In evening, white messenger phoned home, smaller-jawed but with fuzz all over face: mother tried to deal with him herself hand on hip, had trouble understanding him, he gets his tongue out around his mouth looking for words left there. She definitely must yield phone to ("He can’t hardly talk to you") supposedly crazy son-retard-messenger to hear that Gustave got number through man met at foundation; Gustave felt Jim Banks was onto something with lanes and alternate subway doors, and Gustave would consider organizing. Meet at corner near Turnstein’s.
Where would bicycle be stored nights? Bicycle not yet definite.
"Jimmy, you have to accept that you can’t live like other people do," his mother said next to him at the phone when he hung up (like, look at other people’s ways and doings but don’t touch). "I’m an old-fashioned girl," she said. "Social worker said you retarded know things we don’t know, but I don’t believe it, sugar.
f. Higher required building wider, until a full messenger-service specialization minus the psychic consultation . . . build on two white/black messengers, three, four, and a bike to make the boss smile.
Two women noticing Jimmy Banks limping past the cafe smiled through the shining plate-glass window when he stopped to see them. They they turned back to each other but weren’t speaking, and they slipped out of their white coffee cups in the window which flipped into mirror-mode when a bus passed and Jimmy saw his jaw and the Afro he had just started growing that morning, and hastened on to Turnstein’s corner.
Gustave waited there like a tree, and knew two other messengers who would organize, but Gustave with all the fuzz on his face and after all a good-size jaw, was happy where he was but didn’t understand that Jimmy was a-a-a-a-asking if Gustave would come into Jimmy’s independent messenger service and Jimmy did not press it but settled for the organizing of all city messengers with retardation or physical problems by end of 1977, which gave them several months to work it out, and reported that a white guy named Ray Santee would help them organize and a client was procuring a vehicle for Jimmy Banks. Gustave had heard that name—at least knew a woman named Ray.
Gustave asked further re: lanes and grinned half the fuzz to either side of his face when Jimmy reported that the city was not about to make lanes the only legal routes, and so you had to be looking always ahead and always behind for double-parked trucks and oncoming others, but since the problem was underground for them so far pretty much, the lane you’re in could not be put on a map because you went uptown and downtown by subway and might be moving from a doorway to a turnstile, but your real lane was what began when you picked up your job at the office and in your head and you had to hold it there, but even more so, it was vital to see that if someone’s in your way you can shift the whole lane, if you know how, which was good because the former owner of vehicle Jim Banks was aiming to buy could move diagonal in NYC.
"A-a-ahh," Gustave shook his finger like Jim’s mother, smiling at him, and Jim realized he had not been stammering just now.
Senora Wing came out of Turnstein’s storefront and yelled at Jimmy Banks.
When Jimmy went into the office, Turnstein kept his back to him and wanted to know where the receipt was for the other day. The client Grace Kimball had asked for him back. But how about receipt? The boy-girl brother-sister combo they never did much work that you could see and were relations of Turnstein though he never said much to them and they were used by Senora Wing sometimes in psychic consultations, never laughed at Jimmy; they came and hugged him first one then the other, then went off and wrestled and fought and Turnstein hardly told them to stop probably because he didn’t know which was male and which female.
Senora Wing asked Jimmy did he know something she didn’t?—Well he gave an envelope to the wrong person, at the warehouse theater the other day on Twenty-fourth Street, he’s just too trusting but it’s O.K. and he could just bring some clients in for readings to make up for it, he was making friends all over the yard so how ‘bout he gets them in for psychic consultations. Turnstein not saying anything but writing with his ballpoint on a piece of paper, got a job and Jimmy’s going off to a lady who’s sending a script to a radio station but the light is cracking up in his head and turning into more business than even two, three messengers can handle. Senora calls on his way out, "Like the guy at the theater who took delivery, bring him in for a reading"—and Jimmy stammers as much as he could and stepping out on the sidewalk sees Gustave looking like a stupid old tree at the corner where he was before, and Jim knows he didn’t have to stammer to Senora just then.
g. Did not ask Grace Kimball if bike-to-come was hot. Did not know where to leave it nights, but did not tell her. Did not accept carrots from all the crates in hallway, did not accept mug of carrot juice because never had carrot juice. Did not know why stammer was gone.
