by Nadia Bozak
“Not solo,” the girl says. “Duo. You and the baby both. Make it a trio and I’ll make it worthwhile for you, I promise.”
The stranger sizes up the girl, her body. Squat and short. Muscled, milkless tits. Definitely northern, her body used to a different kind of hardness than that of concrete streets and selling yourself like meat.
Stranger looks around, up and down the street. There’s nobody around.
“No. Can’t do it. There’ll be someone else to get you outta here, away from Amarillo.”
“Sure,” says the girl. “And I ain’t a kid. Probably I’m older than you are.”
* * *
Night falls. The baby and the stranger cruise the streets. Slowing down around alleyways and cheap discos and gin joints, but come up empty. The whores in Amarillo are slim pickings.
They’ve almost decided to continue on out of town when they spot a gaggle of hookers clustered together in the meagre shower of a street lamp. They are passing a bottle, sharing a joke. The stranger picks out the one that’s surely a recent mom—the fleshiness still apparent in her face, the unmistakable bulge of her fake-leathered hips. Once, not long ago, those pants had fit her. A few months and they’ll fit her again. One of them is the girl from Ontario. The stranger pulls up, rolls down the window, and motions for the fleshy woman to approach. The Ontario girl whispers something to her that changes the expression on the fleshy one’s round face. When she comes over anyway, the stranger flashes some money. Glancing back at her friends, she walks around to the passenger side and gets in. They drive off. Parked in the dark the stranger executes the usual routine—pulls out the baby and says how they’re not looking for sex, but for mother’s milk for this kid’s ailing, home- and heartsick both.
The whore is the oldest one yet. Cleavage is wrinkled. Grey is visible in her otherwise jet-black hair. Skin is coloured almost northern Indian—the stranger thinks she’s Mexican in part.
“That kid looks healthy to me, hon. But I’ll give it a feed. Only you gotta take Kim on down to California with you. That’s the pay I want—she’s a good kid.”
The stranger asks why Kim doesn’t just get on a goddamn bus, and the whore says it’s because she wants to go with you, that’s why. “It’s safe that way. Not often a girl can hitch a ride with another.”
The stranger sighs, resigned to the thinning-out of the disguise. Becoming less of a boy the closer the truck gets to Los Angeles. Passes over the baby, and when the whore takes it, it starts to cry. Not loud, but enough to demonstrate that its mouth is healed, and so maybe is its heart. It goes quiet once it gets a big brown nipple pushed into its mouth. After only five minutes or so, the kid pushes the breast away and lets loose a huge and healthy burp. Enough is enough. They’ve had it with whores.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Sometime during the barren hours of early morning, while one half of New York City still slept and the other had not yet been to bed, these ravaged figures who were me and Dave appeared on the horizon of the Hudson River. Paddling down from out of the north, we sucked up all our guts, dug in, and took on the choppy pre-Atlantic. Broke along the corridor of the Hudson waterway, wide enough it was almost pure ocean, and sprawled for what seemed to be miles on either side. And peering overboard, that water yawned dark and hard and deep, and though it could surely swallow us whole, our shitty old boat went on.
It was before sun still, so we groped, part blind, skirting not too far from the island’s western side. For miles on and more we went, following the flow, going south. Not much to see until we passed under this goddamn bridge, the size of which I’d never imagined before, and that is, I guess, when the city really began to take shape. Through that early show of grey we made out buildings and some train yards, smoke stacks and barge docks. Then there were warehouses, street lamps, electrical lines, all of it brushed with sweeps of light that must have come from slow-moving cars. Here and there fires like fallen stars came from stuff left burning, and then an elevated highway staggered up, hugging close to the island’s edge. Then when the first fingers of light came dragging through the low-rise Atlantic sky, the city grew sharp against the mud and grey of the cool horizon. Not big and shiny like I’d thought it would be, not at first. New York was hard up, tight-fisted, as rugged and broken as Dave and me both. This was a real city, the first one we had seen. Early like that, it was quiet out, and more dangerously peaceful than it could ever be in the northern Ontario bush. And so we went on, silent, watching what we could see of the shore, and though our paddles dug deep we kept the pace slow.
