The Main

“It’s fascism. The rule of a man, rather than the rule of law, is fascism. Even when the man has been around and thinks he knows what’s best… even if the man is trying to do good things… to be fair. It’s still fascism.”

For a moment, LaPointe’s melancholy eyes rest on the young man, then he looks over his head to the gaudy Chinese hanging and the Coke advertisement.

Guttmann expects a denial. Anger. An explanation.

That’s not what comes. After a silence, LaPointe says, “Fascism, eh?” The tone indicates that he never thought of it that way. It indicates nothing more.

Once again, Guttmann feels undercut, bypassed.

LaPointe presses his eye sockets with his thumb and forefinger and sighs deeply. “Well, I think we’d better get some sleep. You can get the sits in your brain, as well as in your ass.” He sniffs and rubs his cheek with his knuckles.

Guttmann delays their leaving. “Sir? May I ask you something?”

“About fascism?”

“No, sir. Back there in the freight yard. That bomme didn’t want me to come with you and see his kip. And later you said something to him about not telling the others. What was that all about?”

LaPointe examines the young man’s face. Could you explain something like this to a kid who learned about people in a sociology class? Where would it fit in with his ideas about society and democracy? There is something punitive in LaPointe’s decision to tell him about it.

“You remember Dirtyshirt Red last night? You remember how he had nothing good to say about the Vet? All the bommes on the Main sleep where they can: in doorways, in alleys, behind the tombstones in the monument-maker’s yard. And they all envy the nice snug private kip the Vet’s always bragging about. They hate him for having it. And that’s just the way the Vet wants it. He wants to be despised, hated, bad- mouthed. Because as long as the other tramps despise and reject him, he isn’t one of them; he’s something special. That make sense to you?”

Guttmann nods.

“Well—” LaPointe’s voice is husky with fatigue, and he speaks quietly. “After we left you back there on the path, I followed him along a trail I could barely see. But there wasn’t anything around. No shack, no hut, nothing. Then the Vet went behind a patch of bush and bent over. I could hear a scrape of metal. He was sliding back a sheet of corrugated roofing that covered a pit in the ground. I went over to the edge of it as he jumped down, sort of skidding on the muddy sides of the hole. It was about eight feet deep, and the bottom was covered with wads of rag and burlap sacking that squished with seep water when he walked around. He had a few boxes down there, to sit on, to use as a table, to stash stuff in. He fumbled around in one of these boxes and found the wallet. It was all he could do to get out of the pit again. The sides were slimy, and he slipped back twice and swore a lot. He finally got out and handed over the wallet. Then he slid the sheet of metal back over the hole. When he stood up and looked at me… I don’t know how to explain it… there was sort of two things in his eyes at the same time. Shame and anger. He was ashamed to live in a slimy hole. And he was angry that somebody knew about it. We talked about it for a while. He was proud of himself. I know that sounds nuts, but it’s how it was. He was ashamed of his hole, but proud of having figured it all out. I guess you could say he was proud of having made his hole, but ashamed of needing it. Something like that, anyway.

“One night a few years ago, he was drunk and looking for a place to hide, where the police wouldn’t run him in for D and D. He found this cave-in hidden away among some bushes. Later on he thought about it, and he got a bright idea. He went back there at night with a spade he pinched somewhere, and he worked on the hole. He made it deeper and made the sides vertical. And whenever the sides crumble from him scrambling in and out, he works on it again. So his hole is always getting bigger. Rain gets in, and water seeps up from the slime, so he keeps adding rags and bags he picks up here and there. It’s a clever little trap he’s made for himself.”

“Trap, sir?”

“That’s what it is. That’s how he uses it. He’s afraid of being picked up drunk and put in a cell and left to scream. So every time he thinks he’s got enough wine inside him to be dangerous, he buys another bottle and brings it back to his kip. Down there in the hole, he can drink until he’s wild and raving. He’s safe down there. Even when he’s sober, it’s hard for him to climb up those slimy sides. When he’s drunk, it’s impossible. He traps himself down there to save himself from being arrested and put inside. Of course, he’s a claustrophobic, so sometimes he gets panicky down there. When his brain’s soggy with wine, he thinks the walls are caving in on him. And he’s terrified that a big rain might fill his pit with water when he’s too drunk to get out. It’s bad down there, you know. When he’s drunk, he can’t get out to shit or piss, so it’s… bad down there.”

“Jesus Christ,” Guttmann says quietly.

“Yeah. He lives in a small hole in the ground because he’s a claustrophobic.”

“Jesus Christ.”

LaPointe leans back in the booth and presses his mat of cropped hair hard with the palm of his hand. “And what do you do if you have to live in a slimy, stinking hole? You brag about it, of course. You make the other bommes despise you. And envy you.”

Guttmann shakes his head slowly, his mouth agape, his eyes squeezed in pity and disgust. LaPointe’s punitive intent in telling him about this has been effective.

“Tell you what,” LaPointe says. “Don’t come by to pick me up tomorrow until around noon. I need some sleep.”

Without turning on the lights, he closes the door behind him and hangs his overcoat on the wooden rack. He flinches when the revolver in his pocket thuds against the wall; he doesn’t want to wake her.

There is a crackling hiss in the room, and the crescent dial of the old Emerson glows dim orange. The station has gone off the air. Why didn’t she turn the radio off? Ah. He forgot to tell her that you also have to jiggle the knob to turn it off. Then why didn’t she pull out the plug? Dumb twit.

The ceiling of the bedroom is illuminated by the streetlamp beneath the window, and he can make out Marie-Louise’s form in the bed, although she is below the shadow line. She sleeps on her side, her hands under her cheek, palms together, and her legs are in a kind of running position that takes up most of the bed.

He undresses noiselessly, teetering for a moment in precarious balance as he pulls off his pants. When he aligns the creases to fold the pants over the back of a chair, some change falls out of his pocket, and he grimaces at the sound and swears between his teeth. He tiptoes around to the other side of the bed and lifts the blankets, trying to slip in without waking her. If he curves his body just right, there is enough room to lie next to her without touching her. For five long minutes he remains there, feeling the warmth that radiates from her, but it is impossible to sleep when the slightest movement would either touch her or make him fall out of bed. Anyway, he feels ridiculous, sneaking into bed with her. He rises carefully, but the springs clack loudly in the silent room.

…at first the creaking bed had made Lucille tense. But later she used to giggle silently at the thought of imagined neighbors listening beyond the wall, shocked at such carryings-on…

At the noise, Marie-Louise moans in confused irritation. “What’s the matter?” she asks in a blurred, muffled voice. “What do you want?”

He lays his hand lightly on her mop of frizzy hair. “Nothing.”

7

“Hey?”

He does not move.

“Hey?”

“Ugh!” LaPointe wakes with a start, blinking his eyes against the watery light coming through the window. It is another gray day with low skies and diffused, shadowless brightness. He squeezes his eyes shut again before finally opening them. His back is stiff from sleeping on the narrow sofa, and his feet stick out from below the