T.C. Boyle Stories II: Volume II

by T. C. Boyle

  For the Cherwins, it’s already here.

  (2003)

  Here Comes

  He didn’t know how it happened, exactly—lack of foresight on his part, lack of caring, planning, holding something back for a rainy day—but in rapid succession he lost his job, his girlfriend and the roof over his head, waking up one morning to find himself sprawled out on the sidewalk in front of the post office. The sun drilled him where he lay. Both knees were torn out of his jeans and the right sleeve of his jacket was gone altogether. People were skirting him, clopping by like a whole herd of self-righteous Republicans, though they were mostly Latino—and mostly illegal—in this part of town. He sat up, feeling around for his hat, which he seemed to be sitting on. The pavement glistened minutely.

  What was motivating him at the moment was thirst, the kind of thirst that made him suspect everything and everybody, because somebody had to have done this to him, deprived him of fluids, dredged his throat with a swab, left him here stranded like a nomad in the desert. Just beyond his reach, and he noticed this in the way of a detective meditating on a crime scene, was a brown paper bag with the green neck of a Mogen David 20/20 bottle peeping out of it. The bag had been crushed, and the bottle with it; ants had gathered for the feast. In real time, the time dictated by the sun in the sky and the progressive seep of movement all around him, a woman who must have had three hundred pounds packed like mocha fudge into the sausage skin of her monumental blue-and-white-flecked top and matching toreador pants stepped daintily over the splayed impediment of his legs and shot him a look of disgust. Cars pulled up, engines ticking, then rattled away. Exhaust hovered in a poisonous cloud. Two gulls, perched atop the convenient drive-up mail depository, watched him out of their assayers’ eyes, big birds, vagrant and opportunistic, half again as tall as the boombox he’d left behind at Dana’s when she drilled him out the door.

  It wasn’t an alcoholic beverage he wanted, though he wouldn’t turn down a beer, but water, just that, something to wet his mouth and dribble down his throat. He made a failed effort to rise, and then somehow his feet found their place beneath him and he shoved himself up and snatched his cap off the pavement in a single graceless lurch. He let the blood pound in his ears a minute, then scanned the street for a source of H2O.

  To be homeless, in July, in a tourist-infested city on the coast of Southern California, wasn’t as bad maybe as being homeless in Cleveland or Bogotá, but it wasn’t what he was used to. Even at his worst, even when he got going on the bottle and couldn’t stop, he was used to four walls and a bed, and if not a kitchen, at least a hot-plate. A chair. A table. A place to put his things, wash up, have a smoke and listen to music while dreaming over a paperback mystery—he loved mysteries and police procedurals, and horror, nothing better than horror when you’re wrapped up in bed and the fog transfigures the streets and alleyways outside till anything could be lurking there. Except you. Because you’re in bed, in your room, with the door shut and locked and the blankets pulled up to your chin, reading. And smoking. But Dana’s face was like a cleaver, sharp and shining and merciless, and it cleaved and chopped till he had no choice but to get out the door or leave his limbs and digits behind. So now he was on the street, and everything he did, every last twitch and snort and furtive palpation of his scrotum, was a public performance, open to interpretation and subject to the judgment of strangers. Idiotic strangers. Strangers who were no better than him or anybody else, but who made way for him in a parting wave as if he was going to stick to the bottom of their shoes.

  Across the street, kitty-corner to where he found himself at the moment, was a gas station—it floated there like a mirage, rippling gently in the convection waves rising up off the blacktop—and a gas station was a place where all sorts of fluids were dispensed, including water. Or so he reasoned. All right, then. He began to move, one scuffing sneaker following the other.

  —

  He was running the hose over the back of his head when he became aware that someone was addressing him. He didn’t look up right away—he knew what was coming—but he made sure to twist off the spigot without hesitation. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, because if there was one thing that made him feel the strain of his circumstances it was unwashed hair, knocked the hat twice on his thigh and clapped it on his head like a helmet. He wasn’t presentable, he knew that. He looked like a bum—for all intents and purposes he was a bum, or at least making a pretty fair run at becoming one—and it just didn’t pay to make eye contact. Raymond rose slowly to his feet.

