by Peter Plate
A trustee stands outside my tank in the morning. He holds a hand mirror sideways, letting me see the most recent doings in the next tank. It’s a new chapter from the prayer book of hell. With ecclesiastical calm the sissy sways from the butt end of a knotted wifebeater tied to the bars, his feet an inch off the floor. His once-pretty face is marbling with early rigor mortis. No longer earthbound, his mouth is upturned in a smile: I’m free. You assholes aren’t.
For a heartbeat, I’m jealous.
Nobody cuts him down. No one wants to get written up for tampering with a crime scene, resulting in the denial of commissary privileges.
I could be up there with him, the two of us dancing together into purgatory. But I wouldn’t smile. Not like him. It’s just not the style. Not where I come from.
My credo: each to his own. I distribute forty-five grand of pharaoh’s money at the soup kitchen, divvying the cash to my lambs on a flyblown, sweltering afternoon—off to the promised land we go. Superman would never approve of me, but that’s his damn problem, not mine.
TWENTY-EIGHT
But like I said, there was no fairy tale ending. A black SWAT helicopter banked over Pioneer Park, then circled back for another look. That was enough for me. I tossed the empty Vons bag on the ground. I wired a command to my legs: it’s time to go. With the tambourine and donations bucket firmly in hand, I peeled through the park’s crackheads to E Street.
I’m weeping from exhaustion when I get there. Mother of Christ. In my worst dreams I couldn’t have asked for a messier day. Sick of everything—defrocked—I strip off the tattered cleric’s collar, cummerbund, and robe. I jettison the rags into a garbage bin.
Still crying, I chuck the donations bucket onto the pigeon-shit-caked pavement. I’m trying to figure out what to do next when two muscular blond men in blue Brooks Brothers suits and yellow suede Hush Puppy loafers flank me. Unfortunately, I know who they are. It’s not stellar news. The taller one asks: “You the donations solicitor?”
I’m coy. “Who are you? You guys evangelists or what? If you’re evangelists, I got no time for you. I’m busy.”
“We’re investigators from Blessed World.”
“What’s that? A theme park?”
“You don’t know? We’re a charity. And a church.”
“Is that a fact? I’ve never heard of it.”
“We’ve come for the uniform. It’s our property.”
“Come on.” I laugh hysterically through my tears. “You see me wearing anything like that?”
As the robe came apart, I shed the husk of the person I once was. The man they seek no longer exists. The fool that wore the uniform is gone. I laugh harder, snot leaking from my nose. “I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”
“But what’s that bucket you’ve got?”
“What about it?”
“And you have a tambourine.”
“I’m the best damn tambourine player you’ll ever meet.”
“You don’t have our uniform in your possession?”
“What’s the matter with you, man? Are you blind?”
“Have it your way. We’re calling SWAT.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s fantastic. I can’t wait.”
I shut my eyes. I see Sugar Child shimmying in front of the halfway house. I see the Isaac Babel paperback in the Valencia Avenue free box. I see little Sally and Crazy Diane in their room at the Pioneer Motel warming a can of soup on a two-burner hot plate. One thing is certain. I stick around here, it’s a ticket back to Muscupiabe.
I deep-breathe. Five breaths in, eight breaths out.
On the ninth breath, I reopen my eyes.
I take off like Superman.
I jet past ancient Mexican women hawking canned goods on the sidewalk. Picking up speed I hightail it past El Pueblo, the footfall of the Blessed World investigators lagging behind me. In mid-stride I pry the last of the bank robber’s money—taped inside my tambourine—and pitch the bills into the wind.
Five thousand dollars spiral in the wintry sky, mingling with blackbirds and pigeons sidewinding over the rooftops. Caught in a downdraft, the banknotes plunge to the ground.
I cross Sixth Street against a red light. A cloudburst of sparrows blows up over the power lines as a bus pulls away from the curb. Sprinting alongside the coach, I motion at the driver to stop. He slows down and opens the door. “What the heck is wrong with you? You trying to get yourself killed? Get in here and sit your ass somewhere in the back where I don’t have to look at you, okay?”
