Kiss Your Elbow (15 page)

“L
IFE SAVER,” A VOICE
kept saying. “Life Saver.” I tried to open my eyes. The voice kept repeating, “Life Saver.” I wiped my eyes…. They felt crusty and when I opened them I still couldn't see anything. Somebody said “Life Saver” again and I realized I was doing it. Flat on my back in a puddle. I groped around with my hand. It got wet cement. I tried to move and pain made me stop. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to roll over and struggle to my knees. Then I tried to stand. I could do it by inching up the building wall, but when I got to my feet the effort made me lean against the building for a minute or two. I was panting and weak, but my legs held. I took a deep breath. It hurt, but not as if there were ribs broken. I felt my body. It was wet and covered with slime, but it would still function. To feel for my hat I had to bend over, and the rush of blood to my neck almost made me keel over. I had to stand up again until the pounding stopped.

“Here's your hat, mister,” said a voice and my hat was slapped on the top of my head. Fear washed over me again. I flattened myself against the wall blindly waiting for it to happen. I had thought I was alone—a hit-and-
run—but they had come back. I waited for the knife. I was too weak to do anything to stop it. I started to cry.

“Come on,” said a man's voice. “He's okay now. We can't stand around here all night.”

“But, Joey, he's hurt.” It was the same voice that had given me my hat and it was a woman's voice. “We got to take him somewhere.”

“He's just a drunk, I tell you. Come on. He'll be all right.” The tears must have rinsed out my eyes enough, for, at last, I could see a man and woman backed by the faint light from the street, standing in front of me. He took her arm and tried to lead her back to the sidewalk. She shook it off.

“I'm not going to leave him standing here like this. He's hurt, Joey. He's hurt bad.” She moved toward me. I didn't mean to, but unconsciously I scraped along the wall away from her. She stretched out her hand.

“For Christ's sake, don't touch him. He stinks. You'll get it all over you.”

“Go on if you want to, you jerk, he's hurt. I'm not going to leave him here like this.” She stepped closer to me. I didn't back away this time. “What happened to you, mister? Were they trying to roll you? We heard them running up the alley.” I managed a feeble croak. “Know who they were?”

“No. I couldn't see them.” Still bracing myself against the building, I patted my pocket. My billfold was still there. My watch was still on my wrist. I began to be conscious of the cold. I was soaked through and my teeth started to chatter.

“You coming or aren't you?” said the man. She ignored him.

“Can you walk?” I tried a couple of steps and almost pitched on my face. She took my arm. “Grab his other arm. We got to find a cop.” The man was carrying a small case like musicians use for trumpets. He changed it to his other hand and felt for a dry place on my arm. Between the two of them I made the street. Ninth Avenue was still deserted. No taxis. No cops. No nothing.

“If I could just get a cab,” I said.

“Fat chance this time of night in this part of town,” said the man.

“There's a subway station a few blocks up,” I said. “I'm sorry to bother you. I think I can make it okay now, thanks.”

“We're going to find a cop,” said the woman.

“Please don't bother. I'll be all right in a couple of minutes. Thanks just the same.”

“Well, then, come on. You heard him,” said the man. “You heard him say he's okay.”

“We can't leave him like this. They may come back.” I hadn't thought of that. Just then I stumbled and the man caught me from falling. He swore under his breath when he grabbed me and I couldn't blame him. I was covered with filth.

“Look, you people go on.” I was starting to get all swimmy again and I didn't want to vomit in front of them. “I'll be all right. There'll be a cab along in a few minutes or a cop or something.”

“Well,” said the woman. “If you're sure…” Foot
steps were coming around the corner. “Maybe this is a cop.” But it wasn't the reassuring gleam of buttons…just another man. The woman called to him as he was walking toward us. “Say, mister. Have you seen a cop around anywhere?”

“What's the trouble?” I started to fade again. It was like the blackout in London where you couldn't see anyone's faces…just blurry shapes. We had been talking in that hushed voice you use in blackouts even though guns are slamming a few blocks over. Or maybe it was just the way I was feeling that made the voices seem hushed and far away, like a radio with a bum tube…one minute loud and the next so faint you could hardly hear anything.

