Christian's eyes opening. To see there, calmly staring down. Clarance Vine. Any second I 'll feel the puncture of trocar. Those same quietly impassioned cheeks. Always freshly shaved. The stiff white collar. Neat little knot of the Game Club tie he wears tonight. At my funeral. Or assessing my moisture content. At my embalming. Hope he's come to close the casket. Extra special care taken of a former employee. Time to usher me softly to rest. Or god am I dead. Or holy shit am I still alive.
"Cornelius, Cornelius, can you hear me."
"I think so."
"You've got friends Cornelius. Why haven't you come back to see me. Doctor Pedro and I want to help you. I mean it Cornelius. This is no way. You'll get yourself killed.''
''I 'm going back home across the ocean, Mr Vine.'J
"Home is where your hat is. All you have to do is hang it in my new branch. Charlie, Miss Musk, they all ask after you.''
"I got you sued."
''That's just the name of the game Cornelius.''
"I'm not dying am I."
"That's what you thought wasn't it, that you were dead, when you saw my face. Come on, admit.''
"It was for a second.''
"Well boy this hospital hasn't ever heard some of the things you've been shouting. A famous man just died upstairs. But they tell me all the histrionics have been down here. You got in dutch all over again Cornelius. The police were waiting to get a statement. Just damn lucky I knew another precinct captain. Broke two jaws, two people's noses, one man's testicle crushed. I don't know how his other escaped. A guy had to hit you with a champagne bottle to stop the carnage. Ordinary whiskey bottles made no impression. Patrolmen say the place looked like a slaughter house. Cornelius you've got to be careful, there are people who try to get even in this town.''
Eyes cloud over. Clarance your voice is fading. Going to sleep. I'm tired. Of everything in this native land-. Man stopped me yesterday on the street. Said he was in awful pain with something in his eye. He was looking for an apartment and had gone along to see it and couldn't find the janitor and someone said the janitor was upstairs and when he went up to look, there was the janitor sucking this sailor's cock and the janitor said he was busy, come back in ten minutes and bring a friend and I 'd like to ask do you want to come. And down in the subway again. On an empty train. Another guy comes in. Opening his fly. Takes out his prick and as he pulls, turns to politely ask do you want to eat this. I was weary. With no appetite left. Said sorry. That I was looking to see what else was on the menu. Next station he got off pulling as he went. Dividing a path through the people along the platform. With your prick out the whole city knows you mean what you're pulling and stand back. And the screams in that bar. As I was rolling over and over again on the floor. Fighting backwards into a room filled with packing cases. Sending out left fists. Hooking a right hook two feet deep into someone 's belly, knuckles hitting the inside bumps of this total stranger's backbone. Voices. What's the matter, you got no respect for America. Bar room floor where I could see the milling shoes. Thought in all the melee to give Quell a hot foot as soon as possible. Darkness. Then the sirens. Warehouses, dark stoops. And the night air is crisp and chill and the stars are out straight above me. A doctor's hairy hand and wrist watch. Taking my pulse to see if I'm still alive. Pass over iron clanking sewer covers in the street. And the drums are beating. Throbbing from river to river. Corridor to corridor. Where the dead are being wheeled away with their sheets bunched and thrown on top. Signs up on the walls. Don't stick things in your ears. And another time in another empty subway station. Sit on a bench. See a man. Far far away at the end of the platform. Walking slowly closer and closer. Passing bench after empty bench. And sits right next to me. And I swear to christ I couldn't believe it myself. Big slow rumbling growls began to come from between my curled up lips, showing a slightly vampire tooth on the left side. Then the gentleman rose, bowed and apologised. Said he was a pastor of a Baptist church. And he would be glad to have me there. Blond as I was among his dusky congregation. Would have got down on my knees to ask his forgiveness but he might think I was trying to blow him. And no one wants to know you. Unless you're jackass grinning in the latest best of latest places. Shut off their ears, turn away eyes at your loneliness and despair. Bush to gladness, the shiny and the new. Like the mealy mouthed cunts back at the office. The guys. The shitheads. O yes, Christian, I think he went that way again, to the rest room, with the Wall Street Journal, o about two hours ago. -And I went surging through this city. Looking like no one else would to find the owner of a dollar lying in the street. Hello. Can you hear me. All the faces in that bar. One doll thought it would be fun to scratch my eyes out. And my fists were singing. And her lips became bruised tomatoes nailed on her teeth. Women first. As I hit her. With the whole bar trying to hit me. Someone said I could talk myself out of anything. Meager told me I would never admit I was wrong. Two foster mothers in a row said I was a born little liar. When I was only diplomatic. And Meager told me I made a social mistake. When I drank my soda first before others were served. Told me you can't get out of it, you violated the rudiments of good manners. You drank your soda first. I was just tasting it to see if I got the wrong one. See, there you go, trying to get out of it. But you're not going to get out of this one. Even aboard an ocean liner. With an east bound contract ticket says Deck R Cabin 34. Adults one, servants none, total one. Mutually agreed between carrier and passenger that if the ship goes down. That's just tough titty. Each hour now, one hour less. Getting out. Running along the shore waving to the ship, shouting wait for me. Open my eyes. Let the light in. Feel pain in my arm. All the promises told. Your mother is somewhere sonny. Your father is gone away but he'll be back. Lie here. Hands care. A dark complexioned policeman once put his arm around my shoulders. To comfort me when I was little and lost. He had the saddest and kindest face. To tell you as a child. Don't worry son. And I did. Listening so hard to what they told me. Show honesty in the squeeze of your handshake. Grow tall strong and bronze like the buildings. Tear them down before they get ghosts. All over this city.