  A man was standing there in the alley amidst the debris of torn-up boxes and discarded oil cans, the sun cutting into his eyes. Five minutes from picking himself up off the burning sidewalk, Raymond was in no condition to make fine distinctions, but he could see that whatever he was the man was no outraged service station attendant or hostile mechanic, no cop or security guard. He had a dog with him, for one thing, a little buff and yellow mutt that seemed to be composed entirely of hacked-off whiskers, and for another, he was dressed all in blue jeans, including two blue-jean jackets but no shirt, and none of the ensemble looked as if it had been washed and tumble-dried in recent memory. Raymond relaxed. He was in the presence of a fellow loser.

  “Nice hat,” the man said. He looked to be in his thirties, long hair slicked back close to his scalp and tucked behind his ears, the beard neatly clipped, big hands dangling from his doubled-up sleeves. He was grinning. At least there was that.

  “Oh, this?” Raymond’s hand went reflexively to his head. “It’s just . . . it’s nothing. It used to belong to my girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, I guess so, because why would a guy wear a hat like that, right?”

  The hat—it was a cheap baseball cap made of plastic mesh—featured a black badge on the crown, and a legend, in a tiny, looping, gold script, that read: You Can Pet My Cat, But Don’t Touch My Pussy. To Dana’s mind, this was the height of subversive humor and she insisted on wearing the thing whenever they went out barhopping, which was every night except when they gave up all pretense and got a bottle at Von’s and drank at home in front of the TV. He’d snatched it off her head the night she shoved him out the door with nothing but the clothes on his back, and it served her right, because she had his boombox and his other pair of shoes and his books and bedroll and shaving kit, and by the next afternoon the locks had been changed and every time he went over to demand his things back she just sat there in the window with her knife blade of a face and waited for one of the neighbors to call the cops.

  Raymond was new to all this. He was shy, lonely, angry. It had been something like five or six days now, and during that time he’d kept away from the street people, bedding down wherever he could (but not on the sidewalk, that was crazy, and he still didn’t know how that happened), eating when he felt like it and steadily drinking up what was left of his last and final paycheck. He ducked his head. “Right,” he murmured.

  The man introduced himself through his shining wet-toothed grin, because he was just there to get a little drink of fresh H2O himself, and then he was thinking about maybe going into the convenience store on the corner and picking up a nice twelve-pack of Keystone and maybe sitting down by the beach and watching the A-types jog by with their dogs and their two-hundred-dollar running shoes. His name was Schuyler, Rudolph Schuyler, though everybody called him Sky for short, and his dog was Pal.

  The light was like a scimitar, cutting the alley in two. Raymond didn’t think he’d ever seen a line so sharp, a shadow so deep, and that was a kind of revelation, a paean to what man had built—a rectilinear gas station and a neatly proportionate fence topped with a spray of pink-tinged trumpet flowers—and how God had come to light it like a photographer setting up the trickiest shot of his life. And there was a shot just as tricky played out over and over throughout the city, the country, the world even. He patted down his pockets, felt something there still, a few bucks anyway. When he looked up at
Sky, when he finally looked him in the eye, he heard his own voice crawling out of his throat as if there were somebody else in there speaking for him. “Am I hearing you right, or is that an invitation?”

  —

  After the first twelve-pack, there was another—Raymond’s treat—because the great and wise and all-knowing people who brewed the beer in their big vats and sealed it in the shining aluminum cans that were like little pills, little individual doses delivered up in the convenient twelve-ounce format, had foreseen the need and stocked the shelves to overflowing. “You know,” Raymond said, easing back the flip-top on a fresh can, “I read in the paper a couple years ago about that time the mudslides put Big Sur out of business, I mean going both ways on Highway 1—did you hear about that? They had no beer, I mean—they ran out. You remember that?”