“This drunk just got mugged up the street in an alley,” said my savior with the trumpet case. “We was passing by and musta scared them off. You don't know where there's a hack stand around here, do you?”

“No. Can he talk?”

“I'm all right and I'm not drunk,” I said. “If I could just sit down for a couple of minutes I'd be all right. There'll be a patrol car or something along in a few minutes. You go on.”

“Well, you can't sit here,” said the woman.

“Why don't he go to a Turkish bath?” said the last man. “Sober him up.”

“Well, for Christ's sake let's get him somewhere,” said the man with the horn angrily. “We can't stand around all night ya-ta-taing. Do you know where one is near here?”

“Yeah, not far. I'll take him. I'm going that way.”

“Is that okay with you?” the woman asked me. Okay? It sounded like heaven. Hot water. A place to lie down. I told them so.

“Where is it?” asked the woman.

“Three up and one over.”

“That's right on our way, too,” she said.

“You don't have to,” said the man. “I can take him okay.”

“Give me your horn, Joey, and help him.” And Joey did.

 

I don't remember much of the three up and one over except that we didn't pass a cab or patrol car or I would have done that instead. But I couldn't be sure because I was too busy concentrating on not passing out so they wouldn't have to carry me completely. As it was we had to stop every little while to give them a rest and the musician got madder and madder.

At last I could see a lighted sign up the street. Not neon. Just a bare bulb in front of a painted sign. That was Mecca. That was the Bluebird we'd been looking for. That was, when we got up to it, the
Regal Baths—Open All Night.

“Well,” said the woman. “You'll be okay now.”

“I'll take him in,” said the other guy. I almost started crying again when I thanked the woman and musician. I tried to pay them something but they wouldn't have it. I couldn't say any of the things I felt and of all the things I could have said, the lousy, Limey cliché “It was damn nice of you” was about the stupidest, but that's what came out.

They went on up the street melting into the darkness, and the third Samaritan helped me into the Regal Baths.

Inside the front doors, there was a counter on the left with an arched opening in the wire netting that ran from the top of the counter to the ceiling. Hanging behind it was a green-shaded drop light. The circle of light fell on stacks of wire baskets, towels and a man tilted back in a chair in the corner absorbed in, of all things,
Harper's Bazaar.
I wondered for a moment what he could find in that breathless magazine to interest him so. He didn't seem quite the type to soak his elbows in halves of lemons, not in his dirty pair of white ducks, T-shirt, grubby sneakers and no socks. But I should have guessed. Just a refined taste in pin-ups. The whole time I stood there he didn't stop staring at a particularly pneumatic underwear ad.

Everything in the place—the walls, the counter, the price list for “Baths, Massages, Sleeping Accom.” wired to the fencing, even to the man with the magazine—had a film of moisture. Beads of water were forming on the low ceiling and splattering to the linoleum floor in regular pats. The air was warm and humid and was a mixture of familiar smells: sweat and soap and alcohol and liniment. I leaned against the counter watching the man staring at the magazine and wondered what to do.

There was a pay phone on the wall by the cash register, but if I called the police what could I tell them? As far as I could tell no bones had been broken and nothing stolen. I could call a cab, but by the time it came and I got back to the Casbah it would be almost
five o'clock. Right now all I wanted in life was to lie down and sleep for a while and not have to make any effort or decisions. I needed a bath and my clothes cleaned but most of all I needed sleep. I pounded on the counter. The T-shirt sat up and his chair fell on its front legs. He peered at me. I hadn't seen my face but from his expression it must have been something.

“Jeez, buddy. What hit you?” He didn't get up. Just stared at me.

“I had an accident. What about a room?”

“You look bad, buddy. You ought to see the doc.”

“I'm all right. Have you got a room or not?” He got up and walked over to the counter window, keeping his place in the magazine with a spongy-looking finger. He wasn't very tall. The overhead light threw shadows under his eyes and nose and emphasized his thinning hair.

“What'd you say? I'm kind of hard of hearing.” I shouted my question at him twice before he got it. “Yeah. No room though. Beds. Dormitory-type, see.”

