Poe's Children (44 page)

He was present on days when it rained and days when it snowed. On sweltering days, he never removed his hat to wipe his forehead, and on days when the temperature dropped into the teens he wore neither gloves nor overcoat. Once he had registered the man’s presence, Little Red soon observed that he took in much more money than the other panhandlers who worked Hell’s Kitchen. The reason for his success, Little Red surmised, was that his demeanor was as unvarying as his wardrobe.

He was a beggar who did not beg. Instead, he allowed you to give him money. Enthroned on his box, elbows planted on his knees, cup upright in his hand, he offered a steady stream of greetings, compliments, and benedictions to those who walked by.

You’re sure looking fine today, miss…God bless you, son…You make sure to have a good day today, sir…God bless you, ma’am…Honey, you make me happy every time you come by…God bless you…God bless…God bless…

And so it happened that one day Little Red dropped a dollar bill into the waiting cup.

“God bless,” the man said.

On the following day, Little Red gave him another dollar.

“Thank you and God bless you, son,” the man said.

The next day, Little Red put two dollars in the cup.

“Thank you, Little Red, God bless you,” said the man.

“How did you learn my name?” asked Little Red. “And how did you know it was me?”

“I hear they come to you, the peoples,” the man said. “Night and day, they come. Ain’t that the righteous truth? Night
and
day.”

“They come, each in his own way,” said Little Red. “But how do you know my name?”

“I always knew who you were,” said the man. “And now I know what you are.”

Little Red placed another dollar in his cup.

“Maybe I come see you myself, one day.”

“Maybe you will,” said Little Red.

5. The Miracle of the Greedy Demon ( from Book I,
Little Red, His Trials
)

The greedy demons were everywhere. He saw them in the patrons’ eyes—the demons, glaring out, saying
more, more.
While Little Red dressed to go to work, while he laced up his sturdy shoes, while taking the crosstown bus, as he opened the door to the bar and the headwaiter’s desk, his stomach tightened at the thought of the waiting demons. Where demons reign, all joy is hollow, all happiness is pain in disguise, all pleasure merely the product of gratified envy. Daily, as he padded to the back of the restaurant to don his bow tie and white jacket, he feared he would be driven away by the flat, toxic stench of evil.

This occurred in the waning days of Little Red’s youth, when he had not as yet entered fully into his adult estate.

The demons gathered here because they enjoyed each other’s company. Demons can always recognize other demons, but the human beings they inhabit are ignorant of their possession and don’t have a clue what is going on. They suppose they simply enjoy going to certain restaurants, or, say, a particular restaurant, because the food is decent and the atmosphere pleasant. The human beings possessed by demons fail to notice that while the prices have gone up a bit, the food has slipped and the atmosphere grown leaden, sour, stale. The headwaiter notices only that a strange languor has taken hold of the service staff, but he feels too languid himself to get excited about it. Ninety-nine percent of the waiters fail to notice that they seldom wish to look their patrons in the eye and record only that the place seems rather dimmer than it once was. Only Little Red sees the frantic demons jigging in the eyes of the torpid diners; only Little Red understands, and what he understands sickens him.

There came a day when a once-handsome gentleman in a blue blazer as taut as a sausage casing waved Little Red to his table and ordered a second 16-oz. rib eye steak, rare, and a second order of onion rings, and oh yeah, might as well throw in a second bottle of that Napa Valley cabernet.

“I won’t do that,” said Little Red.

“Kid, you gotta be shitting me,” said the patron. His face shone a hectic pink. “I ordered another rib eye, more onion rings, and a fresh bottle of wine.”

“You don’t want any more food,” said Little Red. He bent down and gazed into the man’s eyes. “Something inside you wants it, but you don’t.”

The man gripped his wrist and moved his huge head alongside Little Red’s. “You act that way with me, kid, and one cold night you could wake up and find me in your room, wearing nothing but a T-shirt.”

“Then let it be so,” said Little Red.

