A Fairy Tale of New York (23 page)

On this padded canvas floor. In the New World of pavements asphalt and cement. Stranded and needy in the arms of Fanny Sourpuss. Fearful souls creeping. Great silent weeping stream of people in the canyon streets. A broken cardboard box. To take their dreams away somewhere tinder their arms. As I did on a bus north through Harlem. When I was a little boy. A sign, night crawlers and worms for sale. Cars roaring the highways. Night, noon, morning and afternoon. Nowhere to live. On a junk strewn continent. Hip up the soil, melt me back into the barren ground. Grow me once more wild to race fleet foot across this land. Beyond the salt flats. Piss down passing Pittsburgh. Walk again that bowery of scrawny necked men, with their condor heads, sitting arms flapped over their knees. Offering to sell their shirts and trousers, bargaining out of reddened lips. Polite and beaten. And one figure reared up begging. Into my high school friend's sneers. And I saw the eyes of a man. Who saw mine. When all the years I thought he was dead. And his hand dropped and his head hung.

As he said

Sorry

Son

23

Wake this morning. Fanny pushing a breast in my face to soothe my jaw she said was all swollen up. And might be broken. Just when I was looking good in my new seersucker suit. Planning as I was a blistering series of creative utterances to make Mr Quell and his asskissers wide eyed with envy in the Think Boom of the Mott Empire. And I get knocked out. For the count.

Cornelius Christian heading downtown for medical advice. As long cigar shaped clouds sneak over from Hoboken. The storm heading north east across Patchogue, the Hamptons and Sag Harbour. Shadows of buildings poking into the park. This bus with a great engine roaring, swaying from stop to stop. A hot sun shining in slits along the crosstown streets. See a dark complexioned kid pissing down from a window six stories up. The drops haven't reached yet, an old man sitting on the stoop.

A new day dawns living. Even in these gloomy ravines of sweaty armpits pushing trolleys of pink and blue dresses through this dingy garment district. Trucks jammed along the gutters. Cigars in big overseeing fat faces. Throngs charging through the doors of that department store. As I get off the bus at Herald Square. Where no one is waiting to give me a prize for my spiritual beauty.

Christian nipping once more into this cavernous entrance. Ascending again to the eighty fifth floor. With a chattering group of summery school children, their shepherding teacher giving me oblong looks. As I give her my child molester leer. Last week wrote helplessly homesick to Europe. Begged them to have me back. After the debt collector leaped out from behind a hallway door. To pay up for excess baggage contracted while en route to this shore. No mention of the meals she missed, the towels she didn't use. Said I've got you at last Mr Christian. I peppered him with straight light lefts. A nice one on the throat drove him backwards into a girl carrying out a bag of moist garbage and she screamed. And the debt collector screamed as he turned around to apologise, taking from her as he did, a robust kick in the balls. Nearly waited to watch him writhe awhile. Over the strewn watermelon pips.

Doctor Pedro's ripe bosomed nurse, a fresh pink rose pinned on her white uniform, pushing open his door. He sits singing in his shirt sleeves, grey haired wiry little arms, his ruday cheek pressed on a violin as he plucks its strings.

"Hey what happened to you. The cat got your tongue. Can't speak. What did you get, a sock on the jaw. You should make love not war. Who you fight with, some crumbum in the street. Grow up. Or sock him first. What's the matter I send you out of here cured and you come back busted. I have a good mind to charge you. You know how much I cost as a doctor. Don't ask. You couldn't afford it. Ask me why they change Eleventh Avenue to West End at Fifty Ninth Street, and Tenth Avenue to Amsterdam and Ninth to Columbus, and Eighth to Central Park West. Because people thought they were big hot shit up there. That's why. And up here I'm looking down into every jackass's chimney stack. Did you scrub your floor like I told you. You see, I know you didn't. Now look at you, can't talk. What the hell's the matter with you, you don't do what I tell you. You think I live for this long and talk bull shit. You got a swollen jaw, slight dislocation, it's going to be all right, nothing broken. Only thing you got going for you now is no one can call you a cocksucker."

Christian nodding thanks. Rivulets of moisture flow down between the cleavage of the arse. Out the window over the head of my wry little doctor the shadow of this building cast over a mile of rooftops. Over which, if I see the Admiral again, I'll bounce him belly first, black and blue.