  Sky was leaning back against one of the polished boulders the city had dumped along the beach as a seawall, both jackets spread out beneath him, his bare chest and arms exposed to the sun. He was tanned right down to the roots of his hair, tanned like a tennis pro or maybe a diving instructor, somebody vigorous and clean making a clean living under the sun. Out here, on the beach, he didn’t look like a bum—or at least not one of the mental cases you saw on the streets, immured in the walking dungeon of their own stink. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe. I mean, I don’t know—no beer?” He laughed. “How’d they survive?”

  Raymond shrugged. He was looking out to sea, out to where the shimmer of the waves met the horizon in an explosion of light as if diamonds were being ground up in a thin band that stretched laterally as far as you could see. “They’re all rich people up there. I guess they just dug the single-malt scotch and green Chartreuse out of their liquor cabinets and forgot about it. Or their wine cellars, or whatever. But the trucks couldn’t get through, so there was no beer, no potato chips, no Slim Jims.”

  “What, no Pampers and underarm deodorant? What’s a young mother to do?”

  “No Kotex,” Raymond said, tipping back his beer and reaching for another one. The cans were getting warm, though he’d stowed them in the shade, in a crevice between two boulders the size of Volkswagens, but he didn’t mind: warm was better than nothing. He was enjoying himself. “No condoms. No Preparation-H.”

  “Yeah,” Sky said, “but let me tell you, those people suck up there. Big-time. And I know from experience, because if you haven’t got a motel key on you to show the cops—right there, show me a motel key, motherfucker—they put you in the car and drive you out to the city limits, period, no arguments. As if this wasn’t America or something.”

  Raymond had nothing to say to that. He understood where the city fathers were coming from: who wanted an army of bums camped out on the streets? It turned off the tourists, and the tourists were what made a place like Big Sur click in the first place. Or this town. This town right here.

  “So how long?” Sky asked, turning to him with eyes drawn down to slits against the sun.

  Raymond took a pull at the fresh beer in his hands and felt warm all over, felt good, felt superior. “I don’t know, a couple days. A week maybe. I had a place but my girlfriend—she’s a bitch, a real queen bitch—kicked me out.”

  A rope of muscle flashed across Sky’s shoulders as he reached for another beer and felt for the pop-top. “No,” he said, “I mean how long were the roads closed down, like a week, two weeks, what?”

  “Months. Months at least.”

  “Wow. Picture that. But if you had beer and jug wine—and maybe a little stash of canned food, Dinty Moore and the like, it must have been like paradise, if not for the cops, I mean. But even the cops. What are they going to do, kick you out of a place that’s already closed off? Kick you out of nowhere? Like, I’m sorry, officer, I’d really like to accommodate you here, but where the fuck you expect me to go, huh, motherfucker? Like, suck on this.”

  Raymond took a moment to think about that, about the kind of paradise that must have been, or might have been—or could have been under the right conditions—and then, unaccountably, he found himself staring into the glazed brown eyes of a German shepherd with a foam-flecked muzzle and a red bandanna looped round its neck. One minute there’d been nothing there but the open vista of the sea, and now here was this big panting animal crowding his frame of reference and looking at him as if it expected him to get down on all fours and chase it round the beach. “Nice dog,” Raymond said, giving the broad triangular head a pat. The dog panted, stray grains of sand glistening along the black seam of its lips. Pal, curled up at Sky’s feet, never even so much as twitched a muscle. In the next moment two girls in tube tops and shorts jogged by on the compacted sand at the foot of the waves, beautiful girls with their hair and everything else bouncing in the shattered light, and they shouted for the dog and Raymond eased back and popped another beer, wondering why anybody would want to go to work nine-to-five and live in an apartment you had to kill yourself just to make the rent on when you could just kick back, like this, and let the dogs and the women present themselves to you as if you were a potentate on his throne.

