Mercy (66 page)

perfect the skill o f carrying it so nothing moves inside it and so

you don’t have to change arms or hands, acts which can catch

the eye o f someone, acts which can call attention to you, you

don’t shift the bag because your hand gets tired or your arm,

you just let it hurt because it hurts quiet, and if it’s a plastic bag

it’s got to be laminated good so it don’t make any rustling

noise or scratching sound, and you have to walk faster, silent,

fast, because plastic bags stand out more, sometimes they have

bright colors and the flash o f color going by can catch

someone’s attention, the bag’s real money, it costs a dime, it’s

a luxury item, you got change to spare, you’re a classy shopper

so who knows what else you got; and if it’s not colorful it’s

likely to be a shiny white, a bright white, the kind light flashes

o ff o f like it’s a mirror sending signals and there’s only one

signal widely comprehended on cement: get me. The light can

catch someone’s eye so you have to walk like Zen himself,

walk and not walk, you are a master in the urban Olym pics for

girls, an athlete o f girlish survival, it’s a survival game for the

w orld’s best. You get past them and you celebrate, you

celebrate in your heart, you thank the Lord, in your heart you

say a prayer o f gratitude and forgiveness, you forgive Him,

it’s sincere, and you hope He don’t take it as a challenge,

razor-sharp temper He’s got, no do unto others for Him; and if

you hear someone behind you you beg, in half a second you

are on your knees in your heart begging Him to let you off,

you promise a humility this time that will last, it will begin

right now and last a long, long time, you promise no more

liturgical sacrilege, and your prayer stops and your heart stops

and you wait and the most jo you s sound on G o d ’s earth is that

the man’s feet just stomp by. Either he will hurt you or he will

not; either He will hurt you or He will not. Truth’s so simple

and so severe, you don’t be stupid enough to embellish it. I

m yself live inside now. I don’t take m y chances resting only in

the arms o f God. I put m yself inside four walls and then I let

Him rock me, rock me, baby, rock me. I lived outside a lot;

and this last summer I was tired, disoriented. I was too tired,

really, to find a bed, too nervous, maybe too old, maybe I got

old, it happens pretty fast past eighteen like they always

warned; get yourself one boy when yo u ’re eighteen and get

yourself one bed. It got on m y nerves to think about it every

night, I don’t really like to be in a bed per se. I stayed in the lot

behind where the police park their cars, there’s a big, big dirt

lot, there’s a fence behind the police cars and then there’s

empty dirt, trash, some rats, we made fires, there’s broken

glass, there’s liquor to stay warm , I never once saw what it

was, it’s bottles in bags with hands on the bags that tilt in your

direction, new love, anti-genital love, polymorphous perverse, a bottle in a bag. Y o u got to lift your skirt sometimes but it doesn’t matter and I have sores on me, m y legs is so dirty

I just really don’t look. Y ou don’t have to look. There’s many

mirrors to be used but you need not use them. I got too worn

out to find some bed each new night, it got on m y nerves so I

was edgy and anxious in anticipation, a dread that it would be

hard to find or hard to stay or hard to pay, if I just stayed on the

dirt lot I didn’t have to w orry so much, there’s nothing

trapping you in. Life’s a long, quiet rumble, and you ju st shake

as even as you can so you don’t get too worn out. When I lifted

up m y skirt there was blood and dirt in drips, all dried, down

m y legs, and I had sores. I felt quiet inside. I felt okay. I didn’t

w orry too much. I didn’t go see movies or go on dates. I just

curled up to sleep and I’d drink whatever there was that

someone give me because there’s generous men too; I see

saliva; I see it close up; i f I was an artist I would paint it except I

don’t know how you make it glisten, the brown and the gold

in it; I saw many a face close up and I saw many a man close up

and I’d lift my skirt and it was dirty, my legs, and there was

dried blood. I was pretty dirty. I didn’t w orry too much. Then

I got money because my friend thought I should go inside. I

had this friend. I knew her when I was young. She was a

pacifist. She hated war and she held signs against the Vietnam

War and I did too. She let me sleep in her apartment but

enough’s enough; there’s places you don’t go back to. So now

I was too dirty and she gave me money to go inside

definitively; which I had wanted, except it was hard to

express. I thought about walls all the time. I thought about

how easy they should be, really, to have; how you could fit

them almost anywhere, on a street corner, in an alley, on a

patch o f dirt, you must make walls and a person can go inside

with a bed, a small cot, just to lie down and it’s a house, as

much o f a house as any other house. I thought about walls

pretty much all the time. Y ou should be able to just put up

walls, it should be possible. There’s literally no end to the

places walls could go without inconveniencing anyone, except

they would have to walk around. They say a ro of over your

head but it’s walls really that are the issue; you can just think

about them, all their corners touching or all lined up thin like

pancakes, painted a pretty color, a light color because you

don’t want it to look too small, or you can make it more than

one color but you run the risk o f looking busy, somewhat

vulgar, and you don’t want it to look gray or brown like

outside or you could get sad. There’s got to be some place in

heaven where God stores walls, there’s just walls, stacked or

standing up straight like the pages o f a book, miles high and

miles wide running in pale colors above the clouds, a storage

place, and God sees someone lost and He just sends them

down four at a time. Guess He don’t. There’s people take them

for granted and people who dream about them— literally,

dream how nice they would be, pretty and painted, serene. I

w ouldn’t mind living outside all the time if it didn’t get cold or

wet and there wasn’t men. A ro o f over your head is more

conceptual in a sense; it’s sort o f an advanced idea. In life you

can cover your head with a piece o f w ood or with cardboard or

newspapers or a side o f a crate you pull apart, but walls aren’t

really spontaneous in any sense; they need to be built, with

purpose, with intention. Someone has to plan it if you want

them to come together the right w ay, the whole four o f them

with edges so delicate, it has to be balanced and solid and

upright and it’s very delicate because if it’s not right it falls,

you can’t take it for granted; and there’s wind that can knock it

down; and you will feel sad, remorseful, you will feel full o f

grief. Y ou can’t sustain the loss. A ro o f over your head is a sort

o f suburban idea, I think; like that i f you have some long, flat,

big house with furniture in it that’s all matching you surely

also will have a ro o f so they make it a synonym for all the rest

but it’s walls that make the difference between outside and

not. It’s a well-kept secret, arcane knowledge, a m ystery not

often explained. Y o u don’t see it written down but initiates

know. I type and sometimes I steal but I’m stopping as much

as I can. I live inside now. I have an apartment in a building.

It’s a genuine building, a tenement, which is a famous kind o f