"Hey wait a minute. You want to know how to be happy. I tell you. Every day you should walk sixty blocks. To keep the muggers away, make like you're a little crazy. Thirty downtown, thirty uptown. Then go to the Sixth Avenue Delicatessen. Order a hot pastrami on rye, use plenty of mustard, a dish of coleslaw, a bottle of beer. Watch the fucked up expressions on the faces of your fellow man. And be glad you're not like that.''

Nurse putting my file away. Genital glow of her smile. The little doctor singing and plucking his violin again as I go out the door. Strange pains in my chest. A few up the arse as well. Thousand directions to head when I go out of here. Instead of back to Mott.

Elevator packed with a batch of Atlanta Georgia straw hatted, whale bone corsetted Colonial Dames of America. As we plunge down perfumed smothered to the street again. Except that, good lord someone on this elevator has stepped-in dog shit. Use my ventriloquist's technique to sneak some words out from my beleaguered jaws. Choose a roundabout way to civilly suggest.

"Forgive me madam, I happen to be standing rather close to you and I wonder might I ask if you and your friends are Daughters of the American Revolution."

"O my, how did you ever know."

"I knew madam.''

"Well isn't that something, Jean, this young man knew we were daughters."

"My jaw's broken, and I really regret having to mutter to you in this way, but one of your party has, I am sure, stepped into canine excrement.''

Lady's face flushing pink and patches of red appearing on her throat. As all elevator chat ceases with another fifty two floors to go. In agonizing silence. Almost impossible for me to utter anything right these days. But I can't stand anymore stink. Whole bloody lot staring at me. During this eternal ear popping descent. And noses twitching as they sniff. The whole god damn bunch are deliberately smelling me.

Elevator loading and unloading. Christian threading his way through the noisy chattering lobby. And out on the street past a man selling rosary beads and polka dot bow ties. Go west in one's misery towards the docks. Where the big ships can take you away. Sail out just as I sailed in. On a monstrous boatload of sorrow.

Christian stopping where it says Tavern. Go in here and have a glass of beer. Pulling open this swing door into darkness. Move down this long mahogany bar. Cooler than the heat of the street. Fans whirring. Blow away the smell of that elevator. White aproned avocado bellied bartender wiping up the slops of beer. Pass a little group of four in earnest conversation.

"Now why don't you get wise."

"Why don't you get wise."

"I am wise."

"A wise guy."

"Hey both you wise guys dry up. And let's have four more beers. Give that guy one who just came in. He looks unhappy."

Raise my glass in a silent salute of thanks. Because if I felt like speaking I'd say no thanks. Come in here to a whole new world. Take refuge at random. Sit on a bar stool and think. Feel alive working in a funeral parlor and now see death groping in every corner of my brain. Whole city staring awake at night. By day another black gentleman sticking his prick in the subway train. To a bunch of mother fucking white cocksuckers. And a greasy faced lady of riper years jumping up with her knitting in one hand, tried to grab it. He retreated along the platform pushing and shoving his prick back into his trousers. As she followed shouting, wait a minute I want to talk to you. For light relief I went up to street level to take a walk in the park. On top of a boulder in the sunshine, eight guys wearing lipstick sitting in a circle jerking off. Waved and invited me to join. As one marked time with a tambourine. And coming along the path in nice linen suit and white spats, an elderly man passing me said welcome to the asylum.

Raised voices at the other end of the bar. Tall crew cut beefy guy in a thin green sweat shirt, screwing up one side of his face to tell a shorter grey suited man.

"If your kind of speaking is so hot what are you doing in a dump like this."

"What are you."

''I 'm here because I 'm wise, that's why.''

"Wise."

"Yeah wise."

"Well I carry twenty thousand dollars worth of insurance.''

"Tell me another."

"I have a brother who lives out in Manhasset and he's insured for forty five thousand dollars.''

"You know what. I think you 're full of shit.''

"What are you jealous because my brother's insured for forty five thousand dollars.''

"Jealous of you. Why you're full of shit.''

"Just say that again.''

"You 're full of shit."

"Say that without smiling.''

"You're full of shit."

"Well just don't say that again, that's all.''

"You're full of shit."

''I 'm warning you, say that once more and you 'll be sorry.''

"You're full of shit."

"I 'm just waiting that's all, you 'll see.''

"I see you full of shit."

"Is that all you can say.''

"I like saying you're full of shit."

''Some guys don't know when they 've said enough.''

"That's right. Because you 're full of too much shit.''

''I don't think I like this company. I 'm going.''

