No Lease on Life (15 page)

Maybe the Indian woman had a fatal disease. The man wouldn’t tell Elizabeth.

The public telephones were being guarded by some of the goons. You couldn’t make a call. They’d say, We’re waiting and stand there impassively, aggressively. They didn’t have remotes. You were supposed to wait patiently until they received their call and their orders to move. There was nothing else to do. You didn’t want to get capped just because you wanted to use a pay phone.

How do you know when your dad is fucking your sister in the ass?

His dick tastes of shit.

Elizabeth almost fell on the music junkie. He had a fish-shaped guitar. He was hitting on two teenaged girls. One of the girls sneezed. They were trying to get away from him.

—You’re allergic to me, and I was just going to ask you to marry me, he said.

The girls giggled. A scab-faced junkie could mention marriage and raise giggles and blushes. Elizabeth didn’t give him money. Except the other day when she saw him, bloodied, forehead bandaged like the head of a revolutionary soldier, and his fish-shaped guitar wasn’t hanging down his skinny back, so then she gave him money. The cops had taken his guitar. He was dead to everything but dope and his tinny, fish guitar. He’d be dead soon enough, he wouldn’t bother anyone.

I wouldn’t want to talk to him for a minute, and I’m giving him money. He’d just whine, like the almost-dead woman who walks around here, scuffling, bent over, bent in half, begging in a subhuman voice, no one wants to give her anything, no one wants to listen, no one can stand her, no one wants to keep her alive, she’s like an infection. It’s a disease, narcissism of the afflicted. She’d talk your ear off if you let her.

The Mexican take-out and sit-down was a cold hole in the wall. Elizabeth ordered a cheese enchilada. She thought it’d go down. She sat down. A rookie cop walked in. He ordered too and sat down next to her. His gun stuck out from his waist. He was wearing his vest. He was corseted and rosy-cheeked. The vest was the new model. He was freshly shaved. He was overheating, stuffed and split like a boiled hot dog.

Elizabeth was ready to confess. She asked him if he’d seen any crossbows and arrows lately. The cop looked at her, the way cops do at civilians who aren’t perceived as immediate threats, the way experts look at amateurs, and the cop responded, not to her question, which was too silly for him even to consider. She saw his frustration. It colored his pink cheeks pinker.

—I’m useless, they can round up all the legal handguns, because most murders aren’t committed with legal firearms, the murderers don’t use legal guns.

He thought hard.

—And another thing, don’t get me started…

She didn’t say a word.

—The thieves are laughing at me. I try to arrest someone for breaking into a car, and they say, Why you picking on me? Go after the murderers. I’m not murdering anybody. There are bad guys out there. I’m not doing anything, I’m not hurting anyone. You know. No one’s got morals anymore.

The cop rested his elbows on the table. He opened his hands wide. She could see his palms. She looked for his fate line. It wasn’t there. He breathed hard. His vest didn’t move. His order—rice, beans, and a beef taco—was ready.

—Here’s a different case. What about that junkie with the fish-shaped guitar? The cops took his guitar from him.

—Don’t know about that, I didn’t hear about that, the cop said.

He was chewing.

—He begs. You guys took away his fish guitar.

—I didn’t.

—I’m not accusing you personally, but what’s the principle. You take away his livelihood…

—What’s a fisherman…

—He’s a junkie with a fish-shaped…

—You don’t know what the guy was doing. You think you see things. Civilians don’t. You don’t. Believe me. Us cops…I seen things that’d make your stomach turn. Believe me.

He looked down at his rice and beans. He stared at his plate listlessly.

—I believe you, Elizabeth said.

The deaf tenant, Herbert, walked in. Elizabeth wanted the cop to keep talking. She wanted to gain his trust, reach out to him, and have him unfold like a clean sheet, or a dirty one, and she’d see the marks, he’d reveal secrets he’d never told anyone. She lusted for his illicit cop secrets.

She didn’t know how far she could go with the cop, and now that Herbert from the twin building had arrived, though he was very deaf—they mouthed hello—Elizabeth felt uneasier talking to a cop. She was white, the cop was white, Herbert was black, and what would Herbert think, not that he’d hear, for all he knew she could be cursing the rookie, calling the pink-faced cop a pig. The cop was porky.