“You think over there is Harlem?” Dave said.
“Could be,” I said. “That’s the bad part, right?”
“So they say.”
Wished someone saw us. Wished then that the whole of the world could see that, me and Dave and Dave and me going on down the Hudson River, coming from out of nowhere, battling the wide and windy water like it was nothing. This couple of runaway kids, as beaten and bashed as the boat we drove, as the boots there on the bow deck, leading us on and guiding our rough and ready path. All the while, all behind and beside us, New York was sneaking up on us from the murk of morning-night. But we were too small for anyone to notice, just a flicker of nothing riding the gush of water. Out of Hudson, out of road. And we had thought we’d just go breaking into that city skyline over there, yonder on the shore. But it would not be so easy. Looking up, buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, an army of bricks and blocks and glass that was called New York. We should not be here, I thought, but there was no way now to turn around and go back north. Felt sick with knowing that.
“Fuck New York,” I called out to Dave. What the fuck was Pickles thinking? Maybe it was all a mistake and this was his revenge on me for killing him. Wanted to skip it, that whole New York part. Even if we did find a way of getting in there, a hole, a path, a trapdoor that would end with us deep inside that mess of skyscrapers, guts of streets, shit of traffic, we’d likely not find our way out again.
“Just as soon as we take care of those boots,” is what Bashed-up-Boat answered back.
Tried to keep eyes tight on that Atlantic water, or else on Dave’s shoulders, his long goddamn hair in the wind. Wanted the sun not to show. Wanted to creep up on that city while its eyes were still shut tight, just stand there and watch it awhile, listen to see if a place like that does anything like breathe. Dave called back something I didn’t hear, but I did like him and we pried and pulled and the boat got close to the edge of Manhattan. It was a little better, being close like that. The skyline did not seem to loom as much. Pulled over at a pier where some sailboats were tied up, still sleeping. Smelled algae and seafood, gas mixed in. Made ready to get out.
Dave was looking around. Out there on the water were cruise ships and big tankers. Motorboats and houseboats and bigger ones that were probably for fishing. Real vessels with sails and steam, crew, cargo and passengers. In our canoe, that world’s worse antique of a boat, we’d paddled through their stormy wake.
“Fuck it,” Dave said. “We can’t get rid of it here.”
“Then where? What are we supposed to do with this piece of shit?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Dave turned around. His eyes were spitting. A wind came and whipped our hair around and tipped the boat enough that we shipped water. Now our knees were wet. Dave got a bandanna tied tight around his head. Then he picked up his paddle and pushed off from one of the pier’s mouldy wooden supports.
We kept on. Looking for a place where there was no sign or sigh of people. A crevice for us, a crack to sit in and have a smoke in and think for a minute about where in the world we were. Say to each other that maybe getting to the end of a road is just as hard and heartaching as getting the guts to set out in the first place.
Daylight coming on strong. Beyond the shoreline and the raised highway, a jig-sawed horizon of unshakeable, flat-ironed concrete was pasted against the s
un-breaking sky. In the nightmare that was the receding distance, the Statue of Liberty stood on guard, still and strong against the push and pull of all that gut-wrenching water. Buildings kept on rising, high and higher, muscling into the low sky, invading the day, greedily stealing our breaths away. On the tops of our greasy heads that skyline was starting to cast heavy shadow. And the further we went, the worse things were getting—dense, thick, buildings tight enough we could not make out where one ended and the next began. We started to panic.
“Should have stopped back there,” I called to Dave.
He pretended not to hear me.
“Dave, it’s no goddamn use going farther. Let’s just get rid of this thing.”
Was starting to feel ashamed of the boat.
Tourists from the scabby northern woods, we shrunk up under the human stone of that man-made landscape. We were too south now. Central Park was long gone, and we’d have to walk a good goddamn distance to get back there. Parading ourselves through the streets. Carrying gear. Stinking like the shit and bush we came from, and having no place to stop for a smoke or to piss.
