waited for life to pass, for the man to go away, for the blood
to stop, to grow old and die. Four beige-stained walls, enough
naked flesh hitting the cold edge of the cold air to keep me
awake and alive, and time passing. Then I went out because I
had to, because I wasn’t going to die there, past the kitchen, a
hole in the wall, burning oil hurled in the air by a cook who
bounced from pot to pot, singing, sauteing, stirring, draining,
humming. I walked through all the same tables, this time my
hands straight down by my side like other people, and I sat
down again. The piles of matchbook paper covered the table-
top, and he was slumped and disbelieving.
*
On the right when you enter the coffeehouse there are unappealing tables near the trash, and behind them a counter with cakes under cheap plastic covers but the cakes are good,
not cheap. All the light is on the other side, a solid wall of
glass and light, and all the tables near the glass and light were
always filled with people with notebooks writing notes to themselves on serious subjects as serious people who are also young do. I always looked over their shoulders, glanced sideways,
eavesdropped with my eyes, read whole sentences or paragraphs. Sometimes there were equations and triangles and words printed out with dull blue ballpoint pens, like in the
fifth grade, block lettering. More often there were sentences,
journals, stories, essays, lists of important things to remember
and important books to find. Sometimes there were real books,
and the person never looked up, not wanting to be thought
frivolous. Of course he had gotten a table filled with light,
something I rarely managed to do, next to the glass, and the
glass was colder than I had ever seen it, moist and weeping,
and the light had become saturated with dull water. Outside
there was the funniest phone box, so small it wasn’t even the
size of a fire hydrant, and there was a plant shop with the
ugliest plants, all the same color green with no letup, no
flower, no variation. The street running alongside the wall of
glass was stones, the old kind of street, suffering under the
cars, humans push ourselves on it and it moves under us, trying
to get away.
His ears meanwhile flared out. His tongue splattered water.
His nose was caked. His shoulders dropped, trying to find
94
China. His shirt was open to the middle of his chest, showing
off his black hairs, all amassed, curled, knotted. It is not normal
for a man not to button his shirt. God was generous with
signs.
His fingers intruded, reaching past everything, over the ashes
and butts, over the hills and reservoirs and deserts of torn
matchbook covers that I had erected as an impenetrable geography, and they were so finely tuned to distress that they went past all those piles, and they reached mine, small, stubby,
hard to find. Oh, his teeth were terrible.
All round there were students, archangels of hope and time
to come, with dreams I could hear in their chatter and see
circling their heads. Faces unlined, tired only from not sleeping,
those horrible reminders of hope and time. Hamburgers were
abundant. Serious persons, alone, ate salad. We drank coffee,
this man and me.
*
I was appropriately frail and monosyllabic. “ No. ” Soft. No.
His was a discourse punctuated with intense silences, great
and meaningful pauses, sincere and whispered italics. “ Look—
I need you— to do something on jeans commercials — Brooke
Shields —something on the First Amendment — I want— you—
to talk about little— girls— and seeing— their tooshies. I
mean— listen — what
you— have— is— terrific— /
mean— /
know— I know — how good it— is— and I d o n 't— want— you—
to change— it. But the country needs— to know— what you—
think— about Calvin Klein— which is— to— me— frankly— and
I— tell— you— this— straight—out — worse than cocaine— and
I want— you— to say— that. I want —your voice— right—
up— there— right— up— front. "
No. My Crime and Punishment. My Inferno. My heart. Soft,
frail, no arrogance. “ No. ”
“ Listen— I— need—something
hot— something— like—
Brooke— Shields— and— something hot for the lawyers— an—
essay on the— First— Amendment. I mean — I know — your
book— isn't— about— the— First— Amendment— but I need—
you to tear— those bastard— lawyers— apart— and something
on— advertising. I mean— The New York— Times— is— as
bad— as Hustler — any day— and we all know— that— and I
need— you— to say— so. And why—aren’t you— advocating—
95
censorship— I mean— the bastards— deserve— it— and— we—
could get— some press— on that.
“ I need— something from you— I mean— I— can't— just—
say— to the fucking salespeople — I don't have anything— on—
jeans
commercials— and— I— don’t— have— anything— on—
Brooke— Shields— and
everyone