OK. I got moves left. I’ve run this circle before. Jumping at the last second to clear its open jaws, landing and sprinting. Around and around. I know the route.
I know what I’m doing.
Really.
I do.
Tell myself that as I come out of a storm drain at the end of an alley off Avenue C. Tell myself that as I walk from the alley into the middle of the vomitorium the bar hoppers and college kids have turned my old neighborhood into. Stinking filthy drunk, limping and shuffling, trying to roll a cigarette from a damp paper. Getting plenty of berth on the sidewalk, right till I pull myself up a stoop at the end of the block and find a couple skinheads blocking the door.
They move to shove me back. Then they get a whiff of what’s under my stink and hands go inside the vintage peacoats they both wear.
I raise my hands.
– You wouldn’t shoot a cripple, would you?
– Ta, an sure dey would, Joe, sure dey would.
I look up at the monolith standing in the open doorway at the top of the stoop.
– Hey, Hurley. You look good. Huge. As usual.
– An you, Joe, you look a little worse fer wear. As usual.
I lower my hands.
– I’m a creature of habit.
He pushes the brim of his hat a little higher on his forehead.
– Well come inside, ya sorry fooker. Force of habit an all, I suppose you’ll be wantin’ a severe beatin’.
I go up the steps.
– Don’t waste it on me, Hurl, it never seems to do any good.
He pats my shoulder as I pass inside.
– Not ta worry, Joe, I got one ta spare fer an old friend like yer-self. Not ta worry a’tall.
There was a time I was a very bad person.
If you can imagine.
Funny thing is, that time of my life, I was never so sure I was doing the right thing as those few years.
Soldier in a cause. Society. Soldier in the Society. Front lines, pushing back the dark. Making the world a safe place for infecteds to live openly. A goal like that requires unity first. Everyone has to be pointed in the same direction. Can’t have Vampyres going around killing indiscriminately. That kind of thing creates the wrong impression.
You have to have rules. Rules about where and how you feed. Who you feed on. How often you can get away with it. Strict policy of non-infection. Don’t want to be perceived as spreading a plague or anything like that. Since you’re trying to preach this gospel against the Coalition’s dominant philosophy of keeping a lid on all things Vyrus-related at all times forever, you also have borders to secure. The occasional incursion to deal with. Advents of diplomacy.
Fine detail work. But that wasn’t my bag. I didn’t make policy, I rammed it down throats. More often than not, I simply tore out the throat in question. Anything more complicated would mean I’d have to understand something. Explain it. Might have required nuance.
Terry did the explaining. Explained to me when he picked me up off the floor in the can at CBGB. Told me what had happened to me. Told me what my choices were. Offered the Society to me.
So let’s just say I hadn’t been offered too many chances to be a part of anything. Not that I was last picked for softball games, just more that I was likely tied up by my wrists and hanging from a steam pipe in my folks’ bedroom closet, somewhere between a good solid belt beating and having some scalding water poured over my feet, when the sides were being chosen up.
And before you get all sobby and sympathetic for my plight and put a hand to your brow and realize how much it all explains, keep in mind that whatever got done to me, I’ve done worse to others. It don’t balance out. Whatever my parents were, at least they kept it in the family. No one out for a walk at night had to worry about them jumping from an alley and thumping them on the head and cutting their neck open.
So they said I was a monster and they were only punishing me for my own evil deeds. So what. Turns out they were right.
So being asked to join someone’s club, say that was a new one on me. Had to be a mistake. But I wasn’t going to let on. Tell me the Society was going to lead the way to a brighter future? Great. Keep the details to yourself and tell me what to do. Tell me what you want is for me to go see a guy who’s been making waves and make sure he doesn’t make any more? Great. I’ll keep the details to myself and get it done.
Put yourself in some asshole’s shoes.
You’re just trying to get by. You’re living downtown, Society turf, things aren’t too well organized. Lots of rules they want you to follow, but they’re not exactly helping you to make ends meet. Not like someone drops in once or twice a week with a little blood to ease you through, like the way they do it up on Coalition turf. So say you make a deal here or there. This instance, say you sneak above Fourteenth and trade some Society gossip for a couple pints. Maybe you share one with a buddy who’s down on his luck.
Asshole.
That’s where you went wrong. Your buddy, he’s in the same grind as you. Your handout aside, he’s dry more often than he’s wet. Smart boy that he is, he slides over to Society HQ in some dingy basement, drops a dime. Exits with tangible appreciation in the form of a pint of his own.
Next things next, you’re feeling no pain. Well fed for the first time in weeks or months, hanging at your flop, thinking you’ll take a stroll and enjoy this nice little blood high you’re riding.
Knock at the door.
Who could it be?
Take a look out the peephole. It’s that kid who’s always at Terry’s side. That punk with the tight plaid pants, calf-high Doc Martens, loose suspenders and surplus flight jacket covered in Sharpied anarchy symbols and Bad Brains stickers.
Joe Pitt.
Two things you can do. Let him in, or pretend you’re not home. What you hear is, pretending you’re not home pisses him off. So you open the door, let him in, give the big smile, try to play it all off. But before you can start acting all casual and social and put him off the scent like you got planned, he’s grabbed your hair and pulled your head down and put his knee in your face three or four times.
See, he’s not there to ask questions about what happened and why. He’s not there to be coy and put it all together and tease it out. He’s there to do what he’s been told to do. And he doesn’t see any reason to waste time.
Besides, he likes doing it.
He’s good at it.
And it feels good to do what one is good at.
And since he’s so good at it, he tends to improvise a bit. Where a knife or a gun might get the job done in a hurry, he’s inclined to hold your ear against a gas burner. Got a steam pipe in your closet, he knows just how to rig a belt to hang you from it and use you like a punching bag.
All in all, it probably would have been better for you if this guy’s parents had finished the job.
But they didn’t. So you pay the price. Along with a lot of other people.
That went on for years.
Then somewhere in there I lost my taste for the work. Got bored with the same old thing. And tired of being told what to do. Time goes by, you see how things are done, even someone like me can get the idea that the system is being gamed in someone’s favor. Most times, you look at the top of the pile and you’ll find where the favor lands. I’m not saying I was shocked, I just didn’t like what my slice amounted to. Thought I could do better on my own.
Thought maybe I’d like to walk in a room and not have people scatter like roaches from a light. Maybe have a conversation about something other than war. Know something more than how long it takes a guy to grow back all three layers of his skin before you can peel them off again.
Maybe I got soft.
That was the word. Not to my face, but that was the word.
Anyhow, all this reminiscence, it’s by way of saying I have history with some people. Way it works for us, there are only so many who have what it takes to stick. What I found out, the longer you stick, the more history you get. With everyone. But with some people you have more history than with others.