by Nadia Bozak
“Sure beats fishing for your goddamn supper,” Dave said.
“Yes. I guess.”
“Let’s go,” Dave said when he finished his breakfast.
Passed him a Lucky. And then a light. “Go where?” Pulled the sleeping bag tight around my shoulders.
“Have a look around. We might as well, since we’re here.”
“No,” I said. “You go. I want to sleep.”
“Not alone. Not in this fucking park.”
“Just cover me and our shit up with leaves. I’ll be OK.”
“Fuck, no. We have stuff to do. Figure out about LA, get you something for you eyes. Maybe we can go to a Burger King—bet you never had that before.”
Laid back down. Closed my eyes. Told Dave to fuck off and go away, and I really, truly meant it.
So Dave was almost begging me to go with him. He unzipped the sleeping bag and tried to roll me out. That didn’t work because I held my body nice and stiff, mitts gripping the fabric so it got ripped. Then he got a hold of my arm, and he pulled, dragging me through the dirt. Skidded along until with my free hand I caught a thin tree trunk and I held tight. On his knees then and he started shaking me, saying come on, it was time to go. The bag I kept pulled over my head and when I told him to fuck off for the fiftieth time, he finally let me go. Left me alone. Buried under a pile of leaves and debris like I had told him.
Alone, I slept. Hard, black, and I had no dreams, not one. Not even a goddamn nightmare. That deep, dark sleep drowned me in rescue, refuge. It was a womb and a room where I didn’t have to think. But in exchange for that—giving up those dreams, those nightmares too—I lost all the life I had left in me. Of Slava and Black Dew Seat and Pickles, Bellyache, the good and the bad. Had nothing to go for now that I had reached the place that was pictured on the postcard in my pocket. Now that I had found that place, I was lost. No dreams, just dread that I had nothing but the filth of my life—Slava O’Right, who went on and just lived without paying a goddamn cent for what he did to Pickles. And me, to my life. Awake I was a hostage to that, and I saw the world around me as infection, sickness, disease, a bloody blur worn over my head like the sack on the head of a man about to hang. And so it woke me up, that I could not dream. And knowing that, it was something of a nightmare. No way out of that place. Brain awake, but my eyes were glued shut again. Rubbed and picked until the lashes came apart and the lids flew up and I saw the light of day come drizzling through the leaves that Dave had use to camouflage me. Sat up and pushed all that shit off me, and I went like crazy for my knife. Peeled off the mitts and I saw the nails were bleeding mud again, so I had to have another go at trying to finally clean that shit away. Maybe was the first time I had to do it during the light of day, but I had no choice. Had to cut it out, peel it off, try to throw it away from me.
“Supposed to be gone now,” I whispered to that dirt and blood that was under the nails. “You were supposed to be all better now.”
Knife in my fist, I went hard at those dirty goddamn nails. Pressed dull blade deep, tongue got bitten between the teeth. In the shattered sun that came raining, falling, shafting through that city bush, the cuts were raw and screaming, more than they had ever been up in the dark of the north. Watched it clear and saw it bright and felt it better and worse than was usual, that good wince of grit the pain gave. Left did the right, right did the left. Once, twice, then back again. Pared down as far as the flesh would let me before I hit the bone. Then, because Dave could any moment come back, I wiped the knife on my jeans and I tucked it away. Hands in mitts, body in bag, I buried myself in leaves and muck. Then closed my eyes against the pain and somehow fell asleep.
* * *
Dave came back before dark because the park was supposed to be off limits.
“I hear they lock these big old gates,” he said.
He cleared away the leaves and used his bandanna to wipe away the yellow rust of my eyes. “They smell now,” he said. “Your eyes.”
Dave told me he decided we’d take the bus to LA on account of me and my eyes, and how tired I was.
“Talked to this guy who said hitchhiking out there is too insane. Unless we got a gun, he said.”
“Who’s this guy?”
“Henry Brock’s his name.”
“Said he’d sell us one, though.”
“And of course you said no.”
Dave nodded. “The bus it is.”