We had to stop, get off the water. So we got our strokes together and pushed hard to make land. Paddled toward a long jutting pier that stretched out from the dead and empty shore, where the city bottomed out into the water. Coming closer we saw between us and an area built tight with brick warehouses and cold smokestacks there was a wide highway of busy road. Hitting land, we pulled up, pulled over, and jumped out of that fucked-up canoe. Against the city we felt ourselves a stain, a sore sight, a terrible, stupid mistake. All open and exposed, we were afraid someone might see us, stick us up for all our secrets, then laugh at how shabby they were. So we stuck close to the water and the island’s gravelled shore, that calloused husk New York wore as protection. All around us were scraggles of tough, twisted bush. Metal barrels, toxic, half-eaten, were scattered among carcasses of broken bikes. And also there was an old car door, cast away like a bird’s ripped-off wing, and a million goddamn pop cans, so faded they were orange instead of red. Picked up a scrap of newspaper. New York Times.
“May 20, 1989,” I said out loud.
“Could be a month old. What section is it?”
“Business. And it’s none of mine.” Threw it down.
We crouched up beside the boat, taking in the water and the whole other city we saw there on the other side. We looked at each other, but not saying anything about what we ought to do now. Had a cigarette instead.
“That’s it, kid. Let’s get this over with.”
Dave started unloading the boat.
“We going to take all this crap with us?”
“Just what we need. What we can carry.”
“Carry where?”
Dave stopped and looked up at me, all impatient. “I thought it was Central goddamn Park you had to get to.”
“Sure is,” I said. “Only you took us so far out of the way.”
“Well, fuck, we’ve got nothing else to do today but get there.”
Boat was unloaded, and after we pried Pickles’s boots from the bow, we stood back for a last look. Its body bruised and patched, scabs peeled and skin scraped, paddle-bashed, whiplashed, all but its skeleton was destroyed. Full of broken glass, dirt and sticks and butts. Ripped shirts, shitty socks, plastic wrappers.
And the traffic on the highway yonder and behind us thundered and echoed. Shook our spines, made us scared on top of being nervous.
“Goodbye, old boat,” I said.
Together we set in and kicked the right old shit out of that canoe, broke it up and bashed it in, put it out of its misery like someone should have done to us. Took some bit of strength too, and not surprising for it was such a tough and stubborn thing. Then we piled up its remains and broke the paddles as best we could, and we tossed in the gear we didn’t want. We hurried, though, because we didn’t want to get stopped before we even really got started. Dave pulled out the bottle of lighter fluid he got back in Albany. He dumped the works all over the heap of wood and aluminum and canvas and the rest, and then he lit a match, and another and another, and set the works on fire, and we both stood back and watched. Like evidence, like sacrifice, that boat burned. Was sad to see the old boat go up in a sweep of flames and smoke, a big roar of blaze that got so hot we had to stand back from it.
These old bums came out from under the pier down the way. They just wanted to see what it was we were getting up to, and maybe they wanted a bit of warmth from the fire, it being a little cool that morning. But when they got up close to me and Dave and had a look at us, well, we made no move to cause them harm, but they saw the big old knife I had at the belt and the spurs on my boots and the bruises still there under my eyes. And then there was Dave, long-haired and spiked-shoulders and still looking beat up. He was the scary one of the two of us. These bums came up and they eyed us. One of them was a Black guy, now the second one me and Dave had ever seen.
He, this bum, spoke first. “Where the hell you from?”
“North,” I said. “From up in Ontario, in Canada.”
“That’s how we got here,” Dave said, nodding at what was left of the boat we were burning.
Gave a whistle, and his friend, a White guy, nodded.
“So what are you?” he asked Dave. “Some kind of Indian?”
“No way,” said his pal. “Can’t you see he’s Mexican?”
“They got Mexicans in Canada?” he said to me.
“Christ, got ’em everywhere,” his friend said through a snotty laugh.
“That right?” he spoke again to Dave.