“I need a shower, too, and can you do something about my clothes?”

“How long you gonna sleep?” I figured if I slept till nine I'd have time to get back to the Casbah and change before rehearsal. I told him I wanted a call at nine. “Okay. I can get 'em fixed up pretty good at the Greek's next door in the morning.” I sneezed.

“Can I get a rubdown now?”

“No rubber at night. In the morning. Eight o'clock. Just leave your stuff out back. I'll pick it up.” He grabbed a towel and a small cake of soap and slapped
them down on the counter. He pointed to a door at the end of the hall. “Through there.”

I took the soap and towel and started for the door. Then I remembered my Samaritan friend. I'd been so busy with my own problems that I'd completely forgotten about him. Fine thing. When people go to all that trouble and you just stand there with your back to them and don't even thank them.

“Did you see where my friend went?” I asked the basket man. I had to shout that a couple of times, too.

“I didn't see nobody, buddy. You come in alone.”

“But he helped me in here. He was standing right there. You must have seen him.”

“Hit the showers, buddy. You're getting those little men and that's bad.” I suppose I should have chased my friend down the street to thank him, but I wasn't up to chasing anything. I guess some people are just nicer than other people. He didn't wait to be thanked. Now me, if I should so much as give my seat to a lady in the subway, I'd half expect to be remembered in her will, but this guy practically carries me God knows how far, gets himself all dirty from my puke and then doesn't even wait to be thanked. Yes, I guess some people are just nicer than other people.

I took my soap and towel and went through the door at the end of the hall, down another narrow hall and door and into a fair-size room. On the opposite side was a swinging half door going into a shower room. Next to it was a steam room sprouting hissing pipes. The pane of glass in the middle of the door was clouded over.
Another opening led to the room with the beds, dormitory-type, see. More green-shaded drop lights hung over a couple of rubbing tables and the worn greasy leather tops shone in the glare. An electric cabinet that had once been white was against the wall between the rubbing tables. The walls and ceiling were sheeted with elaborately embossed metal and had been painted white, but at all the corners and nail heads, rust had bled through and mottled the white with orange. A few wooden arm chairs, benches and white tables did the rest of the furnishings. On one of the long benches outside the dormitory, two naked men were putting on their shoes. I sagged into the nearest chair and sat there, too tired to begin getting undressed. Just staring at the floor.

Through the soft hissing of the pipes I heard a faint tinkle and for some reason it reminded me of the army. For a moment I half thought I was back in the army…in a hospital waiting to see the doctor…everything was going to be all right…I'd be put in a warm bed and sleep and sleep and nurses would be nice to me and no one would try to kill me anymore and I'd have a dark red bathrobe at the foot of my bed…and there was that tinkle that started all this…and it was coming from the direction of the two men. I rolled my head around and looked at them. After I got my eyes focused I could see that they were both fairly young with fish-white skins except for the faces, necks and hands, which were sunburned, leaving a sharp dividing line at the throat and wrists. The bigger one also looked older and had a
reddish appendectomy scar like a monstrous centipede crawling toward his crotch. There was also a tiny light flickering on his chest and that was what was making the familiar tinkle. He was wearing a soldier's dogtags. As he bent over to fasten his shoes, the dogtags would jingle and flash. The metal necklace shone, too. I remembered when they made us change from the cloth tape and plastic necklaces they used to issue to the metal kind. Right after the Coconut Grove fire—so you could be sure and not get the bodies mixed up. How would they have identified me if I'd been killed in the alley? That was a stupid thought…I still had my billfold. In Normandy we'd cut slices out of corrugated German gas mask tubes for binding around the edges of the dogtags so the tinkle wouldn't give you away on patrol—no need for that anymore. They had both finished putting on their shoes and were stamping about in their combat boots. Those things were so big your legs always looked puny in them…. They were both soldiers then…. Why is it that soldiers always put their shoes on first? Now they were putting on underwear—olive drab…Do they still issue olive drab?…No need for camouflage now…. Don't they know the war's over? As they lifted their pants out of the little wire baskets the one with the dogtags noticed me and called to me. It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying…the warmth…the not lying dead in an alley.