“’M not talking about handouts, goddamn it! Anyone’ll give a starving dog a bone just to make himself feel better! No, talking about rising up in righteous wrath, terrible swift sword, kick this lousy war-on-welfare, feel-your-pain administration right outa office, bust the whole charade to pieces, flinders, splinters! Give ’em the true story about the horrible things going on down south of the border, they get weepy instead of mad! I want ’em mad! Wanta see ’em take to the streets shouting and screaming for change, after endless years of this shit!”
“Father Jim, the average person appears unable to look beyond the end of his own nose. You place too much faith in their capacities.…”
“Bullshit! I can do it, inspire ’em, make ’em angry, fighting mad!”
Father Jim jumps up and begins shadow-boxing. A self-delivered uppercut to his own jaw knocks him for a loop. Ardy covers him up and seeks out Kirsten.
“Kirsten, Father Jim is unconscious again. Perhaps we could use this time to enjoy ourselves and then plead fatigue when it comes time to perform tonight.…”
“No, Ardy, Father Jim would be terribly disappointed.”
“We can’t have that.…”
In another alcoholic “rap session,” Father Jim mentions something that piques Ardy’s interest.
“Lookit those bastards in Congress, ’re just as bad. Take your country, f’rinstance.”
“Mexico?”
“No, no, your real goddamn country, Spice Island. Know what’s going on down there, I’ll tell you what’s going on down there, ice cream!”
“Ice cream?”
“Goddamn right, ice cream. Ever hear of Geraldine ’n’ Bens, goddamn Shattuck Industries, all of a sudden dirty with Mafia money. They wanna build a big ice cream factory down on Spice Island, get the source closer to the Caribbean market. But they don’t wanna risk a pos’ble future change of government that’ll ex—, ex—, ex—propriate their property, so they got their pet Senator to submit a bill’ll make Spice Island a state, followin’ a refer—, a refer—, a vote.”
“A state? My goodness, just like the other fifty?”
“Thass right, just like the rest, turn a bunch of happy natives into goddamn miserable tax-paying, credit-buying consumers, and if that isn’t a goddamn shame, then I never said Mass!”
This revelation about his homeland leaves Ardy with very mixed feelings.
The mention of Mass brings up a whole raft of imprecations and accusations directed at the Roman Catholic Church, all of which Ardy has heard before.
“Methodists, Unitarians, Baptists, Seventh-day Adventists, Lutherans, Christian goddamn Scientists, for God’s sake, they’ll all listen to me and let me talk to their congregations. But what about my own church, will they let me have my say in their holy Romish temples, no, of course not, they’re scared, scared they might have to part with a little of their money, or that maybe there’ll be some horrible changes, like women priests or Masses chanted by Negro hiphop Stars, for Christ’s sake! My God, how I’d love to cause a fuss, have ’em pissing in their vestments, I oughta do something, by God, biggest goddamn prop beneath most regimes, come falling down if only they spoke up!”
“Father Jim, do not give in to heresy.…”
“Only thing left …”
The day after this last tirade, a sober Father Jim seems unusually subdued.
“Father Jim, will I be called on to speak today ?”
“No, Ardy, you may walk around a bit if you wish, but don’t go too far.”
Ardy gratefully employs the time by walking for some distance up and down Riverside Drive. It is a crisp, clear Sunday morning in the midst of February. The Jersey shore seems so close that he could touch it. Beyond this horizon, Pleasantville calls to him in a supernal voice. Would that he could somehow escape this existence …
When Ardy returns to the van, both Father Jim and the bus are gone.
“Kirsten, where did Father Jim go?”
Kirsten looks puzzled. “He said something about collecting the Indians from their sponsors.”
“Do you think we might be departing New York now?”
“I don’t know, Ardy, I honestly don’t know.…”
Shortly after noon, Father Jim returns with a partially loaded bus. In addition to the Indians, he has taken on a load of liquor also, as is evident from the bus’s erratic weaving progress.
“Father Jim, are you okay? Listen, come down and let me drive.”
“No, goddamn it, ’m head of this outfit, I’ll drive. Get in the van and follow me.”
Kirsten and Ardy hasten to obey, Kirsten at the controls.
Father Jim peels out, heading east They follow.