Dave was standing there with his hands in his pockets, flames in his eyes. “Mexican’s about right.”
The Black man got a bottle out of his coat and passed it over to Dave. We passed it around. The Black guy and his White friend were maybe not bums so much as poor guys who just then had no real place to live except around there under that pier.
The White guy was short and skinny and had black hair growing all over his face. Could not tell the difference between brows and beard and sideburns. He said, “Lots of folks make it in New York, but there are so fucking many who don’t. Shitloads of illegals. Government don’t want you to hear about those.”
“You’ll do OK,” the Black man said. “Just use your heads.”
Asked what they knew about Central Park.
“It’s OK there in the day, but never at night.”
“Especially for you,” said the White man. He pointed at Dave with his cigarette. “You gotta watch out for all those homos in there. Worse now are all the killer rich kids and the cops. Better stay away.” Could not see his lips through the hair, just these pale blue eyes, lashes crusty. “You don’t know New York.”
Shrugged, said, “We don’t care to. Smells pretty goddamn shitty.”
Said thanks for the booze and the advice, and turned away from them.
Didn’t want to hear their shit anymore. Trying to scare us off like that. Dave kept quiet and after a minute they went away. We waited until the fire was all gone and the boat and paddles were just a black pile of smouldering shit.
“Should have asked them what date it is,” I said. “Not that it matters.”
We got together what was left of our gear, and mounted it on our backs.
And then we turned away from the water. Left the boat to smoke. We crossed over the highway road, and we made our way between blocks of warehouse buildings, our boots taking on old brick sidewalk and then, further in, the concrete kind. And so we walked, following the streets north and east like those men had told us, tunnelling a random, rough-hewn path deep into the hard belly of New York.
Inside was alive, even though it was still early. Knew right away we did not even want to belong there. The further we went, the greater the noise became. A dam, crashing and crazy, or a rabid waterfall, whatever, the sound came
rushing in and rising up to welcome and warn us. But unlike an angry spill of water, there in New York you’d never find the source of it, that sound. Because it was made of everything, even us now. Never heard what noise was like until we got to New York City. Then I understood why punk had been born there, what Bob Crater and the Goddamns and Messy Divorce were all about, how they had no choice but to be lashing and violent. And me listening to that New York music up in the glassy calm of the northern bush had been about as opposite and awkward and unlikely as me and Dave were just then, portaging our way down those crazy goddamn streets, burning with noise, melting into a single blurry movement. And me and Dave, it was like we were stuck on there, glued down, but kind of crooked, one photograph trapped inside another. We went on like that, somehow keeping pace. It was real springtime in New York. Late, feverish, the season would soon give in to waves of sweat and summer.
“Feels like July already,” I said. Sweat was burning my sore eyes.
“Just on account of being this far south,” Dave said. “Better get used to it.”
Bands of sun fell on our faces, lightened greased hair, glistening through our eyes.
Saving up for the trip to LA, Dave wouldn’t dare touch that Albany money, so we had only a few bucks between us and our stomachs were empty and our bodies, they were tired and sore. Dave walked a bit ahead of me. His shoulders slumped up because there was so much around him and above him now. Gravity was heavier than before. People were looking at us, a few stopped, others threw glances over the shoulder after dodging past. So to avoid getting hassled, questioned, we kept our eyes straight ahead. Crossed the streets nice and easy, obeying lights and signals and the city’s fast-forward rhythm. We were brisk. Traffic was heavy now. Busses farted and hissed. Yellow cabs buzzed and swarmed, our ears shrivelled at all that goddamn honking. Beneath our boots the sidewalk buckled and shook whenever a subway went shooting by. Christ, and the city was as frazzled and worn out and dirty as we were—tarnished, peeling, needing a bath. Recognized nothing, not from dreams or songs or pictures. What or who was the real stranger—we to Manhattan, or it to us—we couldn’t say. Nothing looked for real, and we went with that feeling because it was all we knew how to do. Riding it like a current, not fighting it. Dave turned around and I saw his eyes. Bruised still, sure, but they were tired like I’d never seen them.