I clamber aboard and flutter to the rear. A black woman in an orange babushka counsels me from her seat. “Young man, you’re buck naked. If I were you, I’d pray for deliverance.”
I take her advice. While the bus rattles north on E Street, I kneel in the aisle on a bed of apple cores, used syringes, plastic bags, and toilet paper. I pound the tambourine and sing:
“For every injured soul. To whatever can be conjured from the ordinary, to renew this tired earth.”
TWENTY-NINE
I haven’t seen daddy for a little while—but I’m distracted—SWAT cops are running around in all directions. When no one’s watching, I sneak behind the dumpster at El Pueblo. I wriggle into the silver lamé gown. It’s more work than I thought—the damn thing fits me tighter than a straitjacket. But whatever. The price is right. I’m looking good. Wig or no wig.
□ □ □
It’ll be a wonderful Christmas—I just know it. Never mind the heat. The rats in the palm trees. Or Dalton. Or Rudy from Muscoy’s mania. None of that matters now.
Delighted with my silver lamé gown, happier than I’ve been in ages—my blood sings—I’m veering into Pioneer Park when something brushes my shoulders. I look up—cheese is raining from the skies. I lift a hand—a ten-dollar bill attaches itself to my fingertips. All at once I see Robert F. Kennedy in the park. He’s in gabardine slacks, a white dress shirt, no tie. His mussed auburn hair is movie-star perfect. Brandishing a fistful of twenties, he declares: “There is fear we will never be truly free from hunger and want, from illnesses which eat the soul, that we are nothing but fodder in history’s mouth. Yet we are nearing Jerusalem. If not this season, then the next. For the meek shall inherit the city.”
His voice fades into a Prolixin hiss. I hike the gown’s hem and shuffle to E Street. One step, two steps. The sidewalk glimmers with smashed Christmas lights, gold tinsel drips from palm trees. I’m nearing Seventh Street when a northbound bus passes by with a naked man on board. He’s banging away at a tambourine like some kind of escapee from Patton.
I blink twice. Oh, daddy. What are you doing?
THIRTY
Look at it this way: it was a crapshoot. The odds were against me. But it’s nothing to worry about. I just have to live my life. Hold my head high. Do the best I can.
You have saccharine thoughts like that when you’re handcuffed and naked in the backseat of a SWAT squad car en route to county jail. The cops up front are laughing about how easy it was to bust me. That a nude man on E Street isn’t hard to pop, even if he’s hiding on the bus. The assholes—they took my tambourine.
The SWAT car zooms by El Pueblo. I peep through the back window, admiring the garden I planted. Twenty-dollar bills impaled on tree branches. Ten-spots lolling by the curb. Homeless folks are pouring out of Pioneer Park to harvest greenbacks from the sidewalk.
I’m not alone in the backseat. I’ve got plenty of company. An entire orchestra. Rhonda is the loudest: I don’t understand you. That time you went down on me? It was dreadful. Bad technique. Bad everything. Instead of talking with me, instead of just being tender, you tried to control me. And I freaked out, didn’t I? It’s all your fault. It always was. You ruin everything. Alonzo is merciless: I invested much too much into our friendship. All that energy, all that love, completely wasted. Do you know how selfish you are? No, you don’t. You’re a narcissist. Rudy from Muscoy spews: Rhonda not only made a pass at me, she put her hand on my you-know-what. I’m not
lying, dude. Your wife did that. While you were in prison. So go fuck yourself. The bank robber goes for my throat: I told you to give the suitcase to Jesus Christ. But you had to give the cheese to a bunch of homeless pendejos. You betrayed me, puto. Dalton chirps: I’ve got great news, Pastor. The district attorney is going to throw the book at you. And I can’t wait to get you into the strip cell. Just you, me, and a pair of brass knuckles to redesign your pious face. Superman gets in the last word: you tragic fuck. How could you compare yourself to me? Look at you. This shit would never happen to my ass. Not in this lifetime. And there’s only one Superman. That’s me. Not you, asshole.