Herbert’s face betrayed no trace of anything. It was placid. He was a calm guy, and he calmly ordered and sat down near the cop. His deafness kept him separate, maybe. Herbert said hello to the cop. It was cozy. A small place. Maybe they knew each other.

—Herbert, we’ve got to talk about the situation, Elizabeth said.

She mouthed and mimed the words and put her hand to her ear.

—OK, he shouted.

—We have no services anymore.

—Me too.

The cop didn’t pay attention. He stuffed his face. The food was salty. Mexicans know how to live in a hot climate. The cop was driven to be what he was, a master, a slave. He wanted to police the city, to do good. Ever since he was a kid, he wanted to be a cop, his father was a cop, his brothers, and he saw his job as trying to stop someone from making other people miserable when they find their car stolen or smashed and have to spend days with the insurance company, and their insurance goes up. Through no fault of their own. Most people didn’t have theft insurance on old cars. The porky cop wanted to make the world better. He was misguided. Who wasn’t.

Herbert might not agree with this.

Elizabeth ate her cheese enchilada quickly. She always ate fast. She wished she’d taken the cop’s badge number or last name. She could call him at the station in the middle of the night.

—Officer, I’m the woman who talked to you in the Mexican restaurant the other day. You had a beef taco. I had a cheese enchilada. Remember? Anyway, I’m about to murder someone who’s making noise, and throwing garbage everywhere, the guy’s a menace, and he’s been driving me crazy, because I can’t sleep, and I can’t be responsible. Arrest me because I’m going to kill him. Through no fault of my own. I waive my rights. I can’t be human. Maybe that’s what I am, too human, you know?

She probably wouldn’t get philosophical with him.

There was nothing big between her and the cop, nothing much between her impulse to reach for his gun and his impulse to stop her, shoot her in the head or hand, between her need for authority and his need to be an authority, her need for help and his need to help, her desire for protection and his desire for heroic action, and vice versa. It could be breached by a whisper, Let me touch your gun. There were fine lines not only crisscrossing her face, double crossing her, and what, if anything, would make her cross the fine, pine line. What if anything—the lawyer’s anything—what if anything did you have on your mind the night you shot an arrow into young blah’s head?

I’m God’s mail carrier, I had a letter to deliver from him. She was losing it, whatever it was. She wasn’t really looking, she really wasn’t looking for herself. She hoped no one was looking for her. Especially the law.

She’d been close to criminals, she’d lived with one, Mitch, he was probably mildly retarded. He wore cowboy boots. He was from Oklahoma and came by his outfits the hard way. One day he disappeared and wrote her a note—she was in college—he could barely write. He was probably on Death Row now. She wasn’t, although everyone had to walk the walk eventually. She’d never been addicted or habituated except to Valium and amphetamine, on prescription. It was unlikely she’d go to jail.

She said good-bye to the cop and Herbert. The cop glanced up. He didn’t seem to know she was there anymore. He shouldn’t be on the street. The clock was ticking for this guy. Maybe he was in love with Jeanine, buying her drugs, buying his own.

In Memoriam. Even if it was in neon lights that you were wrong, that you fucked up, you’d be incapable of seeing it, you’d never admit it. You’re always right. Don’t bother to reply. Eternal disappointment.

What’s fifteen miles long and has an asshole on every block?

New York’s Saint Patrick’s Day Parade.

It was awful in. It was more awful out. The sidewalk sellers were out, the sun was high in the sky, it was past noon, the sun was pounding the pavement like a bad cop, beating everyone down. The blankets were littered with condemned bricabrac, dented pots, empty bottles out of medicine cabinets, cracked teapots, the contents of someone’s life cobbled together and thrown on a blanket to be sold for quarters. For rent or food or drugs. It was pathetic.

Sweat wet her thighs. She’d get a rash. Prickly heat. Everyone was sweating everywhere. The block queen who’d yelled at Roy, I’ll eat your ass anytime, honey, was arguing with another blanket merchant. The block queen grabbed a blouse and held it up flamboyantly.

—No one wants this.

He threw the blouse to the ground.

—No one’s wearing this style anymore. It’s completely out. No one’s buying it.

He slashed the air in front of him. His scorn for the old style was flagrant.

