Kill Two Birds & Get Stoned (12 page)

"When they dream," said Fox, "they go to the same places we do."

eighteen

I hadn't seen Clyde since the night at the Unicorn when we'd stood bathed in the celestial light of the jukebox and she'd given me a kiss I will probably never forget. Fox was still in jail then and I was still green enough to believe almost everything either of them told me. Looking back on that time, I realize it was almost childish of me to have thought that what was true and what was false were two separate, disparate, distinctive entities. I have learned since then, a tip of the hat to Clyde and Fox on this one, I suppose, that what is literally true or false has nothing to do whatsoever with the deeper, greater, and sacred truths that drive the green fuses of the flowers and govern all the hearts of man. I missed seeing Clyde very much. It was painful for me to be out of touch with her. I felt almost like, excuse the simile, a heroin addict going through withdrawal. One day, I resolved, I would discover the truth, the real truth, about Clyde and Fox: who they were, what they were, what they meant to each other. One day I would also no doubt discover what the two of them had meant to my lonely, insular life. In the meantime, I vowed, live with them and love with them as much as I humanly was able. I would let them be Clyde and Fox. This was the moral high road, of course, and that road is always the road less traveled. Had I maintained my promise to myself and stayed on that road, they would both undoubtedly be in my life today. But in the nonaction world where we live, hearts are often broken and lives are routinely destroyed, and whoever or whatever is left must scurry with only the clothes on our backs and the shoes held in place under our bedposts to the world of fiction where no one and nothing can ever harm us.

I'd spent most of the night before, after I'd returned from the armory, writing, and now I was bathed in that pleasant afterglow known in the literary community as "having written." I was getting fairly close, however, to the time, in the early afternoon usually, when the familiar, nagging elbow in the ribs would come along, reminding me that it was almost time to start writing again. It was, to compound a poor simile by repeating it, a bit like being a heroin addict. If you didn't write on a regular basis, you suffered for it. I wondered if Clyde had indeed been a heroin addict or was it just possible that, in order to cool my ardor for her or maybe just out of spite, Fox had invented that rather troubling background for her. I wanted to know and yet I didn't really want to know. I wanted to love Clyde without reservation, without barriers, in a spirit of purity for who she was.

Thinking of Clyde again reminded me that I had done little if anything to pursue the "wankers" who had been harassing our friend Jonjo at the Unicorn. I was not a detective. Hell, I wasn't even a very prolific writer. But I found the business card Jonjo had given me in the pocket of my coat and decided to try my hand at a little sleuthing. I needed to have something to tell Clyde just in case she asked me about it tonight. I could always make it up, of course. People made up stuff every day. That's how politicians stay in office. That's how marriages stay together. That's how novels get written. But it's always nice when you can hang what you believe to be a piece of fiction upon what you believe to be a thread of truth.

It was late morning now, the day of Teddy's big coronation, which I looked forward to as much for the chance to hang out with Clyde as anything else. I poured a cup of fresh coffee and studied Stanton Malowitz's business card as if it contained some deep secret regarding the meaning of life. To help Clyde with this latest amusement of hers was the least I could do. After all, it might have meant the world to Jonjo, but whatever happened to the Unicorn did not really impinge upon my life in any significant way. The only things I seemed to care about lately were the novel and its two principal characters. I sipped the coffee, picked up the phone, and punched in the number on Stanton Malowitz's business card.

"Northwest Properties," said the receptionist's impassive voice.

"Stanton Malowitz, please," I said.

"He's away on business, sir. Can I take a message?"

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I have no idea, sir."

"Maybe you can help me then. Where is this area code that I'm calling?"

"It's Seattle, sir," said the receptionist. She appeared to be running out of charm.

"And this is a real estate office?"

"This is Northwest Properties, sir. You'll have to speak with Mr. Malowitz if you want more information."

"But he gave me this card," I said, fabricating a trivial piece of fiction. A writer of fiction needs to keep in practise.

"I'm sure he did, sir. Would you care to leave a message?"

"Yes. But can you tell me something? Just exactly what does Northwest Properties do? Whom do they represent?"

"Sir," said the receptionist, beginning to vent a slight irritation with the caller, "you'll have to speak with Mr. Malowitz."

"And you don't know when he'll be back?"

"No, sir. Is that all, sir?"

