Jimmy roared up and down the street several times, showing off, then parked at the curb in front of the house.
The talk grew louder, more boisterous, and more people arrived or came out of the house. Raphael had never been able to determine exactly how many people actually lived in the big house, since the population seemed to fluctuate from week to week. Their relationships were casual, and it was difficult to determine at any one time just who was sleeping with whom. Sourly he sat on his rooftop and watched Flood insinuate himself into the clan. By the time it had grown dark, he had been totally accepted, and his voice was as rowdy and boisterous as any.
The party continued, growing louder and more raucous, until about eleven-thirty when two police cars arrived and the officers got out to break it up.
Flood came down the street, got into his car, and drove away. He did not even glance up at the rooftop where Raphael sat watching.
ii
The first of June fell on a Wednesday, and Raphael went in to work early. Normally he waited until about ten in order to avoid the rush of traffic, but the first of the month was different.
Heavy traffic still made him jumpy, and he was in a bad humor when he reached the store. Denise was inside, and she unlocked the door to let him in. “You’re early.”
“Mother’s Day,” Raphael replied shortly, crutching into the barnlike building. “I have to get home early to guard the mailbox.”
“I don’t follow that.” She locked the door again.
“The welfare checks come today. It’s also the day when I get a check from my bank in Port Angeles. The kids over there in Welfare City find unwatched mailboxes enormously fascinating on Mother’s Day.”
“Why don’t you move out of that place?” He shrugged. “It’s not that big a thing. You just have to be careful is all.”
“You want some coffee?” “I thought you’d never ask.”
They went back through the dimly lighted store to the cluttered workroom in the rear. It was very quiet in the big building, and shadows filled the comers and crouched behind the endless racks of secondhand clothes that reeked of mothballs and disinfectant.
“Is your friend still in town?” Denise asked as she poured coffee.
“Flood?” Raphael lowered himself into a chair. “Oh yes. The pride of Grosse Pointe still lurks in Fun City.”
“Now that’s exactly what I mean,” she said angrily, bending slightly to bang down his coffee cup with her dwarfed arm.
“That’s what you mean about what? Come on, Denise, it’s too early in the morning to be cryptic. I’m not even awake yet.”
“All those cute little remarks. You never used to talk that way before he came. When is he going to go away and leave us alone?” “Us?”
“You know what I mean.”
Raphael smiled briefly. “Sorry. I’m grumpy today. It’s always a hassle on the day when the checks come. I’m not-looking forward to it, that’s all.”
“Why don’t you just have your bank in Port Angeles transfer the money directly to your bank here?” she asked him, sitting on the edge of the table. “That way you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”
Raphael looked up, startled. “I never thought of that.”
“I think you need a keeper, Rafe. You’re a hopeless incompetent when it comes to anything practical. What’s he up to now?”
“Who? Oh, Flood? I’m not sure. He’s playing games. He’s going around introducing himself to all my neighbors. It’s all very obscure and not particularly attractive. He says he’s doing it to ‘bring me out of my shell,’ but I’m sure there’s something ehe behind it as well. Jake Flood is a very devious young man.”
“I hate him.” She said it flatly.
“You’ve never met him.”
“I never met Hider, either—or Attila the Hun.” “You’re a very opinionated person, Denise.” He smiled at her. “He’s going to hurt you, Rafe. I can see it coming, and I hate him for it.”
“No. He’s not going to hurt me. Flood likes to manipulate people, that’s all. I know him, and I know what he’s up to. I can take care of myself.”
“Sure you can.”
“Little mother of the world,” Raphael said fondly, reaching out and taking her misshapen little hand, “you’re going to rub raw spots on your soul if you don’t stop worrying about all of us.”
“Well, I care, dammit!” She did not pull her hand away.
“You’re cold,” he noted, feeling the tiny, gnarled bones in the dwarfed hand.
“It’s always cold. The other one’s fine, see?” She reached out to put her other hand briefly on his wrist.
“Well.” Raphael released her and reached for his crutches. “I guess I’d better get to work.”
She sighed. “Me too, I suppose.”
Raphael rose and crutched smoothly through the dim light to his bench and the pile of battered and broken shoes that awaited him.
He went home about eleven, and Flood was waiting for him. The top was down on the little red sports car, and Flood half lay in the front seat, his feet propped up on the opposite door.
“Loitering, Damon?” Raphael asked, coming up beside the car.
“Just watching your people. They’re all out today, aren’t they?”
“Mother’s Day. They’re waiting for the mailman.”
“Mother’s Day?”
“The day the welfare checks arrive. Big party night tonight. Let’s go upstairs.”
“Right.” Flood climbed out of the car. “Is that why all the kids are out of school?”
“Sure. It’s sort of like Christmas—very exciting. Lots of money and goodies and stuff.”
“Nigger rich,” Flood said as they climbed the stairs.
“That’s one way to put it.”
Later they sat by the railing, watching the street.
“Who’s that kid belong to?” Flood asked, pointing at a longhaired fourteen-year-old with a permanent sneer on his face lounging against the light pole on the corner. “I don’t think I’ve seen him before.”
