P.S. (14 page)

Prince Arthur was indignant. “Dis guy’s a fuckin’ fanatic. I’ll nail ’im to a cross. Scarin’ da kid dat way.” To me, Prince Arthur beamed. “Go ahead, kid; drink up. It’ll put hair on your chest.” Really, I wasn’t
that
glabrous. As I studied the label on the bottle, I knew a moment of decision was at hand. John the Baptist was jabbing at the air, Gideon Bible held tight in his fist. Prince Arthur was moaning, “Will ya take a drink fer Chrissake!” That did it. For Christ’s sake. Never had I heard the Savior’s name invoked so appropriately. On such a night as this, the God of Bliss, et cetera and et cetera.

I put the bottle to my lips. “No-o-o-o!” The wail of the pearl diver was stifled by the command of the precinct captain. “Shut up, you dirty Bolshevik!” I swallowed. My throat
was on fire. I coughed. Spittle came. So did tears. I took a deep breath and once more I swallowed. Was my tongue blistered by the devil’s brew as I passed the bottle to the next one? I had turned away from John the Baptist. Prince Arthur chortled. “’Atta kid. Dere goes yer cherry. Stick wit’ me, kid, and I’ll take ya to da Winch or da Lex. Or even Cicero. Real poontang, kid. You’ll be a man before yer mudder.” In the eyes of John the Baptist, I saw a thousand hells.

I followed his look. At the door were two of them: Herod and Chick Lorimer. “Artie! What da hell are ya doin’ here?” The restaurateur was in an ebullient mood. “Steve, fer Chrissake!” The precinct captain was of equally blithe spirit now. A kindred soul at last. He whistled softly through his teeth as he observed the girl. “Hey, ya doin’ aw right fer a Greek, huh? Huh?” A long drawn out, “Yeah-h-h.” Herod touched the girl’s sleeve. “Oh, yeahhh. She’s a good friend o’ mine.” Turning to her: “What’s yer name again, baby?” Chick Lorimer stared at the lobby’s linoleum. Again, my Adam’s apple was misbehaving. And a sense of some vague humiliation I couldn’t get a fix on.

In the exuberance of the exchange, neither of them noticed John the Baptist. In his eyes I now saw a
million
hells. “Pi-i-mp!” It was a howl. No, it was more a cry of the banshee wholly at discord with the nearby chimes’ “Silent Night.”

“Wha-a-a-a?” Herod stared, mouth agape.

“You pimp! You bully! You fat, no-good Babylonian! Woe unto them who call evil good and good evil; who put darkness for light, and light for darkness; who put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter. Isaiah 5:20.” God, did Isaiah say all that? John the Baptist, it appeared, really had a fix on this one.

Prince Arthur took a step away, toward Herod. “Dis guy’s a real loony. Could be dangerous.”

Herod extended his thumb in the direction of his tormentor. “He’s my goddam dishwasher! Da crazy Serbian!”

“I’m
Croatian
, you fool! You ignorant Macedonian! Do you write to Mahatma Gandhi? No! Do you write to President Roosevelt? No! To Albert Einstein. Henry Ford? No, you do not! Do you know the Holy Bible?” He thumped at the book. “No! You know nothing. Pimp! Pimp! Pimp!”

Herod, recovering his composure, held forth his pinky, the diamond of its ring shimmering in the light. “Yer fired! Did ya hear what I said? Fired! Come in my restaurant, I’ll t’row you out on yer ass! Yer t’rough!”

“And you’re damned!”

It happened so suddenly. The Gideon Bible was hurled across the lobby. It struck Nick Stassiosous below his right eye. A direct hit. His hands flew to his face. “I’m blinded!” A long agonizing wail. “Da bastard blinded me!”

Chick Lorimer casually drew his hands away from his face. She hardly glanced at him. An angry red welt, with intimations of blue-black, was quickly puffing up. “You’ll have a beaut of a shiner is all. You’ll live.” “It ain’t yer eye, ya whore! Jeez, it hurts. I need a doctor!” With a whimper, he turned and hurried down the golden staircase.

Prince Arthur Quinn was edging toward the doorway. He cast a wary glance at the lunatic. This was a serious matter. The green fedora disappeared as a faint murmur was heard: “I’m gettin’ da cops. Dis guy’s dangerous.”