But it turned out the money the Mexicans gave us wasn’t enough for both our tickets. We’d have to stay in New York a day or two, so Dave could get the rest together and I could get better.
“OK,” I said. “But how’ll you get the dough?”
Dave shrugged. “This Brock guy’s got some jobs he needs done.”
“Jobs? Any of them involve blowing?”
“Fuck, no. I’m not a goddamn homo,” Dave said. “But you see a lot of them around this city, let me tell you. It’s OK here, though,” Dave went on. “I think you’d like it.” He was trying to sound all happy and shit.
“So what’s this guy? A dealer?”
Dave shrugged. “Something like that.”
“You smoke with him?”
“Sure. He had some real nice stuff. Too bad you missed it.” He dumped out a plastic grocery bag. “But I brought you all this instead.” Luckies, chocolate bars, canned Tab, and peroxide. “For those eyes,” he said.
“Watch you don’t get caught, Dave,” I said. “Get sent back.” Looked at the stuff, but I didn’t touch it. Still light enough Dave would see the blood soaking through my mitts.
Dave had brought supper too. A hotdog, half a bag of chips. Said how there was food everywhere in that goddamn city, New Yorkers were always leaving it lying around. Phone booths and bus stops always had a cola or a coffee or a Styrofoam container with something left in it. Dave didn’t know why a person’d pay for any groceries at all. “If you don’t care about eating from a garbage can, you could save some serious cash.”
“Too much of everything here, it seems.”
“Yeah. I mean, my stomach’s full, kid. For the first time since leaving Trident.”
Though we couldn’t see it, the sun was setting in the west, behind these grand old apartment buildings where Dave said movie stars lived. And even with me lying down again, some part of the skyline was still visible, as was the yellow haze that hung in the sky like a fever.
Soon that moonglow would be upon us, the electric white that kept the city from submitting to night. Hemmed in by the glitter and shine of neon and headlights, street lamps and signs, a million lit windows closed against pollution and traffic and the rest, and we were still in the bush. Still, we had nothing but damp and dirt, the hard scab of woods that was as itchy and stinking in Central Park as in Black Dew Seat. So soaked in the thick spit of bitterness, our bodies were bent over and our shoulders hung low, and it made us so thin and so heavy that unless something changed, our spines would surely snap. And I was bored too, so sick of shivering all night and getting up every day feeling worse than the one before. Thought, if I had a house and parents, I might just throw in the goddamn towel and go back and try out being a kid. Finish school or whatever. Watch TV and worry about my fucking hair. Ride a bike. Get drunk on a Saturday night. Instead of the girl I might have been, I couldn’t say how old I was or what I had for a last name or a first one. And I had no fingernails and I had a spray-painted wig instead of hair and now no underwear either, so I was itchy and stank and was afraid of my fly being open.
“You eat this,” I said nodding at the food Dave had laid out for me. “I’m too tired.”
Dave looked mad. Then just sorry, not understanding.
“Let’s at least clean your eyes,” he said.
Head back in his lap. Wincing against the fizzing sting, I held still as he dribbled the peroxide in. His hair hung so long now, it tickled my neck. A few m
ore months and it would reach his waist. Dave wouldn’t cut it, but he always made sure he shaved every few days. Kept his razor and soap in a plastic bag.
When he was done with my eyes, he held me there as I tried to roll away. Touched my face, just barely. Lit a cigarette and we shared it. He pretended not to notice the blood I left on the filter.
“Why’re you still wearing those fucking things?” Dave asked, meaning my mitts.
“So I don’t catch cold.”
“Well, you won’t need them in LA, kid.”
He went on. “You’ll get better out there. Both of us will, you and me.”
Lying there, blinking up at Dave, and him looking down at me.
“What’s wrong, kid?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said.
My eyes in Dave’s, secrets and shadow and a cigarette between us, they started to cry. Rolled away then, shivering myself to sleep under tarp and sleeping bag and a pile of leaves. And Dave’s look was on my turned back, I could feel it.
* * *
Was still asleep when Dave got back.