I left the woman my name and number and I hung up the phone but I definitely felt something wasn't quite kosher here. If I'd been more alert, I might have seen what is sometimes called a red flag. But I wasn't an amateur sleuth and I wasn't writing a detective novel (except, of course, in the sense that all good novels are in some fashion detective novels, or at least mystery novels. The real mystery is how they are created, what ingredients are used, and how in the world a writer himself hasn't a clue as to where his life is going). I was, however, slightly put off by the tone and timbre of the receptionist at Northwest Properties. I'd always understood that real estate outfits were extremely customer friendly, eager for clients and business of all manner. The woman I had talked to sounded almost defensive. Strange, I thought. Passing strange. But stranger things, indeed, were about to happen.

The big black stretch limo picked me up again early that evening and drove me out to the Old Armory. A curtain of dark gray was coming down over the city and by the time I got there, the building itself seemed to somehow blend into the melancholy milieu. The driver tipped his cap again and I walked up the weatherbeaten old steps without seeing a sign of life, homeless or otherwise. Maybe I had the wrong night, I thought. Or the wrong lobby. Or maybe I had the wrong hobby. Then I opened the big wooden door and I couldn't believe my eyes. The place looked, at least at first glance, like a fancy ballroom scene from
Dr. Zhivago.

Long tables with white linen tablecloths stretched across the big hall as far as the eye could see. Banners and streamers and elaborate floral arrangements were everywhere. If you didn't look too closely, the affair had the appearance of a lavish wedding or possibly an upscale bar mitzvah. There were waiters in tuxedos bearing food on silver trays. An entire orchestra was tuning up on the far side of the room. It was a gala event all right, by any standard. There was so much noise and excitement in the air, in fact, that I was taken quite aback when I felt a pair of child-size but definitely womanly hands cupped over my eyes from behind me.

"Guess who, Sunshine!" a voice shouted above the din.

"Sylvia Plath?"

"Guess again, Walter."

"Mother Teresa?"

"Guess again, you bastard."

"Well, let me see. Since there are over a thousand
men
here—”

"Over
two
thousand—”

"-and of the only two women I saw, one was playing a harp and the other was carrying a tray of caviar, it appeared. That leaves only the gorgeous, fun-loving, irreplaceable—"

"Keep going, Sunshine."

"—woman I love, Clyde."

And then she turned me around and suddenly she was in my arms, her hands caressing the back of my neck, kissing me hotly, just as the orchestra started to play.

"Care to dance?" she said when she came up for air.

"I never learned the bossa nova," I said.

"Never mind. We'll dance later. But, Sunshine, look around you! We really pulled it off! We did it!"

I looked around admiringly. I wasn't exactly sure what it was that we'd done. There was a man with no teeth trying to eat a lobster. There were other men ferociously devouring caviar with their fingers. There was a man who looked like Rumpelstiltskin throwing up his toenails in a silver punch bowl. Two men were fighting over a leg of lamb. Another man was urinating on the floor, off to the side where a klezmer band was starting to warm up. I didn't know it, but things were going to get a lot worse before the coronation of King Teddy would ever get off the blocks. Clyde, of course, was totally oblivious to all this and seemed to be in a state of great euphoria. Whether she was happy because hungry men were eating or whether it was because she'd scammed Trump into unknowingly picking up the tab, I did not know. Very possibly, it was a combination of the two. The men were definitely putting away a lot of food and the cuisine was of a decidedly lavish nature.

"Isn't it wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Some of these men probably haven't eaten in a week and now they're dining on caviar, truffles, lobster, and leg of lamb."

"I don't know if 'dining' is the operative word here," I said.

Clyde did not seem to hear me. I looked at her eyes all asparkle and her stunning, crooked smile and, in the admittedly brief time I'd known her, I'd never seen her appear to be so happy. It was a strange road to happiness, I thought, and many of us, including myself, often got lost along the way. Who was I to impugn her little hobbies? Many of them were illegal, of course, but they did seem to skew toward favoring the poor, the downtrodden, the underdog, and that rarest of all commodities, justice, which, if left to God and the law seems to be dispensed only in an arbitrary, haphazard, and sometimes downright perverse fashion. Who was I to condemn Clyde? I, who loved her. I, who'd become a vegetarian and accomplice in crime because of her. I, who needed strength that I wasn't sure she had. I, who needed and stole her for a work of fiction. My reflections, such as they were, were suddenly brought to a halt by a sharp pounding on the back and I turned to see Fox Harris, who looked as reckless and exhilarated as a drunken sailor on his last night of shore leave.