Eventually they find themselves on Fifth Avenue.
“Kirsten, is that not Saint Patrick’s Cathedral ahead …?”
“Oh no.…”
The bus double-parks in front of the Cathedral. By the time Kirsten finds a legal space and reaches Father Jim’s side, Ardy racing behind, the ex-priest has the solemn motley Indians lined up on the Cathedral steps.
“Gonna see the goddamn Cardinal right now!”
“No, Father Jim, you can’t!”
“Outamy way!”
Father Jim gets the Indians into motion with a shouted “Arriba!” They enter the Cathedral. Ardy and Kirsten helplessly trot behind.
Mass is in progress. The Cardinal is officiating.
“Wake up!” shouts Father Jim.
The ceremony comes to a screeching halt.
“What do I have to do to wake you up! Look at these goddamn poor abused Indians, why doncha!”
“Who is this man?” “Cease this disruption!” “It’s not the gays again, is it?” “Someone call the police!”
“Get your mitts off me, you Pharisee! You wanna play rough, I’ll show you rough.”
Father Jim picks up a wooden contribution box mounted on a pole with a square base and swings wildly, knocking over serried ranks of devotional candles that crash and clatter, breaking, to the floor.
“If I hafta act like a bad Woody Allen movie to get your goddamn attention, ’en I will!”
The vast, stained-glass interior is soon filled with shrieks and curses, exclamations and shouts. Kirsten is attempting to wrest the box away from Father Jim. People are swarming the aisles and naves and transept. The Indians have taken seats in a pew and watch all this First World spectacle stolidly. Unstoppered bottles of holy water fly through the air, consecrating the sacred and the profane at random before they shatter. Spectators and accidental brawlers attracted by the noise or word of mouth are swarming in from the street. Behind them, Ardy can glimpse blue uniforms.
“Police, police, let us through!”
Ardy’s knees turn to coconut pulp. This is it, the end of the line, the unbelievable ruination of all his hopes.…
A hand tugs at Ardy’s sleeve.
He looks down.
An unshaven visage connected to a shabby outfit confronts him.
“Why, why, you’re the mendicant to whom I donated my train ticket in New London!”
“That’s right, buddy. You did me a good turn then, better’n you could guess. Now I sees you in trouble, I sez to myself, I’m gonna pay this dude back. Jeez, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I wakes up from my nap and spots you there. Let’s you and me blow before the bulls catch us.”
“But we haven’t even been introduced.…”
“You can call me Simon.”
“Pleased to meet you, Simon. My name’s Ardy.”
“Okay, Hardy, glad to meetcha too. But now we gotta move fast if we’re gonna avoid the long arm of the law. Follow me.”
With a last backward glance at Father Jim, who continues to lay low the ungodly with his flail while Kirsten hangs on to one arm, Ardy sets out after his new guide.
12
Life in these United States
“Mister Simon, is it Valentine’s Day today?”
“Yeah, kid, I guess it is. What’s it to ya?”
Ardy is following Mister Simon down Fifth Avenue. The Faginesque indigent walks with a peculiar gait, equal parts bravado and cringing, somewhat like a dog who has happily just eaten a pound of ground beef off the kitchen counter and yet is uncertain if his master saw him.
Thanks to Mister Simon, who took him down several passageways and out a side door, Ardy was able to avoid the avid grasp of the policemen who were thrusting their way into the cathedral. His last glimpse of Father Jim produced an indelible mental snapshot of that liberation theologist in the process of swinging a large crucifix ripped from the wall, thereby decimating the ranks of some visiting French Jesuits who had formed a bodyguard around the Cardinal and were trying to escort him to safety. Kirsten was hanging from Father Jim’s belt.
Tagging after Mister Simon, Ardy sent them silent wishes of farewell and good luck.
Ardy’s question concerning the festive date is prompted by a display in a store window, pink hearts and candy boxes, jewelry and lingerie, wristwatches and other bijouterie. He thinks of those to whom Cupid has linked his heart, and to whom he has a legitimate right to send Valentine’s Day cards: Roseanna, Dawn, Kirsten.… Would any of them be glad to hear from him, or is he nothing but a used and discarded Kleenex lying at the bottom of the purse of their emotions?