Did not want to receive phone calls at home, first three more new messengers, then social worker saying report from Turnstein’s was good except for fucked-up receipt (later made good) and delivery to wrong guy but no harm done—and this information passed to waiting mother who took phone right away. Did not know if Santee was running maybe his own messenger service; did not tell him anything re: potential retarded-messenger union, but he’s not saying he can get a bike any more, only that he has access to safe place, he is a photo-journalist he says, so will definitely need messenger service.
Senora asked for business—said she was expecting some to be brought in from contacts referred to before; said it was expected; said she was going to call mother. Did not know what to do now except trust others: Grace for bike; Santee for storage; Maureen, the younger friend at Kimball’s, for plans for union organization and getting women retarded messengers; Gustave for taking phone calls at his room; and social worker for trust—but, no good, wrong lane—building requires next step first: social worker would tell mother and Senora what’s going on.
Saw a man go crazy on subway platform when the half-door on his side didn’t work; busted his hand banging glass; taken away by transit cop.
Senora Wing said Grace would meet a handsome gray-haired man.
Santee asked if a new messenger service would include marginal operations for him. And said, "You’re not breathing."
Mother listened in on three-in-morning dream, came back with cocoa: "What you doing flying around the Empire State Building? Planes don’t got brakes. Maybe that man’s right you know something we don’t know."
h. Saw jerk with gray beard and orange leather headband sail past on another bike, still smiling, a body builder in black leather T-shirt. Though white man, looked like father probably. Father so long dead now he no longer would describe family, son, wife, cousins, uncle: because after death the slow forgetting starts and the lanes no longer parallel but crossed and spread-out but don’t matter because the dead person is forgetting the living persons after about two years and later he couldn’t remember them if he tried. But why? Is it that lanes shifting so much makes roadblocks and dead person doesn’t need to go around them any more but without body goes through but is erased of memory data?
Felt other person coming through handlebars of new life. Grace had brakes tuned up, axles oiled; bought tool kit in real black leather case and when told she didn’t have to fix bike, new owner would fix bike, she said kit was his: thought of stammering but didn’t. Grace kissed me and Maureen got up from her exercises and kissed me; and Cliff, with jeans on, kissed me and first hugged me so I thought that was all there would be to it.
Santee was next on the schedule but not quite. Bike banged elevator walls with writing on them, but did not nick paint. Wheeled bike many blocks to park. Losing job being absent while Turnstein phones mother probably, mother phones social worker, Senora Wing phones unknown people she always talking about. Dogs watching in park. Bike seat feels too small, bike so light; world a bad place, can’t think about falling off, it’s counter-indicated. Pigeons got out of the way, no retards there. Missed bottle in brown paper bag rolling around on pavement like a rat w
as inside. Jolted by brakes, front brake, rear brake, tire dark from puddle; stud selling grass get out of the way, grinning, frowning; muttering to rider, Good stuff. Didn’t know rider had a limp, a mother, a social worker, didn’t know rider also has a way to shift from one mode right over to another but no word for it except the flow coming from handlebar grips.
But traffic is a hassle and the bike has had enough work with new owner so can be walked to Twenty-fourth Street base, sidewalk clearly laned, so, like right door and left door alternating along sidewalk, but lane faithful lane faithful, checking other bikes for sign of police registration, but no registration probable.