"Party's only starting, Walter," he shouted above the din. "Wait'll you see what happens next!"

What happened next was fairly predictable since, according to Fox, he'd taken twenty-four cases of Dom Pérignon and poured them into the large yellow plastic water barrels that ringed the hall. Alcohol, of course, was not permitted in the shelter. Tonight, however, was a special night and, again, according to Fox, absolutely nothing had been spared.

Before our eyes, the scene began to degenerate at a staggeringly rapid pace. Fights broke out up and down the banquet hall. Tables were overturned. Men were puking and pissing and coughing their guts out and singing and dancing. And, like its counterpart on the
Titanic,
the orchestra continued to play. The feverish scene, and Fox's and Clyde's reaction to it, are things I will never forget. And, like the orchestra, I played along.

"Now I'd like to dance," said Clyde.

"Are you crazy?" I blurted out.

She looked at me then in the strangest way and I instantly regretted the remark. It's very hard to abandon the person you've always been and it takes some of us longer than others.

"I hope so," she said.

She took my hand. I held her close to me. And we danced.

It was good while it lasted but it didn't last long. Fox cut in. Then a guy who looked like he could be Jack the Ripper. Then half a dozen homeless men in succession who, I have to say, looked to the untrained eye pretty much like what we used to call bums. Then the orchestra took a break, the klezmer band unleashed its own brand of dervishlike music, and the whole scene descended, if possible, even further into chaos and madness. By the time Teddy walked regally into the hall, fully prepped by Fox for his grand coronation, the place looked like the French Revolution had hit it at a hundred miles an hour.

Before anybody knew it, Teddy had made his way up to a podium and was majestically striving to silence the klezmer band, which was no small feat if you've ever had a close encounter with a klezmer band. Teddy wore purple robes, and on the way to the podium, Fox had caught up with the striding monarch just in time to place a gleaming crown of gold upon his head. There was something vaguely Christlike about the whole operation, but I wasn't sure what it was. Maybe it was Fox hurriedly placing the crown upon his head. Maybe it was just the idea of feeding the starving multitudes. Or maybe it was the simple spirit of goodwill toward his fellow man that always seemed to emanate from this large homeless creature called Teddy.

"He even
looks
like a king!" said Clyde excitedly. "Fox got those robes out of his closet."

"I didn't realize Fox had a closet," I said.

Clyde started to say something else but the klezmer band had now ceased operations and Teddy's voice could be heard booming with resonance and purpose throughout the great hall.

"My loyal subjects," he began. "It is with great humility that I accept the burden of the throne. As you may well know, I have in the past been one of you and now I will strive unceasingly to promote your health, education, and welfare in my new role as your king."

The response to this magnanimous statement was less than overwhelming. Indeed, it seemed not dissimilar to the sound of one hand clapping. In addition, Teddy's subjects did not much resemble a tribe of Masai warriors. Many of them, apparently, had made a few too many visits to the Dom Pérignon barrels and were now mumbling incoherently to themselves, panhandling other panhandlers, or passed out in their goose pates. None of this, however, appeared to derail Teddy's zealotry.

"You may well ask," he continued, "who is this new King Teddy? What does he stand for? Thus, I will tell you now, my loyal subjects, exactly what I, King Teddy, stand for. I stand for fireworks on the Fourth of July! I stand for the virtuous pursuit of keeping my place in a line for a free hot meal! I stand for the purpose of stretching my legs after too long a period of sitting on my ass! I stand for hemorrhoidal relief! I stand for the chance to gladly give my place on the subway to a person more weary than myself! I stand for bridges and beans and booze and memories and hopes and dreams and handouts and hand-me-downs and happiness and cigarettes and Good Samaritans and friendly whores and fat, easygoing cops and leftovers and stray dogs and stray cats and strays in general and park benches and Indian summers and redemption and salvation for every soul in pain! I stand for a better view of the spectacle of life! I stand for all these things, my loyal subjects, and for much, much more, because every time I stand, I stand for the dignity of man!"