Such thoughts fill him with sadness, and to Mister Simon’s brash interrogative he replies only, “I was thinking of some women I once knew.…”
“Well, quit it, kid, that’s a mug’s game. There ain’t no profit in rakin’ over your past dustups with the fillies. What’s done is done.”
“All too true, Mister Simon.”
“And besides, we ain’t got time to stop and mail no cards. We stick out on this here street fulla tourists and moneybags like two fleas on a shave-ass mutt. I’m sure the cops would love to haul us in just for lookin’ crooked at one of these respectable citizens. Then how long would it be before they finds out you was involved in the Saint Patrick’s Valentine’s Day Massacre?”
“Your point is well taken, Mister Simon. What do you suggest in the way of subterfuge?”
“I’m two steps ahead of you, kid. I been dodgin’ the bulls since just about the time you quit diapers. I got just the place for us to lie doggo while the hullabaloo dies down. First thing we do is turn here toward Lex.”
“Lex?”
“Lexington Avenue, kid! Doncha know your way around at all? Jeez, how long you been in this burg?”
“Although I have been resident in ‘this burg,’ as you refer to it, for some weeks now, I fear I have yet to become intimately acquainted with its geography, since I have been sequestered the whole time and forced to perform various scandalous deeds.”
“You been turnin’ tricks, Hardy?”
“I am not a card sharp nor thimblerigger, if that is what you are implying.”
Mister Simon shakes his shaggy head in amazement. “That ain’t it, kid. I mean sellin’ your punk tail.”
“Most avowedly not!”
“Well, however come you don’t know your way around, we’ll soon fix that.”
Mister Simon increases his pace, as if eager to begin Ardy’s instruction, and Ardy has to hurry after. For a block or two there is no conversation. Ardy uses this interval to marvel at the sights around him. The amazing buildings and ranks of busy citizens soon propel his confidence and spirits to their usual Alpine heights. Taking a mental inventory, Ardy finds plenty of reasons to be happy. He is still clothed in relative comfort against the cold, unlike the long-ago day when he crossed the border with Mister Enrico wearing a thin windbreaker. In the pocket of his jeans he carries several hundred dollars in cash — the remainder of the carefully hoarded monies given him by Roy. Pleasantville lies only a short bus ride away. All Ardy needs to do is partake of Mister Simon’s hospitality for a day or two, until things calm down (why is that phrase starting to sound so familiar?). Then, perhaps in disguise — fake joke-shop beard and bald-skull cap should provide sufficient mufti — he will journey to the bus station and make the last leg of his odyssey. It seems the proverbial piece of cake.
The two men turn north on Lexington Avenue and continue walking. Mister Simon seems once more predisposed to talk.
“So like I says to you in Saint Pat’s, you done me a big favor by giving me that ticket, Hardy. I was freezin’ my butt off in New London, boy bunch of hard-ass people there, I’ll tell you. Wouldn’t give a duck a drink. And whoa, when that wind blows in off the harbor it makes you wanna shrivel up and die. Until you came along and done me that good turn, I thought I’d end my days there for sure.”
“I take it you are not a native of New London, Mister Simon.”
“Shit, no! Boston was my stompin’ grounds. But I had to get out when it got too hot.”
“Trouble with the police?”
“Hell no, that goddamn radiation. Not wantin’ to end up with a glowin’ ass, I hopped a freight south to Providence. One night I went to sleep in a dumpster, next thing I know the sky is lit up like the devils backyard and there’s a ragin’ fire all around me. Barely got out with my skin intact. That’s when I scrammed for New London. The rest is history.”
“I see. And you feel that my gift of train fare to New York definitely caused an improvement in your fortunes?”
“You betcha ass, Hardy! Look at me — you wouldn’t know it, but I’m a man with a mission. Thanks to you, I met a buncha guys who have turned my life around.”
“You did use the pronoun ‘we’ before, Mister Simon, and I wondered about it. Do you refer, perhaps, to the Salvation Army?”
“Screw that buncha pansies! I’m talkin’ about some real guys who got more in mind than singing hymns. They’re whatcha might call a paramilitary organization —”
“You must belong then to the Guardian Angels. May I ask where your neat little beret is?”
