“This bum here,” Francis explained to Rudy, “I saved from dyin’ in the street. Used to fall down drunk three, four times a night, like he was top-heavy.”
“That’s right,” Old Shoes said. “Broke my face five or six times, just like his.” And he gestured at Moose. “But I don’t do that no more. I hit three nuthouses and then I quit. I been off the bum three years and dry for two. You wanna go for that ride, Francis? Only thing is, no bottle. The wife’d smell it and I’d catch hell.”
“You got a wife too?” Francis said.
“You got a car and a wife and a house and a job?” Rudy asked. He sat up on his cot and studied this interloper.
“That’s Rudy,” Francis said. “Rudy Tooty. He’s thinkin’ about killin’ himself.”
“I know the feelin’,” Old Shoes said. “Me and Francis we needed a drink somethin’ awful one mornin’. We walked all over town but we couldn’t score, snow comin’ through our shoes, and it’s four below zero. Finally we sold our blood and drank the money. I passed out and woke up still needin’ a drink awful bad, and not a penny and no chance for one, couldn’t even sell any more blood, and I wanted to die and I mean die. Die.”
“Where there ain’t no snow,” Rudy sang. “Where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night.”
“You wanna go for a ride?” Old Shoes asked Rudy.
“Oh the buzzin’ of the bees in the cigarette trees, by the soda water fountains,” Rudy sang. Then he smiled at Old Shoes, took a swallow of wine, and fell back on his cot.
“Man wants to go for a ride and can’t get no takers,” Francis said. “Might as well call it a day, Shoes, stretch out and rest them bones.”
“Naaah, I guess I’ll be movin’ on.”
“One evenin’ as the sun went down, and the jungle fires were burnin’,” Rudy sang, “Down the track came a hobo hikin’, and said, Boys, I am not turnin’.”
“Shut up that singin’,” Little Red said. “I’m tryna sleep.”
“I’m gonna mess up his face,” Francis said and stood up.
“No fights,” Moose said. “She’ll kick us the hell out or call the cops on us.”
“That’ll be the day I get kicked out of a joint like this,” Francis said. “This is pigswill. I lived in better pigswill than this goddamn pigswill.”
“Where I come from-” Old Shoes began.
“I don’t give a goddamn where you come from.” Francis said.
“Goddamn you, I come from Texas.”
“Name a city, then.”
“Galveston.”
“Behave yourself,” Francis said, “or I’ll knock you down. I’m a tough son of a bitch. Tougher than that bum Finny. Licked twelve men at once.”
“You’re drunk,” Old Shoes said.
“Yeah,” said Francis. “My mind’s goin’.”
“It went there. Rattlesnake got you.”
“Rattlesnake, my ass. Rattlesnake is nothin’.”
“Cottonmouth?”
“Oh, cottonmouth rattler. Yeah. That’s somethin’. Jesus, this is a nice subject. Who wants to talk about snakes? Talk about bums is more like it. A bum is a bum. Helen’s got me on the bum. Son of a bitch, she won’t go home, won’t straighten up.”
“Helen did the hula down in Hon-oh-loo-loo,” Rudy sang.
“Shut your stupid mouth,” Francis said to Rudy.
“People don’t like me,” Rudy said.
“Singin’ there, wavin’ your arms, talkin’ about Helen.”
“I can’t escape myself.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Francis said.
“I tried it before.”
“I know, but you can’t do it, so you might as well live with it.”
“I like to be condemned,” Rudy said.
“No, don’t be condemned,” Francis told him.
“I like to be condemned.”
“Never be condemned.”
“I like to be condemned because I know I done wrong in my life.”
“You never done wrong,” Francis said.
“All you screwballs down there, shut up,” yelled Little Red, sitting up on his cot. Francis instantly stood up and ran down the aisle. He was running when he lunged and grazed Little Red’s lips with his knuckles.
“I’m gonna mess you up,” Francis said.
Little Red rolled with the blow and fell off the cot. Francis ran around the cot and kicked him in the stomach. Little Red groaned and rolled and Francis kicked him in the side. Little Red rolled under Finny’s cot, away from Francis’s feet. Francis followed him and was ready to drive a black laceless oxford deep into his face, but then he stopped. Rudy, Moose, and Old Shoes were all standing up, watching.