“Kid,” he whispered. Tried to find my face under the leaves and the wet sleeping bag and all my damp hair.
Flashlight on. Was dusk now and the bush was darkening.
“Kid.” Rocked my body gently, hand on my shoulder.
Rolled over then, and when he helped me, I sat up. Could smell hot McDonald’s food.
The rain had left me damp, but not wet. The leaves had soaked up a lot of it, the ones Dave had put on me, plus the new growth clinging to trees above us. Had the flashlight shaded with a bandanna, giving off a low red burn. Though I’d cried my guts out, the eyes were even worse now—could barely get them open. Redder than the light Dave saw them in, he said. Wetter and more clotted than the leaves on the ground. Was shivering, so he pulled me in close and started rubbing me. Arms and legs, shoulders.
In our gear was a garbage bag with an extra army blanket and a plaid jacket. Eased me back down, rummaged around, and found what he was looking for. Set about making me a cocoon of tarp and the dry blanket and the jacket. The damp sleeping bag went on top. With the other tarp, the green one that blended in with the bush, he made us a canopy. Then Dave dug into his McDonald’s bag. Passed me a Coke and fries and a kids’ hamburger. Liked those better than Big Macs. The bun was softer and you could really taste the pickles and ketchup.
Dave had a bottle of rum too.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Henry Brock.”
“That shitty dealer? Why you still hanging with him?”
“He’s helping us out.”
“What for?” I asked. Through the murk of my infection I saw his eyes clouding over.
Shrugged. “He got you this.” Dave tossed me a bottle. The pills inside rattled when I missed the catch and it landed at my feet. “Medicine. Take one now before you eat.” He poured me a cup of rum and passed it over.
“How’d he get it?”
“Who cares as long as it makes you better.”
Had trouble popping the lid, my fingers so sore inside my mitts. Swallowed a pill with a swig of liquor. Closed my eyes against the warm amber glow of it. It burned me in the best way and in all the right places. Drank again, deeper. Then I topped up what was left in my cup with some of the Coke.
Dave sipped from the bottle and talked. He’d panhandled next to nothing that day, but got some tips left on tables at outdoor cafés. Scored a couple of hardcover books that way too, and sold them to a vendor for three bucks each. Before meeting up with Henry he’d made only ten bucks. Then Henry had him deliver some more packages.
“I took the goddamn subway, kid. Didn’t even get lost.”
“You got a way with geography, Dave. Above ground and below it.” I said. “What’d he pay you?”
“Thirty bucks. Plus the booze and medicine. And that cost a lot, see, it’s heavy-duty shit.”
“Thanks for it,” I said. Bit into the burger. Ate a fistful of soft, salty fries. What I didn’t eat, Dave wrapped back up and put in my pack. “Eat it later,” he said. “Promise.”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks for grubbing for us.”
“It’s pretty easy, right. Thanks to Brock, we’ll blow this city pretty soon.”
We each had a smoke. Then Dave got his bag out and lay down next to me.
“I’m buying the tickets tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I whispered.
“Four, five days we’ll be out west.”
Sat there, bundled in my bag, watching Dave. Drinking rum to rinse from my mouth the taste of nervous sweat, red goddamn snow. My brain felt stalked and my heart gave in to a panic. Fingers in my mouth and I was chewing them hard enough that in my ears was crunching. Left Dave there, and I got out of the bushes and onto a lit path. Had my knife with me and I had some moon in my eyes and the spurs on the old boots were going a-jingle and a-jangle. Just me, Bozak, out there, I followed the path far enough I came to the small lake I remembered from the day we got there, to Central Park, New York. The water was dark navy, upon its smooth surface were reflected the coloured lights of the skyline forever looming in the beyond. Down on my knees, I scrubbed and washed my nails as best and as hard as I could. Was cold, the water, got me to shivering, and I got the knife out then just to get the blood and mud out a little quicker. In the corner of my eye I saw the slip of shadow, so I got up and I got the knife poised to show it off to whoever it was I could feel there taking me in and having a look. A rapist, I thought. A homo cop killer. Dave’s old man come back to beat him up again.
