South Street (39 page)

Brown took a deep breath, swallowed heavily. His expression was that of someone who bit into an apple pie and got a mouthful of black pepper. “No,” Brown said weakly, “no, I figured you knew some poems.” He handed Jake a beer.

“That there was a hell of a pome, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yeah,” Brown said quickly. “That’s just exactly what it was.”

“You oughta be makin’ up pomes like that, ’stead a messin’ around with them Japanese hootchikoos.”

Brown raised his beer and took several deep swallows. Jake sniffed and, relaxing from his pose of recitation, leaned back against the heavy concrete barrier that sealed the sidewalk off from the street. Two feet away, through the cement, cars moved by, dropping off the crown of the bridge and into the depths of South Street. Jake sipped his beer. “This here’s a damn fine spot for drinkin’. Can’t nobody see what you’re doin’. You could put a whole damn quart in one end an’ piss it right out the other, all without movin’ a step.”

“Jake?” Brown said suddenly. “Is it like that all the time? A lot, I mean?”

“Like what?”

“The woman layin’ there, not doin’ nothin’.”

“You a virgin or somethin’?” Jake asked.

“Or somethin’,” Brown said.

“Whores a little outa your reglar line, huh? Now, now, I know what I know.”

“Well, does it have to be that way?”

“How the hell would I know that? I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that kinda shit. You the young man, you sposed to think you know all about ’em. Well, lemme tell you one thing, there ain’t nobody that knows nothin’ ’bout women. Not even women.
’Specially
not women.
They
think they make sense. Believe me, ain’t nobody knows nothin’ ’bout women. Ain’t nobody never did. Ain’t nobody never gonna. Best thing’s to get drunk whenever you around ’em. An’ since there’s always some woman poppin’ up somewhere, the best thing to do is stay drunk. Pass an old man another beer.”

Brown took Jake’s empty can and put it into the bag. He handed Jake a fresh one. Jake popped the top, slurped at the foam that welled from the keyhole-shaped opening. “Drink faster, youngblood. This stuff’s gettin’ warm.”

Brown raised his can half-heartedly but lowered it immediately. “Well, dammit, you gotta know somethin’.”

“Have another beer,” Jake said easily.

“I drink too much damn beer,” Brown said.

“Hell,” Jake said. He peered at Brown over the top of the can. “Some woman been on your ass ’bout drinkin’?”

“
I’m
on ma ass about drinkin’.”

“If there’s some woman ridin’ your ass that hard, you best just leave her go. An’ if you ridin’ your own ass that hard, somethin’s the matter with your brain. Probly too much—”

“Pussy,” Brown finished for him. He swallowed the rest of his beer, reached into the bag and fumbled around. “Damn.”

“Ain’t no more?”

“Nope,” Brown said. “We done killed it.”

Jake dropped his eyes to the can he held in his hand. His fingers tightened slightly, then he shrugged. “You want some a this here?” He raised his eyes and looked at Brown.

Brown smiled slightly. “You go on,” he said. “I had plenty.”

Jake swallowed, hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Brown said. “You go ahead.”

“All right,” Jake said. He raised the can, drained it quickly, lowered it, belched. Brown reached out and took the can, added it to the collection in the bag, and then rose to his feet. The lights of the city twisted, the afterimage hanging on his eyes like splashed oil. Points of light moved, becoming multicolored streaks, and moving lights, on cars, an airplane, became thin sheets. Brown sank down again, closed his eyes. “Had a little much?” Jake inquired politely.

“Let’s see you stand up an’ walk a tightrope,” Brown said sourly.

Jake sniffed and pushed to his feet. “See here, youngblood, I was—” He stopped, grabbed at his stomach.

“Jake?” Brown said. He got up quickly.

“Ain’t nothin’,” Jake said. “Just ma goddamn guts actin’ funny on account a all that beer. Ain’t used to it.” He straightened up, grunting. “I gotta piss.” He reached for his fly.

“Here?” Brown said. “What if the cops go by?”

“Why then we wouldn’t hafta piss on the bridge, we could piss on them.” Jake stepped to the railing and opened his pants. He looked at Brown. “Ain’t you got to go too?” Brown nodded, swallowed, stepped to the railing. A single stream of urine arched out into the darkness. “Ah,” Jake said enviously. “Onliest bad thing about bein’ old is it takes you half the night to get a piss goin’.” He grunted with effort.