“He’s a thief. He’s probably looking for the chance to steal somebody’s welfare check.” “You’ve seen him before?” “I sure have. He stole my groceries once.” “He did what?” Flood was outraged.
Raphael told him about the incident with the cabdriver and the two bags of groceries.
“Slimy little bastard,” Flood growled. “That he is.”
“Can I use your phone for a minute?” Flood asked, his eyes narrowing.
“You know where it is.”
Flood went inside and then came back in a few minutes, a malicious smile on his dark face. He sat down again and watched the street.
“What are you up to now?” Raphael asked him.
“That’d spoil it. Just keep your eyes open.”
Up the street at the house of Heck’s Angels, Jimmy and Marvin came out and began tossing a Frisbee back and forth, casually walking down toward the corner where the kid stood.
Raphael suddenly had a horrid suspicion. “Look out, kid!” he shouted.
But it was too late. Jimmy and Marvin pounced on the kid and held him, laughingly avoiding his desperate kicks.
“What do you guys want?” the kid yelled at them. “Lemme go.”
Marvin held the kid’s skinny arms, and Jimmy squared off in front of him.
“Help!” the kid screamed. “Somebody help me!” Jimmy hit him in the mouth. “Help!” the kid cried. Jimmy hit him again.
They pounded him for several minutes, and after he fell to the sidewalk, they kicked him in the stomach and face for a while. Then they sauntered across the street and glanced up at the rooftop.
“Good job!” Flood called down to them. “Thanks.”
“Anytime, Jake,” Marvin called back up, grinning. They went on back up the street, talking and laughing.
On the corner the kid pulled himself up, using the light pole. His mouth and nose streamed blood, and his eyes were swollen nearly shut. “Dirty bastards!” he sobbed at the
backs of the two who had just beaten him.
They turned and started back, and the kid ran, half crouched over, holding his stomach with both hands.
“Quite satisfying, wasn’t it?” Flood said to Raphael, his eyes burning.
“It was disgusting. Sickening.”
“Of course it was, but satisfying all the same. Right? I liked that little touch—the warning you gave him—-just a moment too late. Nicely done, Raphael. Perfect timing. You get all the satisfaction out of watching the little bastard get the shit stomped out of him with no guilt attached to it at all, because you did try to warn him.”
“You’re contemptible.”
“Of course I am.” Flood laughed. “We’re all contemptible. We all have these base, vile, disgusting little urges—revenge, hate, spite, malice. Each man’s soul is a seething sewer. I just bring it out into the open, that’s all. I take a certain pride in my disinterestedness, though.”
“In your what?”
“That was for you, Raphael. I didn’t give a shit about that kid one way or the other. You’re the one who had a hard-on for him. Look upon me as an instrument of a vengeful God. The Archangel proposes, and Jake Flood disposes. Just be careful about the things you wish for while I’m around, though, because you’ll probably get exactly what you want.” His eyes were very bright now. “Admit it. Deep down in that part of your mind nobody likes to look into, you really enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Raphael started to say something, but suddenly could not, because it was true. He had enjoyed it.
Flood saw his hesitation and laughed, a long, almost bell-like peal of pure mirth.
And then the mailman came, and the streets below exploded with people. Impatiently, they waited on the sidewalk for him and literally grabbed the checks out of his hands as he approached. As soon as they had the checks, they dashed to their cars and raced away in a frenzy, as if the world might suddenly run out of money before they could convert the checks into spendable cash. “Get in the car! Get in the car!” mothers screamed urgently at their children, and their men hovered closely, even anxiously, over the women who held, each in her own two tightly clenched hands, that ultimate reality in their lives—the welfare check. For those brief, ecstatic hours between the time when the checks arrived and the time when they all watched in anguish as the seemingly vast wealth dwindled down to the last few paltry dollars that were surplus, the women were supreme. The boyfriends who had beaten them and sworn at them, ridiculed and cheated on them, were suddenly docile, even fawning, in the presence of the awful power represented by the checks. As the day wore on and so much went for rent, so much for the light bill, and so much for payments on this or this or that, the faces of the men became more desperate. Mentally, each man watched that huge stack of tens and twenties melt away like frost in the sun, and since he knew that he could only wheedle a third or even a quarter of what was left, his eyes grew wide with near panic.
But first there was the orgy of shopping, of filling the house with food. An hour or two after the checks arrived, the cars began to return, clattering and smoking as always, but filled with boxes and sacks of groceries. The children screamed and squabbled and ran up and down the sidewalks almost hysterical with excitement. They gorged themselves on candy and potato chips and swilled soda pop as fast as they could drink it, knowing that what they could not eat or drink today would be lost forever.
And then, when the food was in and the money orders for the bills were all bought and safely in the mail, the men took their women inside and, each in his own fashion, cajoled a share of the loot. It was only then that the parties started.
“My God!” Flood said, watching. “It’s a circus down there. Does this happen every month?”
“Every month,” Raphael told him. “It’s Christmas and New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July all rolled into one—and it happens on the first of every month.”