The tall beefy gorm reaching out to grab and raise this smaller man on his toes. Pulling him upwards by the scruff of his shiny nylon shirt and tugging his tie crossed with the latest in stripes. As the other two companions step back. And the bartender gets hurriedly busy spacing out whiskey bottles on his shelf.

"Not so fast dude, I said you're full of shit. Are you going to make a liar out of me in front of four other people."

"I'm going."

''Am I right or wrong.''

"Let me go."

"See this, this is my fist. Am I right or wrong. Are you full of shit"

"For the sake that we can all live in peace maybe you're right"

''Then what are you."

"I don't know if lam."

"Look dude I'm not kidding. Making me out I'm a liar. You just made a liar out of me. Say you're full of shit."

"I'm full of shit."

"Now dude don't that make you feel better. And your brother, he's full of shit. Go on, say it."

"And my brother's full of shit."

"And your brother ain't insured for no forty five thousand dollars because no guy related to you is worth that much because you, dude are full of shit, just like your brother and your father and your mother."

''Leave my mother out of it.''

"I said your mother.''

"Don't you say that about my mother, you leave her out of it. What's she done to you. My mother's a fine woman.''

"Not after she had you dudie boy.''

Little grey suited man raising his arms, palms held up to hold back the avalanche of horror. His glasses flashing tears on his eyes.

"You big dirty rat you. Sure, you could knock me down. Sure, you could pummel and sock me. Sure, you big bully. I'm depressed. What you've said to me is so awful. If I was bigger you wouldn't say it.

"Sure I would dude."

"Making me say that about my brother, one of the kindest guys I've ever known. And a mean guy like you, pushing little people around. Picking on me when I've done nothing to you. Makes you feel brave because I'm scared of fighting. Sure, you can poke me right now in the face and break my jaw. I'm not tough. I'm not strong. But I told you not to say what you did about my mother. I told you. And you went right on and said it. Boy that's lousy. Now you won't let me walk out. You just rode me into the ground. You rat. I'm heartbroken."

"Who you suddenly calling a rat, dude.''

"You. You are. To say that my mother was full of what you said. I 'm crying. I loved that woman. I loved mymother.''

"Hey dude, wait."

"No I won't."

"Stop crying for christ 's sake, dude."

No. I'm going to make you pay. You'll pay. Because my mother she was the most wonderful person who ever lived. I kneel and would kiss the ground she walked on.''

"Hey dude, come on. I take back what I said. Gee will you stop crying for Christ's sake. Listen to me. I'm a rat. A lousy lousy rat. You could flood your lungs the way you're crying. Come on, straighten up and fly right. I was kidding everything I said."

"You said she was full of shit. She slaved her whole life raising four kids. She ironed and did without for us. My father kicked her around. She's dead. O god my mother, the most blessed creature whoever lived in god's kingdom is dead. And I heard words, rotten dirty filthy words said about her, the dearest and best person in the world.''

"Dude punch me. I shouldn't have said it. Come on. I know kiddo. Don't I have a mother myself. Your brother in Manhasset, it's a classy district, his insurance could be eighty five thousand dollars and I wouldn't think it was too much. Only stop the crying, Harry."

"My name's not Harry.''

"Ok tell me your name.''

"Sylvester."

"Sylvester. I'm called Ed. O boy Sylvester. You're a great guy. A real good guy. I'm apologising. What do you want me to do, go down on my knees."

"Yes I do."

''Hey come on. Sylvester.''

"You better. Because you better start praying."

Bartender turns around from his bottles to take a rag and wipe back and forth over the bar, and slowly begins to crouch. As Sylvester steps back. The other two guys trying to stand behind each other. A smile on Ed's face fading. A tiny pistol emerged from the little man's jacket pocket. Slowly raising it in his hand as folk shrink. Big Ed putting his hands up in front of his face. To block the lead. His mouth making words that don't come out. And then opening wide to scream as bullets go into him. Eed little holes on his chest Find yourself counting. Three four five. Big Ed, hands behind him clutching the bar rail. Six. And he falls to the floor. One leg bent under. One eye open, the other closed. Blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Hear Clarance Vine's voice. Tell me all over again. It's the discourtesy which causes the murder in this town. And Doctor Pedro. Says every day walk sixty blocks. Over coleslaw watch the fucked up expressions on the faces of your fellow man. And here's one now. On the bar room floor. Be glad you're not like that.

Grinning

Dead