.

  “Jake?” Brown said. He got up quickly.

  “Ain’t nothin’,” Jake said. “Just ma goddamn guts actin’ funny on account a all that beer. Ain’t used to it.” He straightened up, grunting. “I gotta piss.” He reached for his fly.

  “Here?” Brown said. “What if the cops go by?”

  “Why then we wouldn’t hafta piss on the bridge, we could piss on them.” Jake stepped to the railing and opened his pants. He looked at Brown. “Ain’t you got to go too?” Brown nodded, swallowed, stepped to the railing. A single stream of urine arched out into the darkness. “Ah,” Jake said enviously. “Onliest bad thing about bein’ old is it takes you half the night to get a piss goin’.” He grunted w
ith effort.

  By the time Jake turned away from the railing, clumsily zipping his pants, Brown was leaning uncomfortably against the concrete barrier, looking around uneasily. Jake smiled a smile that suddenly became a grimace of pain. He turned, pushed past Brown, and started to shuffle down off the bridge, clutching at himself. Brown stared at him, caught up the bag of empties, and hurried after. Jake staggered against the railing, recovered, plowed on, and Brown could hear him breathing in short, adenoidal gasps. “Hey,” Brown panted. Jake staggered on, his pace increasing as the bridge sloped off into the gentle curve that led to the street. Brown broke into a run and caught up to him, but the narrow space between barrier and railing kept him from pulling even, so Brown moved along behind in an awkward combination of run, stagger, and ballet as he tried to keep from tripping over Jake’s run-over heels. “Will you slow down, you silly-ass bastard?” Brown shouted. Jake obeyed immediately—his legs folded under him and he collapsed to the cement. Brown tried to stop, couldn’t, tried to jump over him, misjudged the curve of the bridge and, while in mid-air, slammed his hip against the outer railing. Visions of falling over into the river crossed his mind just before his knees made contact with the sidewalk. His vision went red from shock and pain—the cement was like warm sandpaper. He pushed himself up on his hands. A few feet away Jake lay across the metal plate that linked the bridge walkway with South Street’s sidewalk, looking like a heap of old clothes rejected by the Salvation Army. Brown crawled toward him. Beer cans lay strewn all around like the twisted metal plane crash. Brown brushed them aside. The heap of clothes moaned softly, twitched, and clutched at its middle.

  “Hey,” Brown said. “Jake.” Jake moaned. Brown got to his feet and stood staring down, rubbing his hands against his pants and swallowing. Jake belched, and the heady aroma of his breath—fresh beer, sour wine—rose like a visible cloud. Brown’s nostrils twitched. “Jake?” he said again. Jake made no response. Brown sniffed uneasily, dropped to one knee, wincing at the pain, as the abraded skin came in contact with the sidewalk. “Wake up,” Brown commanded desperately. Jake moaned his insubordination. Brown set his jaw, swallowed, reached out and grasped Jake’s arm. He was shocked at the greasy feel of Jake’s sweater but fought the urge to jerk his hand away; instead, he worked it through the layers of clothing until he found Jake’s shoulder, thin and harshly bony. Brown squeezed and shook gently. “Hey.” Jake moaned.