Paulie was sweating, standing on the corner. He was with Hoover. Last year, the musician who’d given Paulie a home threw a birthday party for Hoover at Brownies, the musty-smelling bar. Posters of Hoover were wheatpasted on buildings around the neighborhood, everyone was invited. When Elizabeth arrived, Hoover was sitting on a barstool, eating some of his presents. Everyone brought him food. The handsome dog was panting, Paulie’s skin was copper-colored and leathery from years on the street. Now his toughened skin was streaked with sunburn. He liked being outside even though he had a place to live now.

—It’s disgusting, Elizabeth said.

—I’m thirsty all the time.

—Maybe you’re rabid.

—Very funny.

—Want a cold drink?

Paulie never had money. She’d never asked him to sit down with her. They’d talked, standing in front of his place, her place, on the corner.

—You buying?

—I’m asking, I’m buying.

—How about the Polish bar?

She should call the room. She didn’t. Paulie dropped off Hoover at home. Elizabeth liked interruptions. Interruptions weren’t interruptions, nothing was being interrupted, nothing was intended. She didn’t want to be in control.

The place was as cool and dark as a fall night. The old man behind the bar said nothing. The beer was cold enough and cheap. Paulie was feeling expansive. They were killing time. It was as perfect as it gets.

—When I went homeless, I was paying a lot of bills I couldn’t afford. I wasn’t eating properly because of the bills I was paying, and I had a feeling I could sort of be a free spirit, and hang out with everybody who was hanging out in the neighborhood and live outside. I thought I could get by.

—Wish I thought that.

—When you go homeless, you need two things: you need money and you need a bed. I would sleep in a park, before the curfew hit. I would sleep in hallways, I would be invited over to people’s houses to sleep, and I always had a good breakfast. The longer I stayed on the street the more hip I became to what was going on. I always had a sketchbook, a pen, and a pencil and I would doodle, carry my books around, and when they became too heavy I would discard them and start over. When Ron took me in I was just beginning to relax on the street. It took me seven years to get back in. Ron did something that not many people would do. He took me in, seeing that I wasn’t a bad guy, really, that I was just a little crazy at the time. He said, come on in, pay a little bit of rent, and paint. He put himself out on a limb. I always think about how if it wasn’t for Ron I might be still out on the street, or in a hospital, or dead. That’s the love relationship that I have with these guys, they treated me better than my parents treated me. They showed me more love than I got at home, that’s why I left home. I grew up in a quaint little neighborhood in Brooklyn. A lot of families have kids and the kids suffer because there’s nothing for them. I always thought I was artistic, as far back as I can remember. I was always neat and I always wanted things to be beautiful. I always had an eye for things. I would move things around. I was in the living room, and newspapers were scattered around, I would pick up the newspapers and organize them and put them where they belonged.

Elizabeth didn’t debate beauty, ugliness, love, or freedom. It was the same argument. There’s either too much or too little of any of them.

—I try to make things better. When I first started painting I was involved with negativity, and at a certain point I realized that I wanted to be the kind of artist that would make things better rather than comment on the negative side of things, the ugly side of things. I’m always working on the beautification of the things around me. It’s not just me sitting in front of an easel painting a picture. It’s getting up in the morning and eating the right food…

They ordered another round and some peanuts for Paulie.

—If I make myself healthy and feel good, then I can also make things around me healthy that aren’t healthy. I have my breakfast, then I sit in front of my easel and I dream a lot. I just look at what I’ve done from the day before, or just from the past. I appreciate my work more than I ever did before. If I do something new that makes me happier, I leave my studio, and I socialize a lot after I finish a piece. I really try to be more with the people around me, to just enjoy their company.

Elizabeth was easy, a two-beer drunk. Paulie might be dreaming now. She told him she’d go crazy if she went homeless.

—It helped me straighten out, because I had a lot of time. I didn’t work, I had no bills, so I had all this time to think about how things were going for me. I wasn’t really happy when I first left home. I left all my old friends because I didn’t feel I could fit in. I was always suffering or in pain over one thing or another. When I was on the street I got rid of my shyness, it always got in my way. When I was a kid I couldn’t even talk to some people. I had to ask around for small jobs, I had to communicate more with people so I could just get by, and I found that people would give me jobs, or they would give me money free, and say, here’s five dollars, get a meal, or invite me in for a shower, a change of clothes. People would invite me in to sleep the night. I slowly became more social…