“When I knew Francis he was strong as a bull,” Old Shoes said.
“Knocked a house down by myself,” Francis said, walking back to his cot. “Didn’t need no wreckin’ ball.” He picked up the quart of wine and gestured with it. Moose lay back down on his cot and Rudy on his. Old Shoes sat on the cot next to Francis. Little Red licked his bleeding lip and lay quietly on the floor under the cot where Finny was supine and snoring. The faces of all the women Francis had ever known changed with kaleidoscopic swiftness from one to the other to the other on the three female figures in the far corner. The trio sat on straight-backed chairs, witnesses all to the whole fabric of Francis’s life. His mother was crocheting a Home Sweet Home sampler while Katrina measured off a bolt of new cloth and Helen snipped the ragged threads. Then they all became Annie.
“When they throw dirt in my face, nobody can walk up and sell me short, that’s what I worry about,” Francis said. “I’ll suffer in hell, if they ever got such a place, but I still got muscles and blood and I’m gonna live it out. I never saw a bum yet said anything against Francis. They better not, goddamn ‘em. All them sufferin’ bastards, all them poor souls waitin’ for heaven, walkin’ around with the snow flyin’, stayin’ in empty houses, pants fallin’ off ‘em. When I leave this earth I wanna leave it with a blessing to everybody. Francis never hurt nobody.”
“The mockin’birds’ll sing when you die,” Old Shoes said.
“Let ‘em. Let ‘ em sing. People tell me: Get off the bum. And I had a chance. I had a good mind but now it’s all flaked out, like a heavin’ line on a canal boat, back and forth, back and forth. You get whipped around so much, everything comes to a standstill, even a nail. You drive it so far and it comes to a stop. Keep hittin’ it and the head’ll break off.”
“That’s a true thing,” Moose said.
“On the Big Rock Candy Mountain,” Rudy sang, “the cops got wooden legs.” He stood up and waved his wine in a gesture imitative of Francis; then he rocked back and forth as he sang, strongly and on key: “The bulldogs all got rubber teeth, and the hens lay soft-boiled eggs. The boxcars all are empty and the sun shines every day. I wanna go where there ain’t no snow, where the sleet don’t fall and the wind don’t blow, on the Big Rock Candy Mountain.”
Old Shoes stood up and made ready to leave. “Nobody wants a ride?” he said.
“All right, goddamn it,” Francis said. “Whataya say, Rudy? Let’s get outa this pigswill. Get outa this stink and go where I can breathe. The weeds is better than this pigswill.”
“So long, friend,” Moose said. “Thanks for the wine.”
“You bet, pal, and God bless your knee. Tough as nails, that’s what Francis is.”
“I believe that,” Moose said.
“Where we goin’?” Rudy asked.
“Go up to the jungle and see a friend of mine. You wanna give us a lift to the jungle?” Francis asked Old Shoes. “Up in the North End. You know where that is?”
“No, but you do.”
“Gonna be cold,” Rudy said.
“They got a fire,” Francis said. “Cold’s better than this bughouse.”
“By the lemonade springs, where the bluebird sings,” Rudy sang.
“That’s the place,” Francis said.
o o o
As Old Shoes’ car moved north on Erie Boulevard, where the Erie Canal used to flow, Francis remembered Emmett Daugherty’s face: rugged and flushed beneath wavy gray hair, a strong, pointed nose truly giving him the look of the Divine Warrior, which is how Francis would always remember him, an Irishman who never drank more than enough, a serious and witty man of control and high purpose, and with an unkillable faith in God and the laboring man. Francis had sat with him on the slate step in front of Iron Joe’s Wheelbarrow and listened to his endless talk of the days when he and the country were young, when the riverboats brought the greenhorns up the Hudson from the Irish ships. When the cholera was in the air, the greenhorns would be taken off the steamboats at Albany and sent west on canal boats, for the city’s elders had charged the government with keeping the pestilential foreigners out of the city.