John the Baptist was transfixed. A mist formed on his glasses. Mist or no mist, cockeyed or myopic, he saw Chick Lorimer. He saw her stoop down and pick up the book. She walked across the lobby and handed it to him. She grinned. “Good throw. Cubs could use you.” John the Baptist was mute. She laughed lightly. Again, I had trouble with my Adam’s
apple. She was straightening out the collar of his torn jacket. “Know the Book of Luke?” He nodded. “Cat got your tongue?” He shook his head. “Okay, then you can read me the story of Mary and Joseph and no room at the inn and all that, right?” He nodded. She took him by the hand and led him out of the lobby.

At the doorway, she turned toward me. “Sonny.” Sonny! Christ almighty, she was no more than nineteen herself. Sonny! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! “The Greek ran off with the key. You got a skeleton, ain’tcha?” I nodded. A lot of good that nod did me.

John the Baptist was at the window of her room, feverishly leafing through the book. Muttering to himself: “Woe is me, for I am undone, because I am a man of unclean lips; for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts.” He didn’t seem too unhappy about it, though. At the door, she asked softly, “How far to Cicero?” I told her. The door clicked shut. In the lobby, I joined the others. There were still several ounces of Chapin & Gore left in the bottle. This time, it went down easier. While the journey to Bethlehem was being recounted upstairs, the Trib Tower chimes were sounding. “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

THE FOOL’S PARADISE was a schoolyard in Uptown.

The Fool’s a fool any way you look at it. Consider the manner in which he salutes the little kids each morning, Monday through Friday.

It’s 8:45, always 8:45, give or take a minute on his Timex, as he passes by. It is a primary school on the corner of a tree-lined street in Uptown, precisely at the spot where the haves and have-nots meet. Patiently, the little cubs, calves, and colts await the morning bell. The more energetic chase one another in and out of the grounds. Their parents, working people, have just driven off in jalopies or wearily walked away. The Fool approaches from the east.

They are from five to ten years of age, the Fool guesses, but they appear to be younger, smaller, as though lately out of swaddling clothes. They are of every shade, color, and society: Korean, Appalachian, East Indian, African, Thai, Japanese, Afro-American, Filipino, Colombian, Vietnamese, and a smattering of “ethnics.” The Fool delights in the picture. They exude the sweetness and innocence of a UNICEF Christmas card. They are, in his mind’s eye, child images of U Thant, Wole Soyinka, Emiliano Zapata, Rabindranath Tagore, Emilio Aguinaldo, Woody Guthrie, Pelé, and Chief Tecumseh. It is a small-change Eden as evoked by, say, Rousseau. One world forever.

Though he is bundled up against the cold, his red muffler is dashingly unfurled. “Good morrow, Robin Goodfellow,” he calls out to the assemblage. On another occasion: “What news on the Rialto, Tybalt?” Then, again: “Good morning, dear
hearts and gentle people.” And always, he salutes them, his hand held toward the heavens.

During the first week, all is well. The kids stare at the wayfaring stranger, eyes wide. A few giggle. A black boy, no bigger than a bar of soap, has a khaki book sack on his back, a World War II hand-me-down. On it, clearly printed with a felt-tip marker: “George Johnson.” Naturally, the Fool calls out, “How now, George Johnson?” The small boy spins around like a top. He looks up, his eyes all wonderment. He whispers, “How you know my name?”

“I know everything,” the Fool sings out. The little girls, doing a circle dance, stop and stare. The Fool runs toward his bus.

He is not certain when he first senses a change in his matutinal acquaintances. Casually, it makes itself felt. As they see him approaching from some fifty yards away, they jump up and down, run around in circles, and point small darts of fingers in his direction. They are delighted, the Fool surmises.

As he passes by, greeting them with his usual ebullience, one, a small Thai child, takes a swipe at his behind. It is hardly felt, a light slap. The Fool is astonished. Though he holds up his hands as in surrender, his voice admonishes, “Uh-uh, no, no.” From the other side, another slight bump. It is a mite of a Guatemalan child, a startlingly lovely little girl of six or so. As the Fool runs for the bus, he hears delighted giggles, squeals, and shouts. He has hardly felt anything, other than a small fall from grace.

Still, he offers morning salutations, after his own fashion. On one occasion, George Johnson, solemnly awaiting him, calls to the Fool, “Now, listen heah.”

The Fool shuffles over, a reluctant schoolboy. “What?”

“Whatchu mean what you say ev’y day?”

“Oh,” explains the Fool, “it’s the way I say ‘Good morning.’ Or ‘How are you?’ ‘How’s it goin’?’ ‘Have a nice day.’ Know what I mean? Friendly. Nothin’ bad.”

George Johnson scratches his head, looking up, studying the Fool’s face. He turns away. The Fool runs for his bus.

