You dont have to swear at me just to prove youre a man.
Prove Im a man?—shaking his head and rolling his eyes—all I wanted to do was take you to a party and you come on with this crazy bullshit about Star Wars and -
O now Im crazy. Thank you. Thanks a lot. Whats the matter, I attack your male ego?
I dont believe this—slapping his head—I dont believe it. Having the rag on is one thing but this is ridic-
Thats right, lets hide behind that and try and make me feel guilty or ridiculous or -
Holy Krist, every time I talk to you lately its the same thing, the same nonsense.
O now its nonsense if I dont want to constantly give in to you and your whims -
Whims? What kind of whims? I just want to take you to a party and you -
Harry, I dont want to talk about it further. You absolutely refuse to see my point of view.
Refuse to—CLICK—What? What?—staring at the phone, holding it at arms length—whatta ya doin? Youre out ya head you crazy bitch, you… you… ah, who needsya. He slammed the receiver on the cradle and then slammed the phone on the table and left the house.
He stomped his way up the street trying to pound his anger into the pavement, clenching and unclenching his jaw and fists, shaking his head and almost yelling out loud as his head continued the battle, trying to force a semblance of sense into Marys head with the sheer energy of his anger because it didnt make any sense. No matter how you slice it it just doesnt make any sense. She must have some kindda bug up her ass. I call and ask her if she wants to go out to dinner before the party and she suddenly says she doesnt want to go—his mind assumed a falsetto voice—I want to see Star Wars. I mean whats with this Star Wars? and whats with all this contrary shit lately? starting arguments over nothing. Make a date and then cancelling at the last minute or complaining about where we go and what we do after I ask what do you want to do???? If you dont like this and you dont like that then what in the hell do you wanna do?—the falsetto again—O you decide Harry. I cant make up my mind. Yeah, an everything I decide is no good. We go to a restaurant and all of a sudden the lighting is no good. The lighting, right? Who cares about the food? all of a sudden its the lights that are important. You hungry go to Nathans, they got nice lights. We go to Fire Island for a weekend and its too far to the beach. Can you believe it? Too far to the beach!!!! The whole fucking island is only 3 feet wide and its nothing but beach. Its crazy, crazy. I dont get it. All she wants to do is break my balls—falsetto squeaks in—If I break them its because you put them on the chopping block for me. Harry started waving his hand then selfconsciously stopped and jammed it in his pocket. Eh, who needs it. I need this like I need a hole in the head. I must be crazy to bug myself over that broad. How did I ever get hooked into her anyway???? Forget it. Who needs it. Almost a year. One broad. I must be nuts. Harry quickened his pace even more to outdistance any reply his mind might make, falsetto or otherwise, and continued to try to outdistance his head as he automatically eased his way between the traffic as he crossed the avenue, then started to slow his pace as he neared STEVES, a neighborhood bar where his friends hung out.
It wasnt until he stopped, just inside the door, and felt the wave of cool air that he realized he was hot and flushed. He suddenly became aware of the sweat rolling down his sides and back and burning his eyes. He wiped his face quickly with his handkerchief as he looked around for a second, then walked toward his friends.
Hey Harry, whatta you doin here?
Whatta ya say Ron—he looked at Larry and Kelly—whats happening? Larry shrugged, Wanna beer? Sure, why not. Larry leaned over the bar, Hey Bob, give lover boy a beer. They all chuckled.
Kelly drained his glass and put it on the bar, May just as well put a head on this. He turned to Harry, How come youre here? Its—squinting at the clock on the wall—about 8:03 and its Saturday night.
Yeah, wheres Mary?
Harry tossed his head back, Eh, forget it.
What happened man, she split?
Dont ask. You wouldnt believe it—Harry grabbed his glass and gulped half of it and sighed as he put it down.—Krist thats good. I didnt realize how thirsty I was. He finished his beer and put some money on the bar, Hey Bob, giveus another round.