“What the fuck are you jabberin’ about, Hardy? We got no berets. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah — this group I belong to is a whip-smart cadre of rough and tumble survivors o’ the worst that life can dish out. I think you’re gonna like ’em, Hardy. And as Finance Minister Without Portfolio, I’m prepared to nominate you for membership in the organization.”
“Much as I appreciate your offer, Mister Simon, I am unable at this time to make any long-term commitments to any Masonic-type lodge.…”
“This ain’t no candy-ass Masons, Hardy, this is Humpty-fall.”
Ardy’s limbs go lithic.
Mister Simon Stops and regards him with mixed belligerence and sympathy. “Whatzamatta, Hardy, you in shock or somethin’?”
“Exactly what is the full name of this group you are bringing me to meet?”
“Lemme see if I can remember.… All right, it’s somethin’ like this: Underground of Madmen, Deviants, Perverts, And Felons Lying Low. You-em-dee-pee-ay-eff-ell-ell, Humpty-fall, ya see?”
“MiSter Simon, I fear we must part. It’s been splendid to know you, and I am forever in your debt, but the open road is calling.…”
Ardy takes a step away. The bum grabs Ardy’s coat with such violence that the fabric tears and a cloud of feathers escapes.
“Hey, one minute now, bo, you can’t just go running off to spread the word about our secret group to anyone who wants to know. I don’t know what got your fur up, but you ain’t even gave Humpty-fall a fair shake yet. Just come along — we’re only a block away — and meet the boys.”
Ardy shakes his head no and tries to pull away. Under Mister Simon’s long filthy nails Ardy’s coat rips further. Feathers fly. While they are struggling in a kind of savage dance, a police car cruises slowly past. Both men freeze and smile wanly. The car goes on.
“Now see whatcha almost done, Hardy. Come along quiet, why doncha, before we both get collared.”
Reluctantly, Ardy submits. Mister Simon’s steely talons are fixed in the material of his jacket and permit no other course of action.
The next intersection is Sixty-third Street. Mister Simon and Ardy idle o
n the corner until there are few pedestrians about. Then Mister Simon scuttles over to a subway entrance. The entrance is boarded up and bears two signs. One is a permanent plaque:
queens tunnel
ground broken 1979
dedicated 1989
your tax dollars at work
The other is a stenciled piece of metal slapped sideways across the plaque, a “temporary” emendation:
closed for repairs 1997
“Come on, quick!” hisses MiSter Simon, who has levered aside a sheet of plywood, permitting passage. “Inside!”
Ardy ducks through the gap, Mister Simon close behind. They are at the head of an unmoving debris-strewn escalator leading into a Stygian pit.
“Down,” says Mister Simon.
Ardy steps cautiously down. Darkness drops like a mantle on his shoulders.
Once they are a good ways below street level, Mister Simon says, “They call this the Tunnel to Nowhere.’ They spent a few hundred million dollars on it, it was years overdue, and practically as soon as it opened, they hadda shut it down. Leaks like a goddamn sieve. The contractors got the concrete from the fuckin’ Scozzafava family for nothin’ and siphoned off the excess cash. The government woulda been better off just buryin’ the money. But then Humpty-fall wouldn’ta had no headquarters.”
The final step takes Ardy by surprise. He stands at the bottom of the escalator. Eventually a faint glow registers on his vision.
“Okay, just head toward the light.”
“Halt, who goes there?”
“The fuckin’ Minister of Finance!”
“Okay, Simon, come on in. Who you got with you?”
“A righteous dude named Hardy. The cops are after him, and I convinced him his best bet was with us.”
Passing beyond a hanging damp canvas tarp that reeks of mold, Ardy finds himself on the platform of what was so briefly the Sixty-third Street Station. Now it is some sort of bum’s Nirvana. Lit by assorted battery-powered lights and candles, the platform is full of scavenged furnishings: mattresses, chairs, desks, rugs, tables, blankets. Scattered in various postures of repose or attention are as variegated an assortment of humanity as Ardy has ever seen. Mostly men, there appear to be some ladies among the crowd, although it is hard to tell from the layers of shapeless garments they all wear. Some look up with interest at Ardy; others remain apathetically slouched.
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