Herbert’s face betrayed no trace of anything. It was placid. He was a calm guy, and he calmly ordered and sat down near the cop. His deafness kept him separate, maybe. Herbert said hello to the cop. It was cozy. A small place. Maybe they knew each other.
— Herbert, we’ve got to talk about the situation, Elizabeth said.
She mouthed and mimed the words and put her hand to her ear.
— OK, he shouted.
— We have no services anymore.
— Me too.
The cop didn’t pay attention. He stuffed his face. The food was salty. Mexicans know how to live in a hot climate. The cop was driven to be what he was, a master, a slave. He wanted to police the city, to do good. Ever since he was a kid, he wanted to be a cop, his father was a cop, his brothers, and he saw his job as trying to stop someone from making other people miserable when they find their car stolen or smashed and have to spend days with the insurance company, and their insurance goes up. Through no fault of their own. Most people didn’t have theft insurance on old cars. The porky cop wanted to make the world better. He was misguided. Who wasn’t.
Herbert might not agree with this.
Elizabeth ate her cheese enchilada quickly. She always ate fast. She wished she’d taken the cop’s badge number or last name. She could call him at the station in the middle of the night.
— Officer, I’m the woman who talked to you in the Mexican restaurant the other day. You had a beef taco. I had a cheese enchilada. Remember? Anyway, I’m about to murder someone who’s making noise, and throwing garbage everywhere, the guy’s a menace, and he’s been driving me crazy, because I can’t sleep, and I can’t be responsible. Arrest me because I’m going to kill him. Through no fault of my own. I waive my rights. I can’t be human. Maybe that’s what I am, too human, you know?
She probably wouldn’t get philosophical with him.
There was nothing big between her and the cop, nothing much between her impulse to reach for his gun and his impulse to stop her, shoot her in the head or hand, between her need for authority and his need to be an authority, her need for help and his need to help, her desire for protection and his desire for heroic action, and vice versa. It could be breached by a whisper, Let me touch your gun. There were fine lines not only crisscrossing her face, double crossing her, and what, if anything, would make her cross the fine, pine line. What if anything — the lawyer’s anything — what if anything did you have on your mind the night you shot an arrow into young blah’s head?
I’m God’s mail carrier, I had a letter to deliver from him. She was losing it, whatever it was. She wasn’t really looking, she really wasn’t looking for herself. She hoped no one was looking for her. Especially the law.
She’d been close to criminals, she’d lived with one, Mitch, he was probably mildly retarded. He wore cowboy boots. He was from Oklahoma and came by his outfits the hard way. One day he disappeared and wrote her a note — she was in college — he could barely write. He was probably on Death Row now. She wasn’t, although everyone had to walk the walk eventually. She’d never been addicted or habituated except to Valium and amphetamine, on prescription. It was unlikely she’d go to jail.
She said good-bye to the cop and Herbert. The cop glanced up. He didn’t seem to know she was there anymore. He shouldn’t be on the street. The clock was ticking for this guy. Maybe he was in love with Jeanine, buying her drugs, buying his own.
In Memoriam. Even if it was in neon lights that you were wrong, that you fucked up, you’d be incapable of seeing it, you’d never admit it. You’re always right. Don’t bother to reply. Eternal disappointment.
What’s fifteen miles long and has an asshole on every block?
New York’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade.
It was awful in. It was more awful out. The sidewalk sellers were out, the sun was high in the sky, it was past noon, the sun was pounding the pavement like a bad cop, beating everyone down. The blankets were littered with condemned bricabrac, dented pots, empty bottles out of medicine cabinets, cracked teapots, the contents of someone’s life cobbled together and thrown on a blanket to be sold for quarters. For rent or food or drugs. It was pathetic.
Sweat wet her thighs. She’d get a rash. Prickly heat. Everyone was sweating everywhere. The block queen who’d yelled at Roy, I’ll eat your ass anytime, honey, was arguing with another blanket merchant. The block queen grabbed a blouse and held it up flamboyantly.
— No one wants this.
He threw the blouse to the ground.
— No one’s wearing this style anymore. It’s completely out. No one’s buying it.
He slashed the air in front of him. His scorn for the old style was flagrant.
Paulie was sweating, standing on the corner. He was with Hoover. Last year, the musician who’d given Paulie a home threw a birthday party for Hoover at Brownies, the musty-smelling bar. Posters of Hoover were wheatpasted on buildings around the neighborhood, everyone was invited. When Elizabeth arrived, Hoover was sitting on a barstool, eating some of his presents. Everyone brought him food. The handsome dog was panting, Paulie’s skin was copper-colored and leathery from years on the street. Now his toughened skin was streaked with sunburn. He liked being outside even though he had a place to live now.
— It’s disgusting, Elizabeth said.
— I’m thirsty all the time.
— Maybe you’re rabid.
— Very funny.
— Want a cold drink?
Paulie never had money. She’d never asked him to sit down with her. They’d talked, standing in front of his place, her place, on the corner.
— You buying?
— I’m asking, I’m buying.
— How about the Polish bar?
She should call the room. She didn’t. Paulie dropped off Hoover at home. Elizabeth liked interruptions. Interruptions weren’t interruptions, nothing was being interrupted, nothing was intended. She didn’t want to be in control.
The place was as cool and dark as a fall night. The old man behind the bar said nothing. The beer was cold enough and cheap. Paulie was feeling expansive. They were killing time. It was as perfect as it gets.
— When I went homeless, I was paying a lot of bills I couldn’t afford. I wasn’t eating properly because of the bills I was paying, and I had a feeling I could sort of be a free spirit, and hang out with everybody who was hanging out in the neighborhood and live outside. I thought I could get by.
— Wish I thought that.
— When you go homeless, you need two things: you need money and you need a bed. I would sleep in a park, before the curfew hit. I would sleep in hallways, I would be invited over to people’s houses to sleep, and I always had a good breakfast. The longer I stayed on the street the more hip I became to what was going on. I always had a sketchbook, a pen, and a pencil and I would doodle, carry my books around, and when they became too heavy I would discard them and start over. When Ron took me in I was just beginning to relax on the street. It took me seven years to get back in. Ron did something that not many people would do. He took me in, seeing that I wasn’t a bad guy, really, that I was just a little crazy at the time. He said, come on in, pay a little bit of rent, and paint. He put himself out on a limb. I always think about how if it wasn’t for Ron I might be still out on the street, or in a hospital, or dead. That’s the love relationship that I have with these guys, they treated me better than my parents treated me. They showed me more love than I got at home, that’s why I left home. I grew up in a quaint little neighborhood in Brooklyn. A lot of families have kids and the kids suffer because there’s nothing for them. I always thought I was artistic, as far back as I can remember. I was always neat and I always wanted things to be beautiful. I always had an eye for things. I would move things around. I was in the living room, and newspapers were scattered around, I would pick up the newspapers and organize them and put them where they belonged.