“Wait a fucking second! She’s lying!”
“He did it to me,” she yelled back. I dressed even quicker. As I squeezed my shoes on, Marty’s hands fell softly on my back, not attempting to restrain me, but letting me know that he was prepared to.
“What exactly did he do?” Ternevsky asked her paternally. She looked up into my eyes with absolute terror. Instantly in those pupils I saw tiny saucers of that terror: overpriced rat-infested tenements, dull and underpaying nine-to-five jobs.
Pushing Marty onto the bed, I dashed into the elevator, which was held open by one of Ternevsky’s bags. I kicked it out of the way and yanked the door shut, and as the elevator sank away, I could hear Sergei scream, “Quick, call the police!”
Outside it was a sunny but chilly day as I wandered unsteadily toward the northwest, still hungover by last nights baby powder. Janus had supplied me with a good time, and if there was anything that she could salvage out of the wreck, even at my expense, she was welcome to give it a try, no hard feelings.
Finally, twisting along Bleecker, I arrived at Abingdon Square. There, I joined the collection of young mothers, children, old folks, bums, monkey bars, and swings. I wish I had grabbed more of my clothes, once again I had only escaped with the things on my back. Checking my pockets, I realized I had just about blown all my money on last night’s coke. So, without any immediate prospects, I just sat there awhile, waiting for something to come and for something else to pass. I watched a bag lady feeding pigeons and teenage kids wearing designer jeans.
I bought a candy bar, called it breakfast, and chewed it down as I walked through the West Village toward the F train. Passing the old restaurant where I had first met Sarah about a year before, I realized how quickly I had descended. I finally got to Fourteenth Street where I paid a token and realized as I walked down that long uriney tunnel connecting the IRT with the IND trains that the last time I had passed through this tunnel was when I went with Helmsley up to the Columbia University party. You know you’ve been in a place too long when every other locale serves as a reference for some sad recollection.
When I got to the F train platform, it was bare, so I figured I just missed one. Looking down into the dirty tunnel, I spotted a distant light. The train was on its way. But after a while when still nothing arrived, I checked the tunnel again and realized that it was only the nickering of an incandescent bulb deep in the tunnel’s filth. After about twenty minutes of waiting, a garbled announcement came over the loudspeaker. All I could make out was “an alternative route…” I walked back through the long uriney tunnel. While waiting another small chunk of eternity for the IRT, I thought about how I had grown to tolerate almost all of New York’s degradations. Reality now seemed authentic only with a certain degree of anxiety and humiliation. But I decided that it would be a sad day when I didn’t mind riding the subway.
When a train finally arrived, there was a copy of yesterday’s New York Post on one of the seats. After reading the gossip on ‘Page Six,” I reached Boro Hall. As I walked toward Glenn’s house, I started pulling together some bullshit tale to tell her.
Up the front steps, I rang the door bell and kept ringing it for about five minutes. No one answered. When I took a couple of steps back and looked up at the front of the house, I thought I saw one of the drapes moving. Could she be hiding? I sat on the stoop unsuspecting and waited for the career lady to return from her career.
After about forty minutes of sitting and rereading yesterday’s Post, a van slowly pulled up. Suddenly I heard Glenn’s door behind me swing open. Junior leaped out with a baseball bat and screamed, “That’s him!”
The side door of the van slid open and out plopped a harmless-looking fat kid who fell on his face, but stumbling behind him was a little league team. I dropped everything and ran down the street toward the river. I had at least a half a block lead, which they closed by the time I reached the promenade. Jumping over the encircling gate, I moved through the shrubs and trees and tried squeezing through a fence into a private backyard, but I was too hefty. Through the foliage I could see nothing but running feet. They seemed to be all around me so I squatted low in the thicket and waited. I could hear them yelling between each other, “Is he up there?”
“No—did he jump over there?”
“He couldn’t, either the fall or the cars would’ve killed him.”
“Well he was around here a second ago.”
“He couldn’t’ve escaped. Spread out.”
They were defoliating the bushes and shrubs, and I knew that in a minute they would be on me, so I chose a direction and waited for my big chance. A hard boot suddenly kicked me square in the center of my back, throwing me flat on my face.
“Found him!” one large guy was screaming. “He’s right here.”
“Grab him, grab him!” I could feel the thuds of approaching feet running toward me. I tried to rise but a shower of needles seemed to radiate from my spine. Then the hailstorm started. Feet and fists smashed up and down along my arms and legs. I curled into a ball and tried to get up.
“Hold his arms! Kick out his teeth!” I heard someone ranting orders, and a paddle wheel of shoes started on my head and neck.
“Stop it!” I suddenly made out Junior’s voice. “Just hold him flat!” Anda group of hands and arms weaved into a straight jacket holding me flat on my back. “Mama’s gonna need a new lover.”
Through the throbbing headache, puffy eyes, and loud ringing, I watched him pull that Afghan knife out of his pants. When I saw him snap open the shiny blade, it was like snapping open a capsule of smelling salts and inhaling. Convulsing up with all my might, he quickly gored his knife into my right inner thigh. When I started bleeding, they weakened their grip and I pulled to my feet and dashed through the bramble. As I hurtled back over the gated area, they pursued. A cop car was slowly patrolling the far end of the promenade and nothing was obstructing its view. One of the officers must’ve seen me dashing by with Spanky’s gang close behind, but apparently it didn’t warrant further investigation.
Running off the promenade at the exit with the flag pole, I made it about a quarter of the block up Montague Street before the fastest kid in the group grabbed me. A baby-faced monster with good sneakers, kicked me in the back of my knees. I went down. It was just the two of us. I lunged forward, putting him in a quick half-nelson, and fumbled through his pocket. Just as Junior and the tallest lad bolted forth, I found a Bic ballpoint pen which I placed right in the corner of his right eye.
“A step closer and skinny’s a cyclops, I swear it.” Junior caught the rest of the kids as they came huffing and tumbling out of the park. They encircled me and then Junior made a proposal.
“Let him go, and we’ll let you go.”
“There’s no way you can guarantee that,” I said.
“What do you want?”
“Just stay put,” I replied as I backed up the block holding the hostage boy in one hand and the pen in the other. A retroactive pain was regrouping throughout parts of my body, a limp had caught up with me and bent me over. Neither cab nor cop came by.
As the pain settled, it became harder to hold balance, and when I finally tripped on the consistently broken pavement, dropping the pen, my leash was gone. Skinny broke lose and the dog pack was set free. In an excruciating limp, 1 dashed into the nearest open store, a Häagen Dazs ice cream parlor.
I pushed two people aside and jumped over the counter. When the kids dashed in one by one, each at his own pace, someone yelled, ‘There’s a line!”