“Last flight—
They had come up nine landings.
“—and here we are.”
A metal door grated in its frame.
As Tak stepped before him onto the tarred roof, he turned his head away from the cloud-colored dawn. After darkness, it was still too bright. Face scrunched against the light, he stopped on the sill, one hand on the jamb, the other holding back the ribbed and riveted door.
Smoke lay waist-high on the air.
He relaxed his face, blinking a lot.
Beyond the brick balustrade, roofs and roofs checkered into the mist. The gap, there, must have been the park. Beyond it was a hill, scaly with housing. “Jesus.” He squinted in the other direction. “I didn’t realize this place was so far from the bridge. I’d just come off it when you called to me down in the street.”
Tak chuckled. “No, you’d wandered pretty far.”
“I can just get a glimpse—” he stood on tiptoe—“of the river.” And lowered himself. “I thought it was just two, three blocks away.”
Tak’s chuckle became a full laugh. “Hey, how’d you lose one sandal?”
“Huh?” He looked down. “Oh…I was being chased. By dogs.” That sounded funny, too; so he laughed. “Yeah, I really was.” He picked up his foot, rested it above his knee to examine the caked and calloused sole. The horny edge was cracked both sides. His ankle, knob and hollow, was grit-grey. Heel, ball, instep, and each dusty toe were gun-barrel black. He wiggled his toes: grit ground. “I guess it was—” He looked up frowning—“maybe a couple of days ago—” and put his foot down. “It was about three o’clock. In the morning. It was raining. No cars. So I took a nap on somebody’s porch. About five, when it was getting light, I went back out on the road to hitch. But it was still raining. So I figured, hell, I’d go back and catch another hour or two, ’cause there weren’t any cars. Only when I got back, there was this damn dog, who’d been sleeping under the porch all the time I’d been snoozing topside. He was awake now. And he started barking. Then he chased my ass down to the road. I ran. He ran. My sandal broke and went into a ditch somewhere—I just about didn’t notice. While I was running, this old blue car pulled up—big old lady driving, with her skinny husband, and the back seat full of children. I jumped in out of the rain, and we drove right across the border, into Louisiana! They were all off to spend the day with some other kid of hers who was at some army base.” He stepped from the sill. “Bought me a good breakfast, too.” The door creaked closed behind him. “But I guess that’s when I first noticed I couldn’t remember my name. She asked me for it and I couldn’t tell her…But I don’t think I’ve known it for a long, long time.” And he was almost used to the light. “I mean, you don’t go around thinking about yourself by your own name, do you? Nobody does—unless somebody calls to you by it, or asks you what it is. I haven’t been around people who know me for…for a while now. It’s just something I haven’t thought of for a long time, and somehow it’s…I guess just slipped my mind.” He looked at the tops of his feet again, both filthy, one crossed with straps, one bare. “It doesn’t bother me. Missing a sandal, I mean. I go barefoot a lot of the time.”
“Like a hippie?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, when I’m in a hippie-type town.” Again he looked around the misty horizon. “You sleep up here?”
“Come on.” Tak turned. A breeze swung one jacket flap from his belly, pressed the other against him, neck to hip. “That’s my house.”
It had probably been built as a maintenance shack, put on the roof for tool storage. Bamboo curtains backed recently puttied panes. The door—tar paper had ripped in one place from greyed pine—was ajar.
They walked around a skylight. Tak hit the door with his hand-heel. (Like he expected to surprise somebody…?) The door swung in. Tak stepped inside: click. Lights went on. “Come on, make yourself at home.”
He followed the engineer across the sill. “Hey, this is pretty nice!”
Tak stooped to peer into a crackling kerosene heater. “It’s comfortable…now I know I didn’t walk out of here and leave this thing going. Someday I’m gonna come back home and find this whole place just a pile of ashes—of course, in Bellona that could happen whether I left it on or not.” He stood up, shaking his head. “It gets a little chilly here in the morning. I might as well leave it go.”