Santee gave key to small office near theater on Twenty-fourth Street: access; bike safety; offered to buy lock but refused; also phone! (Asked Santee if Turnstein’s very busy and what was the crazy people doing in window and who was the old couple that came by that storefront, did they know Senora Wing?) Therefore, did not tell Santee to go in for a reading. But stammers came into the mind, into the dreams and thoughts. Phone went, Santee answered, and in wastebasket was calling card with something penciled on it and, printed, the name Ray Spence just as he said, "Spence" into phone. He said, "Well I hear they know something we don’t," hung up and asked how long Turnstein job had gone on: said got idea soon after father died. Well, how long was that? Died almost two years ago.
Asked Santee not to tell re: bike park. He agreed. Thought he had one earring, but now two but in one ear. He asked if father ever seen after death? Said I had seen someone looked like him on a bike but white.
Told Gustave this on phone. Had weird way of laughing, not good for business. Union meeting with ten to fifteen possibles for next week in Maureen’s apartment. Possibles. Not definites.
Senora Wing did not phone mother. Did not speak of anything re: coming changes.
i. Dream come true but don’t blow it; build by consolidating operations within same lane. New canvas bag can be carried no-hands on back. Pay call to bicycle headquarters revealed first independent job waiting. Therefore, on trip for Turnstein-Wing to Compu-Grafics to pick up posters for manager of all-girls rock band office, taxied fast to C-G, then on foot above ground by good luck only one-and-one-half blocks to HQ of new independent messenger service coming into being with still something wrong in head but not clear, received from Santee envelope to go by hand to woman with same name as mother, Luisa, leave with doorman: cruised parallel to cab, cab tried to edge messenger away at corner and driver looked like Georgie—but, obeying bike law at light, halted while cab ran light and was arrested by brown-uniformed woman officer: biked in noise, in struggle with angel of death, down Park Avenue and around station to manager of all-girls rock band who was the smiling graybeard in sweatshirt with three bikes in big studio, stopped smiling before signing for posters; did not know messenger, asked where messenger’s bike had come from, had seen it before, and never forgot a bike, smiled again, dreamt of bikes; was beginning to lift posters out of envelope as departed.
What was wrong? No lock for bike, no time to return to HQ, flowed downtown to Turnstein-Wing’s block: old couple outside watching Goodie and Baddie fighting. Asked Chinese vegetable woman to watch bike, she said No.
Let Wing-Turnstein see bike? Not this messenger.
Light took over with its speed. Turnstein said, "You oiled your gears, what’s the rush?" Light flashed clear through brick walls of close buildings from beautiful spokes of new bike up against wall alone!
Senora Wing and her ongoing psychic consultation with tiny woman in trenchcoat with long yellow sack-type robe under it, nothing under robe, who looked at incoming messenger so eyes seemed to have looked at some same things as messenger. ("You have traveled to the Orient. You have worked there. You are tired of words. You will take off your clothes. You will change your career to some manual pursuits. Your first name is the last name of someone or something famous—which means you are building and going ahead, not waiting on the past.")
Twins by now on bunk bed half asleep panting watching each other. Light is spoking through building walls off bicycle outside, but probably bike still safe, though must see, though must see Turnstein and must go to bathroom. Something wrong staying in head but not clear; how can own business premises be own unless rented, while Santee is owner, isn’t he? Need for bathroom, need for pay phone; bicycle not for Gustave, if bicycle still outside where it could be taken, though if seen by those inside, can also be taken. Turnstein’s eyes watering, absorbing rays from Wing quarter; outgoing address-pickup held and held in Turnstein’s hand while he weeps only from eyes, no motion in face, except light from bike outside unbeknownst to Turnstein, twins, and Wing, light flooding Turnstein’s face from spokes, spokes moving by light.
"You’re impatient; maybe it’s too late for you to go on this job," said Turnstein. "Goodie or Baddie could take it possibly."
Felt bike move, like jaw shifting, and Wing’s client said, "Are those twins real? I mean are they male or female?" This small psychic client said, "You can improve your posture if you imagine a yellow light right here in your chest and you make sure it’s out front and you follow it." She was speaking to me.