  —

  The next thing he knew, the sun was going down. It balanced there on the flat cobalt palm of the ocean, trembling like the flame of a gas stove, till the water took hold of it and spread it across the surface in even, rippling strokes. The palms turned pink overhead. Birds—or were they bats?—hurled themselves from one shadow to another. Raymond was drunk, deeply, blissfully drunk, the original pair of twelve-packs transubstantiated into short-necked pints of wine, then into liters of Black Cat and finally wine again, out of the gallon jug. Somewhere along the line there had been food—Stagg chili, cold, straight from the can—and there was an interlude during which he sat by the fountain at the foot of the pier while Pal, tricked out in a little blue crepe doll’s dress Sky had dug out of the bottom of a Dumpster, danced and did backflips for the tourists. Now there was the beach, the deep-anchored palm against which he was resting his complicit spine, and the sun drowning itself in color.

  The jug came to him, fat and heavy as a bowling ball, and he lifted it to his lips and drank, then passed it on to Sky, who lingered over it before passing it to a tall, mad-haired, slit-eyed guy named Dougie—or was it Droogie? Droogie, yeah. That was it. Like in that old movie, the Kubrick one, and why couldn’t he remember the name of it? Not that it mattered. Not really. Not anymore. All that—movies, books, the knowledge you could wield like a hammer—belonged to another world. Things were more immediate here, more elemental, like where you were going to relieve yourself without getting busted and where the next bottle was coming from.

  During the afternoon, he’d spent a fruitful hour removing the left sleeve of his jacket, to give the thing proportion—to make it look as if it were a fashion statement instead of a disaster—but now, as the sun faded, he began to feel a chill at his back and wished he’d left it alone. There was still the problem of where he was going to sleep. It was one thing to sit around and pass a bottle in a circle of like-minded souls, the sun on your face and the sea breeze ruffling the hair at the back of your neck, and another thing altogether to wake up on the sidewalk like some terminal-stage loser with Swiss cheese for a brain.

  Droogie—or maybe it was Dougie after all—was going on about the Chumash Casino, how he’d hit a thousand-dollar payoff on a slot machine there one night and booked himself into the bridal suite with a lady and a case of champagne and couldn’t find so much as a nickel in his pocket come morning. Another guy—beard, tattoos, one lens gone from his glasses so it looked as if his eye had been staved in—said that was nothing, he’d scored five g’s at Vegas one time, and then Sky cut in with a question for the group, which had grown to six now, including a woman about thirty who kept picking at the dirty yellow dress she wore over her jeans as if she were trying to break it down into its constituent fibers. Sky wanted to know if anybody felt like a nice pepperoni pizza—or maybe one of those thick-crust Hawaiian
jobs, with the pineapple and ham?

  Nobody said anything. The jug went round. Finally, from the echoing depths of his inner self, Raymond heard a voice saying, “Yeah, sure. I could go for it.”

  “All right, my man,” Sky said, rising up from the cradle of his tree, “you are elected.”

  It was all coming from very far off. Raymond didn’t know what was required, didn’t have a clue.

  “Come on, man, let’s hump it. I said pizza. Didn’t you hear me? Pizza!”

  Then they were making their way through the deep sand above tide line and into the parking lot with its shrouded cars and drifting trash, Pal clicking along behind them. The last pay phone in the world stood at the far end of the lot. Sky dropped two coins into it and gave him his instructions: “Be forceful, be a man who knows what he wants, with his feet up on the padded stool in his condo—and don’t slur. They’ll want a call-back number, but they never call back. Make one up. Or your girlfriend. Use your girlfriend’s number.”

  Later, much later, when the fog had settled in like an amphibious skin stretched over everything and the driftwood fire had burned down to coals, Sky pushed himself up from the sand and stretched his arms out in front of him. “Well,” he said, “how about that pizza?” Raymond blinked up at him. The others had wandered off separately, ghosts dissolving in the mist, all except for the woman. At one point, Dougie had bent over her and tugged at her arm as if he were trying to tear a fistful of weeds up out of the ground, but she wasn’t giving an inch and they’d hissed at each other for what seemed like a week before Sky said, “Why don’t you just give it up already,” and Dougie stalked off into the mist. She was sitting beside Raymond now, her lips wet on the neck of the bottle, nothing but dregs and saliva left at this point. “I don’t know if I could eat,” she said.