By the time Jake turned away from the railing, clumsily zipping his pants, Brown was leaning uncomfortably against the concrete barrier, looking around uneasily. Jake smiled a smile that suddenly became a grimace of pain. He turned, pushed past Brown, and started to shuffle down off the bridge, clutching at himself. Brown stared at him, caught up the bag of empties, and hurried after. Jake staggered against the railing, recovered, plowed on, and Brown could hear him breathing in short, adenoidal gasps. “Hey,” Brown panted. Jake staggered on, his pace increasing as the bridge sloped off into the gentle curve that led to the street. Brown broke into a run and caught up to him, but the narrow space between barrier and railing kept him from pulling even, so Brown moved along behind in an awkward combination of run, stagger, and ballet as he tried to keep from tripping over Jake’s run-over heels. “Will you slow down, you silly-ass bastard?” Brown shouted. Jake obeyed immediately—his legs folded under him and he collapsed to the cement. Brown tried to stop, couldn’t, tried to jump over him, misjudged the curve of the bridge and, while in mid-air, slammed his hip against the outer railing. Visions of falling over into the river crossed his mind just before his knees made contact with the sidewalk. His vision went red from shock and pain—the cement was like warm sandpaper. He pushed himself up on his hands. A few feet away Jake lay across the metal plate that linked the bridge walkway with South Street’s sidewalk, looking like a heap of old clothes rejected by the Salvation Army. Brown crawled toward him. Beer cans lay strewn all around like the twisted metal plane crash. Brown brushed them aside. The heap of clothes moaned softly, twitched, and clutched at its middle.

“Hey,” Brown said. “Jake.” Jake moaned. Brown got to his feet and stood staring down, rubbing his hands against his pants and swallowing. Jake belched, and the heady aroma of his breath—fresh beer, sour wine—rose like a visible cloud. Brown’s nostrils twitched. “Jake?” he said again. Jake made no response. Brown sniffed uneasily, dropped to one knee, wincing at the pain, as the abraded skin came in contact with the sidewalk. “Wake up,” Brown commanded desperately. Jake moaned his insubordination. Brown set his jaw, swallowed, reached out and grasped Jake’s arm. He was shocked at the greasy feel of Jake’s sweater but fought the urge to jerk his hand away; instead, he worked it through the layers of clothing until he found Jake’s shoulder, thin and harshly bony. Brown squeezed and shook gently. “Hey.” Jake moaned.

Brown looked around at the empty street. Beyond the barrier a car swept past. Brown swallowed, took a deep breath, reached out his other hand, and began to unpile the rags that contained Jake. He pulled the pipe-cleaner-thin legs out straight, lowered the cuff of a trouser leg that had ridden up exposing an indecent ashy band of skin above a dirty sock. He tried to spread out the limp arms but even in unconsciousness Jake hugged his belly tightly, as if trying to hold his guts in. Brown gave up on the arms. He loosened the ties of Jake’s shoes, peering close to make out the complicated collage of knots that served as strings, gagging at the smell that escaped the holey leather. Then he undid Jake’s greasy purple necktie and unbuttoned the collar of Jake’s grimy flannel shirt. “Damn,” Jake wheezed weakly. “Let a man fall down one time an’ right away somebody’s either tryin’ to rob him or give him a blowjob.” Brown gasped and leaped back, caught his heel, and sprawled on his rear end.

“Y’old bastard!” Brown muttered, getting up. “All that play-actin’—” He stopped as the light from a passing car showed him the pain on Jake’s face. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothin’,” Jake said. “It’s just ma goddamn guts. I ain’t gonna be dyin’ or nothin’, so don’t get your damn hopes up.”

“I ain’t,” Brown said. “I don’t give a damn if you live forever. That’s why I’ma take you to a hospital. Layin’ where you are, you’re a goddamn traffic hazard.”

“Well, you just hazard your ass on outa here, nigger, ’cause I ain’t goin’ to no damn hospital.”

“You need one,” Brown said. “And I’m going to take you there if I have to carry you.”

Jake looked up at him. “Think you could stand to touch a smelly old wino that long?” Brown’s eyes dropped. “Damn,” Jake went on, “who the hell made you Jesus Christ anyways? You Want to get me somethin’ that’ll make me feel better, you go …” He stopped, looked at Brown suspiciously.

“Go where?” Brown said.

“Go to hell,” Jake said.

“Huh?”

“Gone, get outa here an’ leave me be.” Jake pushed himself, groaning and gasping, to his feet. “I know what I need, an’ I know where to get it, an’ you just keep the hell away from me, ’cause I know what you’re after.” Brown looked mystified. Grumbling, Jake turned and shuffled off up the street, clutching his middle and, from time to time, looking back over his shoulder to make sure Brown was not following.