Here it comes. Christmas Day at county jail. No visitors. No bail. The felony tanks reeking with Lysol. The toilets brimming over. A tin bowl of congealed oatmeal and margarine for dinner.
And no Dos Passos novel this time around.
Let’s be reasonable. I have to get the fuck out of this car. Like pronto. There’s only one way to do it. Five breaths in, eight breaths out. In, out. In, out. Now go: I head-butt the backseat’s metal security screen. I lacerate my scalp, bleeding on the floor. Perfecto. The SWAT cops bawl at me to stop it. Boom: I butt the screen again. Pissed off, the driver brakes the squad car, double-parking just past El Pueblo. His partner vaults out of the vehicle, trots to my door. He unlocks it, then reaches for his taser.
You ever been tasered? You’ll do anything to avoid it. Anything. Short of begging for mercy. Which only makes the pricks want to taser you even more. The SWAT officer rips open the door, looms like a werewolf in the backseat. I feint to his left. He flinches—all that blood on me. I lunge past him and somersault onto the pavement.
It’s showtime.
I pogo to my feet and dart up the sidewalk. A SWAT foot patrol sees me coming—they race to cut me off. They’re in single file, orderly, and silent. I’m intimate with their parochial silence: it’s rubber-bullet time. The worst of times. A volley is fired in my direction—the air glistens black with rubber.
Hampered by the handcuffs, I leg it toward El Pueblo. At full tilt I stumble and crash into the eatery’s windows, ramming my forehead through the double-thick panes—the plate glass breaks into shards. Shaking off blood, I skid into the dining room, dancing barefoot in broken glass. I leapfrog onto the nearest tabletop as more SWAT cops breeze into the restaurant. I kick a salt shaker and ketchup bottle at them. Then I get a load of Sugar Child in the doorway. Standing proudly alone. Just killing it in a silver lamé ballroom gown. A frayed strap hangs from her bony pale shoulder. Her nubby hair is greased with Vaseline. SWAT cops tackle me from behind—I receive a double blast of pepper spray in the eyes. Playing hard to get, I broad jump from the table onto the floor. I shoot by the startled cops and head out the door into the street. I turn right, rushing toward Base Line.
□ □ □
I’m running faster than punk-ass Superman ever did when an unexpected coolness touches my face—the sun passing behind a palm tree—and for a delicious moment everything is new again. The sky is indigo blue. The mountains sparkle. Nothing has been lost. No one is a loser. And it seems all my problems will end, that I’ll never revisit loneliness or pain, but the end is very far away, and the last war is just beginning. I run through the street, crazed from pepper spray, shouting: “Sugar Child! I love you! I really do!”
But rubber bullets are flying everywhere, and nobody hears me, nobody at all.
peter plate taught himself to write fiction while squatting in abandoned buildings. He is the author of many books, including the novels Police and Thieves, Angels of Catastrophe, Elegy Written on a Crowded Street, Soon the Rest Will Fall, and Dirty in Cashmere, all published by Seven Stories Press.
seven stories press is an independent book publisher based in New York City. We publish works of the imagination by such writers as Nelson Algren, Russell Banks, Octavia E. Butler, Ani DiFranco, Assia Djebar, Ariel Dorfman, Coco Fusco, Barry Gifford, Martha Long, Luis Negrón, Peter Plate, Hwang Sok-yong, Lee Stringer, and Kurt Vonnegut, to name a few, together with political titles by voices of conscience, including Subhankar Banerjee, the Boston Women’s Health Collective, Noam Chomsky, Angela Y. Davis, Human Rights Watch, Derrick Jensen, Ralph Nader, Loretta Napoleoni, Gary Null, Greg Palast, Project Censored, Barbara Seaman, Alice Walker, Gary Webb, and Howard Zinn, among many others. Seven Stories Press believes publishers have a special responsibility to defend free speech and human rights, and to celebrate the gifts of the human imagination, wherever we can. In 2012 we launched Triangle Square books for young readers with strong social justice and narrative components, telling personal stories of courage and commitment. For additional information, visit www.sevenstories.com.