The all-powerful women emerged from their houses, contented and enormously satisfied that they had once again provided bountifully for their dependents. The scrimping and borrowing and hunger of the last week were forgotten in an orgy of generosity and open-handed benevolence. For the moment at least, they were all rich. “Let’s cruise around a bit,” Flood suggested. “What for?”
“Because you’re taking root in that chair. It’s unhealthy to sit in one spot for so long. Let’s away, my Angel, and behold the wonders of Welfare City on payday. Call it research if you like—an observation of the loser at play.”
As he almost always did, Raphael succumbed in the end to Flood’s badgering. It was not so much that he accepted his friend’s feeble excuses, but rather that he, too, felt the contagious excitement from the streets below. The thought of remaining stationary while so much was going on became unbearable under Flood’s prodding.
And so they cruised in Flood’s small red car, drifting slowly up and down the streets of shabby houses with junked cars sitting up on blocks in the yards and broken-down appliances and boxes of junk piled on the porches. The streets were alive with people, and they sat on porches and lawns drinking and laughing. Music blasted from a dozen radios and record players, and packs of kids on bicycles rode wildly up and down the streets.
“A good old-fashioned truant officer could have a ball today,” Flood observed.
“They don’t seem to pay that much attention in Spokane.”
“Sure. After all, how much education do you need to be able to sign a welfare check?”
They pulled up in front of a tavern on Broadway.
“Now what?” Raphael asked.
“Let’s have a beer and take a look at party time in the poor man’s social club.”
“Why not?” Raphael dug his crutches out from behind the seat and they went in.
The first thing that struck them was the noise. The place seethed with people, most of them already drunk and all of them shouting.
Flood found a small table near the corner, got Raphael seated, and then went to the bar for beer. “Loud, huh?” he said when he came back.
“You noticed.”
“What time do the fights start?” Raphael looked around. “Hard to say.”
An Indian shambled by their table with his mouth gaping open and a sappy look of bludgeoned drunkenness on his face.
“The old-timers were right,” Flood observed. “They can’t hold their liquor, can they?”
“He doesn’t seem much drunker than anybody else.”
“Really? I’d give him another five minutes before he passes out.”
“He could surprise you.”
“Let’s get up a pool on which way he falls. I’d bet on north—that’s the side of the tree the moss grows on.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“You know—child of nature, all that crap.”
“Why not south then—the way the geese fly? Or east to west—with the rotation of the earth? Or west to east—with the prevailing winds?”
“Interesting problem. There he goes.”
Raphael turned in his seat. The Indian had reeled against a wall and was sliding slowly to the floor, his eyes glazed.
“No bet,” Flood said. “The son of a bitch passed out vertically.”
An argument broke out at the pool table, and two drunken young men threatened each other with pool cues until they were separated.
Everyone was a big shot today, and loud arguments erupted about who was going to pay for the next round. The noise was stunning, and Raphael began to get a headache. “Had about enough?” he asked Flood.
“Let’s have one more.” Flood got up quickly and went back to the bar. As he turned, a glass in each hand, a tall black man with graying hair lurched into him, knocking one of the glasses to the floor.
“Hey, man,” the black man apologized quickly, “I’m sorry.” Flood’s eyes were flat and his expression cold.
“Let me buy you another.” “Forget it.”
“No, man—I mean, it was me that spilled it.”
“I said to forget it.” Flood deliberately turned his back on the man to return to the bar.
The black man’s eyes froze, and his face went stiff. He drew himself up as if about to say something, then looked around as if suddenly realizing how many whites were in the bar and where their sympathies would lie in the event of an argument. “Shit,” he muttered, and cautiously made his way to the door, his face still carrying that stiff, defensive expression.
Flood returned to the table and put down the two beers.
“You could have let him buy,” Raphael said.
“I don’t like niggers. I don’t like the way they look; I don’t like the way they smell; and I don’t like the way they’re trying to niggerize the whole country.”
“The man was only trying to be polite. You didn’t have to shit on him.”
“That’s what they’re for, Gabriel. The only reason they exist is to be shit on.”
Once again Raphael felt that strange shock that always came when Flood let the other name slip.
“Look around out there,” Flood went on, obviously unaware that he had called Raphael by the wrong name. “You’ve got a whole generation of white kids trying to wear Afros and speak in fluent ghetto. Something’s radically wrong when white kids knock themselves out trying to look and sound like niggers.”
“Ship ‘em all back to Africa, huh?”
Flood grinned at him. “Gotcha!”
“Damon,” Raphael said in exasperation, “quit that.”
Flood laughed. “You’re still as innocent as ever, Raphael. You still believe everything anybody says to you. You ought to know me better than that by now.”
“May all your toenails fall out. Let’s get out of this rattrap. I’m starting to get a headache.”
“Right on.” Flood drained his glass.
They got up and made their way through the seething crowd of half-drunk people between them and the door.
Outside, the sun had gone down and the streetlights were just coming on. They got into Flood’s car and sat for a few moments, letting the silence wash over them.
“Great group,” Flood said.
“Letting off steam. They build up a lot of pressure during the course of a month.” “Doing what?”
The Losers Page 18