Took order form from Turnstein and let it go. Felt bike being stolen and jaw getting bigger and bigger like stone that stayed. Go, said Turnstein, good riddance. (Went to bathroom in mind only.) You crazy, get out of here, said Turnstein quite silently. Yet heard Senora Wing’s words of threat, though with threat following upstream on rays of light from outside: "Bring in the business, or you’re through." As if she can’t see future unless through clientele. And heard other words recalled later, for now fell—fell out through door down hard onto pavement, holding order form. Old skinny weirdo helped this messenger up who shook off his hand and saw the old lady with the white hair and the mole on her cheek and talk talk talk crazies over by the wall with her hands on handlebar and saddle of bike, keeping bike safe, looking like she remembered nothing, but keeping bike safe.
Thanked her and put finger to mouth. And she replied, "Our secret," and she understood. "Are you my son, black boy?" she said—"because I felt my son’s hands in the handlebars or someone I could swear."
Flowed across manhole lids, around potholes, uptown, uptown. Spring-levered into higher gear, remembering answer to old lady. Just missed death when triple-parked car opened outside door—by truck double-parked by two motorcycles angled at meter. Was respected by nobody, shifted gears, remembering last words of Wing to traveler-woman, shifted gears remembering to pedal while doing so, as instructed by naked man drinking carrot juice. Remembered answer to old lady, passing through green light while sensors projected ahead to when red warned of oncoming vehicle and when light behind red was only the flow that cures limp, streamlines jaw, speeds recovery, but from what?
The need to think things through; to build not on gap of what was wrong—and what was that? Found no daylight between two cabs gridlocked and experimented with cement ramp onto sidewalk—for wheelchair cases— and found space between trees at the curb and half-crippled young guy with silver walker, and space between him and kid on roller skates playing her harmonica two hands for beginners, so had space to think, to flow, to build on.
Gustave has brought foundation account into independent messenger service and does not wish to use bicycle. Compu-Grafics are thinking about moving from Turnstein. Felt watched, but not by Santee, who waits on phone in headquarters and again says, "Spence," after long pause. Sehora Wing’s words still in mind—no envelope needed. Answer to old lady still in mind— she was kind. ‘This is your key," said Santee, with speckled wrists; "will you lock up?" He’s going around to the theater and then out of town overnight. "You understand?" he says. It came to me, it came to me, and was more than messages, even messages that I as sole proprietor of business might have to intercept in case they were dangerous to me. It came to me that I saw Santee by the light of my skin, and I could do this wherever I turned, and could bend around obstacle in lane. When the double-parked tru
ck is ahead in lane, vehicle in next lane speeds up so you can’t move out of lane to avoid truck. Could not explain this to Gustave, who could use it even with subway doors, but may explain it at meeting of union of retarded messengers organized by Kimball’s friend Maureen. Santee’s feet suddenly not heard no more, like he stopped on the first flight down and waited.
Senora Wing’s words hold: "You know somebody who is going to Chile under cover of darkness, the land of Chile in South America, someone who has been a prisoner." Spoken to tiny woman with yellow light.
Desk drawer open showing manila envelope. What’s wrong is not something missing but something present in the way. Place belongs to Santee, but business belongs not to Santee, but he thinks so.
The business belonged to me. I found a double-lock on door and turned it. I opened desk drawer further and took out manila envelope. It was addressed to "Ray Spence" and inside it was two photographs: one was of two guys in green shirts and pants standing with a tall, bald man in a white suit, and they were all smiling; the other was an old picture of a young woman in a big hat standing beside an African pigmy, the picture was all yellow.
Santee was really Spence. Something was going on at the theater, and the opera singer Luisa was involved. I was afraid to use the phone. I had said to the old lady, "Yes, I am." I pushed the desk drawer back to what it was. I went over and touched the bicycle. Some people remove their fenders. I turned and fell down. If I had a few teeth out, my jaw would get permanently smaller. The sound of Spence’s voice was unknown, like. The need to think things through.
Women and Men Page 75