“As I said, be careful.”
“I will, I will.”
TWELVE
man n. 1. An adult male human being, as distinguished from a female. 2. Any human being, regardless of sex or age; a member of the human race; a person.
In this room where I work the typewriting machine, nothing ever changes but me. I sit here, and on one day it is warmer, on another it is colder, there is a draft or there is not, the mice are louder or quieter, the smell of decay strong or faint, but, in fact, these variations only serve to remind me that I am a viable being in a dead environment. Sometimes it seems that I am the only living thing in the world, and that it is only the products of my imagination that end up on this paper. But at other times, such as now, the aftermath of the day is too strong for such pretense.
How to begin?
At the beginning, I suppose; with walking out the door, and then try to set it all down in order, as well as I remember it. Much is hazy, but these things have a way of returning to me as I set them down.
I slipped out of the back of the house. I wasn’t worried about being seen; as long as I know to be careful, I can remain unobserved. I went across to Jefferson and down to Thirty-third, where the bus stops in front of a small privately owned neighborhood grocery store. There is a long-abandoned school across the street from it, as well as two 1920’s-era houses that have not yet been abandoned. There are sometimes hookers there, too, although that is too close to my own neighborhood for my purposes. Still, had there been any girl working just then, I should not have hesitated.
In addition to buses and hookers, it is a place where cabs come by frequently. I don’t like being transported, but I didn’t feel that I had any choice. I had no trouble flagging one down. I climbed into the back seat and said, “Little Philly.”
The driver, one of the older type (cab drivers are always younger than twenty-five or older than thirty-five; I don’t know why that is), turned around and said, “You wanna be more specific than that?”
“No.”
He sighed. “All right. I’ll take you to Saint Thomas and Maple.”
“That’ll be fine,” I said.
He tried to talk to me but I wasn’t interested. I kept a close watch on him to see if he was going to look at me in his mirror, but he never did; else the trip would have been shorter. I paid the meter, $6.90, and tipped him two dollars and ten cents.
I spotted her almost at once; tall and black, carrying a small lavender handbag, wearing the same dark miniskirt and a brown leather coat that was too short and too light for the weather. Her expression of disdain was just like before; I guess some guys found it attractive. What was her name? Sylvia? Something like that. I took a step toward her. She saw me at about the same time, and I could feel the quick intake of her breath.
She took a step backward, looked over her shoulder as if seeking a place to run, then turned and began walking away at a good pace. I set out after her; she ought not to be able to outrun me, even weakened as I was. Besides, I was getting desperate.
She stepped into a little cul-de-sac shopping area that was very much out of place in the neighborhood, full of flower stores, used-book stores, violin shops, and so on. I followed her through it, and out a back door into a small parking lot, probably for employees, where she stepped behind a man wearing a brown leather coat just like hers only longer and belted, checkered zip boots, and a wide-brim hat. He was thin and tough looking in a Nordic way, clean shaven and with an ugly square chin. I heard her whisper, “That’s the one, Charlie. That’s the man what did that thing to me.”
I stared at him. “What is this?” I said. “A white pimp and a black whore? Don’t you people have any respect for tradition? What if word got out?” His hand was in his pocket. When it came out I saw a glint of metal reflected from the store lights that shone on the parking lot.
I said, “Let me guess, Charlie. A butterfly knife, right?”
He said, “You know me, motherf-er?”
“You get one point for the dialogue, Charlie,” I said, “but I’m afraid you lose one for the knife, and another because you’re the wrong color. Sorry, net loss. Go away and try again another time. I have business with the lady. We’ll call you when we’re done.”
She moved a little closer to him. How tender. “You f-ed with one of my girls, man.” He was walking toward me as he spoke.
“I thought that was the idea.”
“You’re dead.”
“Now there’s another good line,” I told him. “You just might make it on the dialogue alone. Now, do something flashy with the knife while the camera gets a closeup on your hand, okay?”
“You’re pretty smart, motherf-er.”
“You already called me that. Come up with something different. No, on the other hand, skip it. I want to see you make the knife do tricks.” He did, too. Whoosh, whoosh, shick, shick, it went. Then he tried something even flashier, something that was supposed to hurt me. After that, he backed away, holding his right wrist in his left hand and grimacing. I threw the knife over my shoulder. It hit the plowed pavement and clanked. He gritted his teeth and reached behind him with his left hand, clumsily.
If I’d been faster, I could have prevented him from getting the gun out, but I was just too slow. It was a stupid little revolver, probably a. 38, with a barrel about two inches long. But I don’t like having guns pointed at me, even when I’m in the best of health.
He got off one round, which hit me low in the stomach on my right side, and that was all he had time for. Unfortunately, it gave the girl time to scream, and, worst luck of all, there turned out to be a patrol car within hearing of either the shot or the scream; the siren came almost at once.
I left him lying there and said to her, “Honey, this is your lucky day. You should find a new line of work, because I don’t think you’re going to have any more luck after this.”
I slipped away into the night as the police arrived, leaving her to explain things however she might. My need was urgent now, painful and desperate, and the bullet wound in my stomach wasn’t helping any.
There was a time when I wandered, not knowing where to go, alert as an animal for those blue uniforms. I don’t know where I went, but I remember leaning against a phone booth and suddenly thinking, “I could call Susan.”
I could call her, and she would come and pick me up in an automobile, and she would give me what I needed. I closed my eyes for a moment, and it seemed I could feel the heat of her skin against mine, the touch of her lips. Yes. I could call Susan, my lover, and she would come, and she would save me by-she would save me.
I pulled some coins out of my pocket and found one worth a quarter of a dollar. I let the others fall onto the floor of the phone booth; the clatter they made striking the metal floor of the telephone booth seemed inordinately loud and to echo and reverberate for a very long time.
I knew I was not well, and my hunger was a need that filled valleys and leveled mountains. Did I remember her number? Yes. I held the coin up toward the slot and noticed that my hand was shaking. That was all right; I just needed to reach Susan, and she would come for me, and take me home and-
I lurched out of the phone booth, dropping the quarter into the snow (at least, I don’t have it now, and I don’t remember doing anything else with it), and struggled to a place as far from any lights as possible, just because I felt the need for darkness as sanctuary. That’s the real trouble with cities, much as I love them: there’s nowhere that is truly dark.
There was a sweep of headlights past me, and for a moment I thought it was the police again, but no. I was