Too rich
To laugh at
Too lonely
To love
29
Clarance Vine brought me from the hospital back to my west side room in a brand new blue limozine. The city waking. As the night time citizens go to sleep. Stacks of newspapers slapped down on the sidewalks from delivery trucks. Foil: at the bus stops. Blond girl carrying her laundry to drop off on her way to work. And one morning when I was an early riser buying a bun, a guy standing inside a door of the confectionary shop opened it as customers approached and they all say thank you. And he says after they've gone, sure I opened it for them, because I didn't want to get hit in the head when they push it open themselves.
Go purring four wheeled down my one way street. To leave the quiet peace of the limo's black interior. Borneo, the chauffeur dark and swarthy. With Vine, he helped me up the steps. Wobbling as I went. Shook hands with Clarance. How short he is. And stands so high, a stately gentleman. As folk come out the door heading for work. Their hair wet with water. Parts gleaming along their skulls. Giving me side glances. With that look, who do you know that I could meet to get to know so that everybody would like to know me.
Lay two days in bed. Throwing my shoes at the scouting cockroaches. And listening to symphonies on the radio. Bathing my eyes and head in lemon scented water. Drinking apple juice, eating pears and slabs of Swiss cheese. Whole basket of fruit sent by Clarance. One arm under bandages. Felt someone watching me from across the street and pulled down my shade. Opened up a letter. The only mail I get. Another invitation to have your rupture fixed. With an agent taking truss measurements just downtown.
And Friday when I had the strength to walk and even skip and hop, I answered the phone. A motherly voice saying, you Christian. And before I could say Peabody. She said you blond fucking white bastard I'm gonna cut your balls off. You mother fucker. We got pictures of you doing it. Putting your white p
rick in my daughter Hephzibah's mouth.
Made a very slow replacement of the receiver. And lay playing with myself another day. Looking behind me now as I move hastily along the street. Trying to curl my right hand into a lily white fist again. Little bumps of bloody scab on my skull. Get a wigwam. Put in on the subway. A nomad. Platform to platform smoking my peace pipe till it's time to go. Or some god damn bastard crowds me trying to eat some of my thanksgiving corn. In monkey city where everyone's making faces.
This Saturday. First falling leaves. The sun in clear blue skies. Parade of dogs and owners crossing to the park. Stillness of air. Warmed by this Indian summer. And up there in their glistening palisades of buildings those dirty rich sons of bitches. Chewing pills and patting lotions on their faces and ass and staying the hell away from the likes of me.
As I go now north by the roaring rapid transit up into the Bronx. Everyone staring. At my pair of peach colored shoes. Hand lasted all the way from Bulgaria. Found in the back of old man Sourpuss's closet as I was nosily looking a last time through Fanny's apartment. In front of the building. Saw Willie waiting, great bare haunches of his shoulders in his underwear, sitting on the curb by the pee stained fire hydrant. And just as I was leaving and putting the set of keys Fanny gave me on the table, the phone rang and kept on ringing. Picked it up. Heard far away. My name. Cornelius. Cornelius. And I listened and listened and said hello, hello. And the voice wouldn't speak. Could only hear the echo of my name. All the way from Minnesota. Till my own voice couldn't speak. A night bleak and black out to the end of the wires. Beyond the golden plume waving fields of maize. The beginning of nowhere. Nothing to be said to anyone anymore. And say something. Are you there. Then heard goodbye. Then I waited and waited. And hung up quietly as I could so that she would never know. Like she told me her husband old Sourpuss used to say. That if ever he lost his money. He would just go away. Far far at the end of a telephone line. Away from wherever anybody ever knew him. And keep his mouth shut. His phone dead. Silent and disconnected. That's how you finally go.