Before he finally made it to the bedroom Rayburn had vomited on the stairs, vomited on the landing, vomited in his living room and in the kitchen sink, had dry-heaved above the unflushed toilet bowl. When his stomach at last ceased its twistings and jerkings, Rayburn waved his hand vaguely at the flush lever, catching it with his fingertips just as he lost his balance. He used what little coordination he retained to pull his face back away from the bowl; his falling dragged his hand across the lever and flushed the mess away. An unpleasant odor wafted gently from the toilet—Rayburn, on the floor, his cheek against the cold cracked linoleum, his lips against unyielding porcelain, retched again before dragging himself into the bedroom. He threw one arm over the edge of the bed and managed to raise his torso a few inches before the aged bedsprings creaked and dumped him back on the floor.

He lay quietly then, in the midst of a cliché: a neon light outside the window sending red light across the rumpled sheets of an unmade bed, blinking on and off, on and off, like an electric pulse. Rayburn’s own blood pounded in his temples, his lungs sucked in the heavy hot air, forcing out vomit-soured breath which made the dust devils hiding beneath the bed, tinted pink by the blinking light, dance drunkenly across the floor. The sign went on and off. Rayburn breathed and pulsed and fought the urge to defecate in his pants. Inside his head, beneath the dull gray sheath of alcohol, a portion of his brain looked around at him and his surroundings and chuckled derisively. “Shup,” Rayburn mumbled, moving dry lips across dusty floor. The laughter sounded again—bright, hard, not-quite-musical, like the whine of an overloaded motor. “Shup,” Rayburn said. He opened his eyes. The flickering light stabbed back behind his eyeballs—on and off. Rayburn’s eyes blinked closed and open, exactly out of phase, and all he saw was red-tinged darkness, and all he heard was the scratching sound as his eyelash brushed the floor.

But gradually other sounds came through the darkness. The light outside hummed almost inaudibly and made a small sound like a tiny bell ringing in cotton each time it went on and off. His stomach sloshed its juices, and his pulse beat bass. From above him, through the ceiling, came the sounds of light footsteps, then a groaning as the floor accepted a shift in weight from feet to bed. Some woman, Rayburn thought, some woman up there. He listened for more sounds from above him, slowing his own breathing, fighting to control the hollow gurglings and empty rumblings in his stomach, cursing the cottoned-bell ting and electric hum of the neon light, trying to hear if there were other feet up there moving around, or in the bed, wiggling toes pointed toward the ceiling beside the woman’s toes, or down, above the woman’s curling toes. Rayburn listened carefully and decided that the woman was up there by herself, her body lying in the night’s heavy heat, covered only by a sheet thrown carelessly across her legs. The sweat would be gathered in the hollows of her body—in the armpits, under the flare of the nose, in the warm folds of elbow and knee, beneath the breasts, behind the ears, between the toes, in the tender creases where pudendum met thigh, in the navel. Now, just now, Rayburn knew, the sweat would be gathering, conjured by heat, preserved by humidity. It would be, Rayburn knew, not quite fresh, but not stale; it would be sliding along the thin edge between ripe and rotten, pungent and putrid. She would be lying half-awake, her body swollen with sleep, her legs heavy, her thighs parting at the slightest pressure, her mind unable either to accept or reject. Now was the time to come to her, when she was alone and unaware.

He levered himself off the floor and sat in the blinking darkness for a moment, his head throbbing, the wide-awake part of him jumbled, confused. Above him, she was waiting. He felt his body stiffen, knew the need to hurry before all the firm ripeness became overripe—too soft, too sweet. He stretched out a hand to the wall, the other to the bed, forced himself to his feet, staggered into the living room. He stood at the door, leaning against it, thinking about her up there waiting, conscious of him as he was of her, waiting and wondering why he did not come, what was taking him so long. He fumbled with the doorknob, dropping to his knees as he tripped in his spoor of vomit, and hit his head against the wall. He paused to let his brain steady, and clutching at himself with his hands he thought about her lying there, heaving, humping the air, thighs parted, love juices mingling with sweat, fingers writhing over mouth, breasts, belly, plunging into the juicy cleft, pumping wildly for an instant before flying up to cover the mouth that called his name. His hand found the doorknob, twisted the wrong way, twisted back. He pulled on the door, realized he was leaning on it, moved back and stopped suddenly. He heard the street door open. Footsteps, heavy, mounted the stairs. A voice cursed as the footsteps paused on the landing outside Rayburn’s door. Rayburn trembled. There was the sound of a shoe sole scraping on wood accompanied by more cursing, then the footsteps continued to climb, reaching the hallway above. Rayburn heard a door open.