The following day is bitter cold. Most of the kids are inside the school’s hallway. A crossing guard, a red sash across his front, stalks toward the Fool, no nonsense. “You talk ’at way again, I’ll whip you’ ass.” He’s a Korean kid, nine years old at most. He tips the beam at seventy pounds, tops.

The Fool is astonished. The crossing guard turns away and strolls toward his companions across the street. The Fool’s voice is unexpectedly hard:
“What did you say?”
His voice carries across the way. He cannot stop, though something tells him he’s acting the fool even for the Fool. “Are you tryin’ to be a tough guy in front of your friends?”

The small boy with the red sash looks surprised. The Fool runs for his bus. His outburst was something he himself hadn’t anticipated. His fall from grace was, this time, less insignificant than before.

On a subsequent morning, a father from the Orient, his face furrowed from days unto days in the hard sun, is standing by his small child. The Fool, having offered the usual orotund salutation to one and all, smiles at the man. The man does not smile back. A Latino father and an Appalachian mother are also standing by. The Fool offers them his sunniest. They’re not certain how to respond. They turn away. The Fool runs for his bus.

On this latest day, the children of the UNICEF card are waiting for him. He approaches. The little Vietnamese sliver and the ever-so-small Japanese kid are jumping up and down, chanting in ragged unison, “The crazy man! The crazy man!
The crazy man!” The small Filipino, the tiny Colombian, and the Tennessee tot appear more bored than sullen. George Johnson shakes his head and turns away.

As the Fool waits for his bus, he sees the blubbery old man of rheumy eyes and slight drool, ragged cap comically atop his head, a guest of the nearby halfway house. The Fool nods toward him and smiles. The man—is he Schubert’s wretched organ grinder?—shuffles on. The Fool boards the bus for the last lap of his daily winter journey.

As I said: The Fool’s a fool, as any fool can plainly see.

SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN BOULEVARD: Call the street Argyle if you’re so inclined, free country. Walk the strip between Sheridan and Kenmore any day, especially on Sunday, and you’ll get the idea. A mother lode for Diane Arbus, were Diane Arbus still around catching our strangeness. It is our street, not “theirs.” It may be a Riverview funnyhouse mirror, but it’s our mirror. There is only they; there is only us. If you have any doubt, ask the Fool . . .

See. See how that raggedy kid, small, delighted Latino, call him Tico, see how he runs, darts, leaps with such agility between the U-Haul and the ’67 Chevy. Hear. Hear the Paducah beauty, twenty-three going on fifty, calling out to nobody in particular. Observe. Observe. The inscrutable Oriental (Why is he so wistful?) peering through the window of his Ma-and-Pa grocery while Mama-san busies herself at the counter. The American Dream. Seoul was never like this. Or was it? Listen. Listen to the two black dandies say something funny to the lean brown girl embracing the lamppost. She can’t stop laughing. Fun
neee!

Look. Look at these three others making it down the street the hard way. The girl (Can she be more than eighteen?), Himalayan, bearing mountains of flesh, waddles on. Her face, lifted upright by mounds of chins, is a baby doll’s, a
Playboy
Playmate’s. She is laughing, too. Indeed, she is radiant. The companion, strutting at her left, a chocolate cadaver, Artis Gilmore in height, is gesticulating excitedly. Dig. Dig, he’s making a joke. The third of these merrymakers is twisting, twitching, and Morris dancing along, though laboriously. He is
palsied, cerebrally so. The hollow sound erupting tells us that he is enjoying the joke, too. Immensely. Oh, I love you, Junie Moon.

Stumbling out of Foremost Liquors, a fifth of J & B in a brown paper bag, the drunk Fool shuffles into
the
tavern. There are other such oases in these parts, any number of such places for people to get in out of the rain, especially when there is no rain at all. But this one has something going for it. Something
spess-ial
, the Welsh would say. Something edgy. Call it je ne sais quoi. The Fool has multiple choices, but he knows—don’t ask him how he knows—that this is his dearhearts-and-gentle-people place.
Entrez-vous.

“Take This Job and Shove It.” Loud and clear out of the jukebox. It’s Johnny Paycheck’s way of saying hello. Again and again and again. The barmaid is Ollie, hard-pretty; a miracle out of the Scriptures had she been soft-pretty after so many hard days’ nights. Bad teeth. She’s been shoving quarters into the machine, quarters left as a tip by the drunk Fool. Paycheck’s her boy, again and again and again. Does the Fool sense that it’s her way of saying shove it?