Christian standing splay footed in the first car of the rocking subway train. Chains swaying, wind blasting in around the door. The sunshine as we come up out of the earth. The tracks ahead, two gleaming silver rails. The stations with their plank floors and gabled awning roofs. The last stop. Go down these iron shadowy stairs I've descended so many times before. Quiet shirt sleeved afternoon drinkers in the tavern. Wait for the bus across the street. By the cemetery's gates. Climb aboard. Along an aisle of faces. With tiny recognitions locked behind the eyes.
Christian walking again along this curving Parkway. All the way to the monument. A bronze eagle with its talons on a pink marble ball. And the names of the patriotic dead. The cannon where I used to play. An Indian battle field across the street. A water fountain. A thumb over the spout to squirt other kids' faces. The fence where we all sat watching the green zooming fireflies and jerking off. Summer simple pleasures. The walks home from school. Hoping the knowledge in the books I carried would go up my wrist and into my brain. Wondering where everybody was. What's doing. Sucking sodas in the sweet shop. Sitting empty mouthed because I hardly ever had a dime. And over there now, parked on the highway, policeman sitting drinking beer in their car. Wearing nice blue uniforms waiting for speeders. Look at me from behind their sunglasses. Never seen such bellies in blue. They saw my shoes. And hooked a thumb in my direction. I just looked back at them with that air, that I know somebody who knows somebody who's something and you better watch out. And passed by putting an extra inch on my chest. Made no impression but they're not arresting me.
Charlotte in her long lacy white dress, a straw wide hat on her haystack hair. As we go down the red steps of her house. Her jaw dropped when she saw me. From the top of my blond head to the tip of my peach shoes. And I raise my bandaged arm. A last little wad of dollars for spending in my pocket. A breeze after this late high sunned still afternoon. She said her mother said we could borrow her car.
"Charlotte, where should we go."
"Let's go anywhere."
And we drive north. By the back childhood streets. Where so much of my life began. The last hours of which I thought I was living only days ago. The nun in the hospital said when I said I was dying, that o Mr Christian, you're not ready yet to meet your maker. Who I said lived on a hill with lawns around and buttercups sprinkled in the green.
Cornelius steering this dark grey eight cylinder coupe of a car. Stopping at a roadhouse by a great block of apartments in the woods. Drinking scotch and soda in the blue dim lights. And drive further north past the brick sprawling building with the blue slate roof where I went to school. And outside the sunny class rooms spruce trees grew in their blue tips to touch the windows and there were little hills and mountains for miles around and lakes clear and magic. And better than all the algebra, the sound a twig makes on an endless aimless afternoon. To touch her skin is better than all the history or civics. You lived when you didn't know you were living. And dying you know. Because you'll do anything to make it stop. When it's too late and it won't. Like Fanny Sourpuss gone forever on the train. Way beyond all those young yesterdays. Everything a dream on our lips. Better than today. When I drive Charlotte's mother's car without a license. On a last night to remember. Of all the other nights on these roads. Carrying my hopes. Of richness. To look down from a height on everybody. Lumped together so that it's easy to see that you're better than the whole god damn bunch.
Turning left up a cobble stone road. Along trolley tracks. To the wooded top of this hill. And left between these straight narrow high elm trees. Where I know there used to be a place. Down a cinder drive to a parking lot. Of this old but lavish eatery. With its factory windows. In the balmy air. Where Charlotte and I can go hand in hand to a white covered table I can see through the leaves out on a terrace of sunken garden.
Cornelius Christian standing on the top green step inside this entrance. Palm leaves wag as waiters head to and fro, high nosed and sniffing and brow lifting. Follow this pointing disdaining major domo. To a table remote and lonely. Sit on these chairs iron, white and filigree. All so cold and silent. Son of a bitch waiter staring at my shoes. Touch the silver salt and pepper things. Show him I'm totally at ease. And Charlotte's so sad. At my affront to fashion.
''But didn 't you know that peach is really the snazz.''
"No I didn't know."
"I'm starting a fashion.''
''But they looked at us."
''I thought you were so tickled pink to go out with me.''
"I was. I am."
"I feel smooth in these shoes. I'm proud of these shoes.''
"We're just sitting here. And nothing is happening. They're just ignoring us. And listen, hear them laughing, all those other people in really expensive clothes in the other room. The men had black shoes and dark ties and white shirts. They're all so formal. And the waiters are hurrying around them.''
A Fairy Tale of New York Page 33