“Christ, you’ve got a lot of books!”
Shelves covered the back wall, floor to ceiling, filled with paperbacks.
And: “Is that a short wave setup?”
“Part of one. The rest is in the next room. I could just sit in bed and CQ all over the place—if I could get anything but static. The interference around this place is something terrible. Then, it may be something’s wrong with my set. I’ve got my own power supply: a couple of dozen acid batteries in the back. And a gasoline charger.” He stepped to the desk in the corner, shrugged his jacket down the gold rug of his back, and hung it on a wall hook. (He still wore his cap.) Blurred in blond, his forearm bore a dragon, his bicep some naval insignia. On one shoulder, a swastika had been tattooed, then, not very efficiently, removed. “Have a seat.” Tak pulled a swivel chair from the desk, turned it around, and sat. Knees wide, he slid his hand under his belt to arrange himself where his genitals bagged the denim. “Take the bed…there.”
An incongruous fur throw lay on the board floor. An India print draped down over what he thought was a daybed. But when he sat on it, he realized it was just a very thin mattress on the top of some built-out cabinet: or at any rate, just plank. Still, the place looked comfortable. “You’re doing a little better than those kids in the park.”
Tak grinned, took off his cap, and dropped it on the desk blotter. “I guess I am. But then, that’s not too difficult.” The military short hair jarred with his unshaven jaw.
The desk, except for the cap, was bare.
Shelves above it held binoculars, slide rules, drafting compasses and pens, two pocket calculators, French curves and templates, colored pentels, several cut and polished geodes, a row of ornamental daggers on display stands, a pile of plastic parts boxes, a soldering gun…
“Hey…” Tak slapped one knee. “I’m gonna make some coffee. Got some canned ham, too. Real good ham. And bread.” He stood up and went to a door, hung, like the windows, with tan splints. “You just relax. Take it easy. Take your clothes off and stretch out, if you want.” By his boot, the bubbling heater picked out what still glowed in the scuffed leather. “I’ll be back in a minute. Glad you like the place. I do too.” He ducked through bamboo.
On one wall (he had only glanced till now) were three, yard-high, full color, photographic posters:
On one, some adolescent weightlifter, Germanic as Tak, wearing only boots and a denim jacket with no sleeves, leaned against a motorcycle, stubby hands flat against his naked legs.
On the second, a muscular black, in what could have been Tak’s jacket, cap, and boots, stood against some indistinct purple background, legs wide, one fist before bared thigh, one against his bare hip.
On the third, a dark youth—Mexican or Indian perhaps?—shirtless and shoeless, sat on a boulder under a stark, blue sky, his jeans pushed down to his knees.
Their bared genitals were huge.
The photographs had been taken from crotch level, too, to make them look even larger.
From the other room he heard pans clinking; a cabinet opened and closed.
By the head of the bed, on a table near a tensor lamp, books were piled irregularly:
A bunch on the Hell’s Angels: Thompson, and Reynolds/McClure; four cheaply bound, two-dollar paperbacks: Angels on Wheels, and Weekend in Helclass="underline" A True Story of the Angels as Told by Millicent Brash—he read the first paragraph of ill-lined type, shook his head, and put it down. A book called Bike Bitch was apparently the sequel to (same cover/different author) Bike Bastard. Under that was The Poems of Rimbaud, with English at the bottom of the pages; then a paperback Selected Letters of Keats; next, Dickey’s Deliverance; a green, hard-covered book of logs and trigonometric functions, place held by a white enamel, circular slide rule. There was sundry science fiction by Russ (something called The Female Man), Zelazny, and Disch. The last book he picked up had a purple and gold reproduction of a Leonor Fini for cover: Evil Companions. He opened it in the middle, read from the top of the left-hand page to the bottom of the right, closed it, frowning, went to the bamboo, and pushed it aside.