But it was Dave. He had been watching from behind a big old willow while I was cut, cut, cutting those fucking things down. Made me show him what I’d been doing.
In the lamplight, he stood above me. “So the next step’s to go and slit your wrists?”
“No,” I said. “It’s just the fingernails.”
“You have to stop.”
“Can’t, though. Tried and I can’t. Would rather give up cigarettes.”
“We promised each other.”
“But your shit is gone and done now. Mine is alive still. In dreams it comes.”
“Burying those boots didn’t help you?”
“Yes, but now there’s no one to follow. No way for me to go.”
“Follow me to LA.”
Looked at Dave and I buried my face in my hands. Fingers bleeding into my crying eyes. Was getting good at that now, crying, after a lifetime of neglect.
“Warm and sun and beach. We’ll get you fixed up. No more depression.”
Then Dave put his hand on the back of my neck, and he led me back down the path and to our hiding spot.
Laid out next to him, I got my hands all wrapped up in his hair to soothe them. Dave waited, watching, making sure I fell into the safety of more goddamn sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Red to pink now. Rat eyes to rabbit eyes to crying eyes,” Dave said the next morning. “That stuff’s powerful.”
Eating second-hand pizza picked from out of the trash. Pepperoni was peeled off, and under it the cheese was wet and wrinkled. To drink there was orange pop in waxed containers. Took a suck to wash down another pill.
He was sitting cross-legged on his cassette carrier.
“We have enough for tickets now?”
Told me we did, with what the Mexicans gave us, plus all he’d earned. The money was kept in bills, some in the lining of Dave’s jacket, some shoved down in the toes of his boots.
“Plus Brock’ll buy these tapes,” he said. “We’ll meet him in the morning. Before the bus.”
“Selling your fucking tapes?”
“Yeah. Brock wants to get into metal, I guess. Heard Metallica on the fucking radio. They’re really popular now, I guess. Mainstream, I mean.”
“Sold out,�
�� I said. “That sucks.”
“Same’ll happen to punk, I bet. They want money too. Same as anyone.”
“Well, good thing it’s dead then. The real stuff, like Slava said.”
“And fuck tapes anyway,” Dave went on, saying cds were coming out, and that they’d be the way of the future. “I’ll get a cd player when I get to LA.”
Dave was shoving pizza crust in his mouth. “No more of this garbage food in LA, kid. And no more fucking bush, we’ll be sleeping on the beach.”
“Sure.”
“Get cleaned up and get jobs,” he said.
“Lots of work for illegals out there.”
“But I won’t be washing dishes, kid.”
“Wig of Blood all the way, right? Pelado would never wash dishes.”
“Don’t forget. I don’t want to be Pelado.”
“A scalped goddamn hitchhiker, you mean?”
“Yeah,” said Dave. “I just want to act as one. In the next sequel, I mean.”
Me, I nodded, not really getting the difference.
“Have to get your strength up, kid.” Dave nodded at the pizza slice I was holding, but not eating. “Today I’ll get the tickets. Tomorrow we catch a bus.”
He didn’t argue when I said I’d be staying put. “Good idea,” he said. “Take a nap. Get our stuff packed up. Besides, I got a lot to do and you’ll slow me down.”
Dave picked a tape from the suitcase, plugged his ears with his Walkman, and left.
And me, I tossed the pizza into the bushes. Had a piss, a smoke. Cried. Went back into the heavy dark of no dreaming.
Was late afternoon when Dave got back. Saw him clean and clear for the first time since coming to New York, the pills and crying doing the trick on my eyes.
“Got the tickets,” Dave said. “No stopovers allowed.”
“Good,” I whispered. “Would have it no other way.”
“LA, kid. L-fucking-A.” He pulled the tickets from inside his leather jacket. Passed one to me and gazed down at his own.
Slid the thing up my sleeve. Didn’t have the guts to look at it.
“Check it out, kid.” Dave said, crouching down next to me.