The door opened and Wally, Artie and Matt came in and stopped halfway down the bar. Harry barely noticed them out of the corner of his eye, and then Wally put his hands on the bar and Harry frowned and turned his head and looked at the cast on Wallys thumb and around his wrist and the wire going across the tips of his fingers. What happened to Wally?
O man, it was somethin else. His brother.
Mikey no legs?
Yeah. Drunk outta his mind. You know how he gets.
Yeah—nodding his head.
It happened just a coupla hours ago. No legs comes in an hes bouncin off the walls and knockin people all over and Wally tries to takeim outside and Mike is blitherin about the Nuns and arithmetic—they all start chuckling and nodding their heads -You know, when he goes off he goes off. He dont know nobody.
Yeah you aint kiddin. Hes really fuckin crazy when hes bombed.
So he suddenly grabs Wallys thumb and just bends it back, real quick, and you could hear it snap a block away.
It was really weird because he looked like he was pushin down on a lever or somethin. I mean you could see that he didnt know what he was doin.
Or who Wally was. Just a quick snap. And he just walks out and Wally and Matt and Artie are staring at Wallys thumb, an then everybody in the joint is staring at it until Bob pours him a good stiff shot and after he drinks it Wally almost falls on his ass. He grabs his wrist and starts rockin back and forth and Matty runs out and grabs a cab and they went down to the emergency.
I guess it wasnt too crowded, they got back pretty fast. At least for that joint.
Yeah, well its early yet. The night is young. And youre so beautiful. Kelly pinched Larrys cheek and they all chuckled and reached for their beers.
Mikey no legs was in the cellar of his apartment building. His parents had lived there for 10 years before he was born, and for 5 years before Wally was born. And they lived there still. The four of them. And they were still the supers, a job that was much easier since the furnace was converted to oil quite a few years ago: no coal to shovel, no ashes to carry out, no fire to shake and bank and worry about. But there was still the garbage cans to put out, a job Mike had been doing for almost 20 of the 28 years of his life.
Mike started by helping Wally with the cans, always wanting to follow his big brother. He idolized Wally and begged him to let him help with the cans, and he did. At first Wally took most of the weight, patting his brother on the back and telling him he was a real good helper. Then Mike was taking one up all by himself, tugging on the handle as the can banged against the stone steps. Eventually he was able to pick up the can and carry it up the steps, and then with the passing of a few more years, he simply picked up one in each hand and almost ran them up the stairs.
The same occurred with the much heavier cans of ashes, Mike developing incredible strength.
Now there were no ashes. But they were still the supers and Mike carried the garbage cans up the same immortal steps only slightly worn by cans and shoes.
Although he was called no legs, it was not an accurate description. It was simply that he had a large barrel chest that carrying the cans had made even larger, and his legs appeared too short for his body.
He wasnt exceptionally violent or quiet, just sort of unobtrusively there, except when he got crazy drunk. Fortunately he only got drunk periodically, and then it was only occasionally that he got violent, when some twisted message tripped through his drunken body to his brain and voices burned his head and he couldnt scream them quiet, and, from time to time, things would appear either without or within his head that he had to defend himself against.
Mike sat on the floor leaning against the wooden wall of a storage room, a bottle of wine on the floor beside him and a small transistor radio. From time to time he would take a drink, then turn the dial from one end of the band to the other trying to find the ballgame. He knew there was one somewhere, but where???? He looked at the radio, his head swaying back and forth, eyes half closed, barely able to see the radio in the dimness of the cellar, Where are ya ya son of a bitch? Eh? Wheres those fuckin Mets? He continued spinning the dial eliding from one station to another, one song to another, one announcer to another, the rock rolling into the pop as his finger continued pushing the small wheel and suddenly a soprano screeched and he twisted the radio, Shut up bitch. He squeezed the radio and pulled his hand back, but then lowered it slowly and put the radio back on the ground. Fuck it. Who needs this shit. He took another drink of wine then slowly curled onto the floor, pillowing his head on an arm, and slept.