6. The Miracle of the Murdered Cat

Years after he had come into his adult estate, Little Red one day left his apartment to replenish his stock of Beck’s beer. It was just before 6:00
A.M.
on a Saturday morning in early June. Two trumpet players and a petty thief who had dropped in late Thursday night were scattered around the sitting room, basically doing nothing but waiting for him to come back with their breakfasts.

The Koreans who owned the deli on the corner of 55th and 8th lately had been communicating some kind of weirdness, so he turned the corner, intending to walk past the front of their shop and continue north to the deli on the corner of 56th Street, where the Koreans were still sane. The blind beggar startled him by stepping out of the entrance and saying, “My man, Little Red Man! Good morning to you, son. Seems to me you ought to be thinkin’ about getting more sleep one of these days.”

“Morning to you, too,” said Little Red. “Early for you to be getting to work, isn’t it?”

“Somethin’ big’s gonna happen today,” said the beggar-man. “Wanted to make sure I didn’t miss out.” He set down his box, placed himself on it, and opened the 12-oz. bottle of Dr Pepper he had just purchased.

Only a few taxicabs moved up wide 8th Avenue, and no one else was on the sidewalk on either side. Iron shutters protected the windows of most of the shops.

As he moved up the block, Little Red looked across the street and saw a small shape leave the shelter of a rank of garbage cans and dart into the avenue. It was a little orange cat, bony with starvation.

The cat had raced to within fifteen feet of the western curb when a taxi rocketing north toward Columbus Circle swerved toward it. The cat froze, eyed the taxi, then gathered itself into a ball and streaked forward.

Little Red stood open-mouthed on the sidewalk. “You worthless little son of a bitch,” he said. “Get moving!”

As the cat came nearly within leaping distance of the curb, the cab picked up speed and struck it. Little Red heard a muffled sound, then saw the cat roll across the surface of the road and come to rest in the gutter.

“Damn,” he said, and glanced back at the beggar-man. He sat on his box, gripping his bottle of Dr Pepper and staring straight ahead at nothing. Little Red came up to the lifeless cat and lowered himself to the sidewalk. “You just get on now,” he said. “Get going, little cat.”

The lump of fur in the gutter twitched, twitched again, and struggled to its feet. It turned its head to Little Red and regarded him with opaque, suspicious eyes.

“Git,” said Little Red.

The cat wobbled up onto the sidewalk, sat to drag its tongue over an oily patch of fur, and limped off into the shelter of a doorway.

Little Red stood up and glanced back down the street. The blind man cupped his hands around his mouth and called out something. Little Red could not quite make out his words, but they sounded approving.

7. The Miracle of the Kitchen Mouse

On a warm night last year, Little Red awakened in his command center to a silent apartment. His television set was turned off, and a single red light burned in the control panel of his CD player, which, having come to the end of
The Count on the Coast, Vol. II,
awaited further instructions.

Little Red rubbed his hands over his face and sat up, trying to decide whether or not to put on a new CD before falling back asleep. Before he could make up his mind, a small gray mouse slipped from between two six-packs of Beck’s empties and hesitated at the edge of the sitting room. The mouse appeared to be looking at him.

“You go your way, and I’ll go mine,” said Little Red.

“God bless you, Little Red,” said the mouse. Its voice was surprisingly deep.

“Thank you,” said Little Red, and lapsed back into easy-breathing slumber.

THE BEATITUDES OF LITTLE RED, II

Over the long run, staying on good terms with your dentist really pays off.

Bargain up, not down.

When you’re thinking about sex, the only person you have to please is yourself.

At least once a day, think about the greatest performance you ever heard.

Every now and then, remember Marilyn Monroe.

Put your garbage in the bin.

When spring comes,
notice
it.

Taste
what you eat, dummy.

God pities demons, but He does not love them.

No matter how poor you are, put a little art up on your walls.

Let other people talk first. Your turn will come.

Wealth is measured in books and records.

All leases run out, sorry.

Every human being is beautiful, especially the ugly ones.

Resolution and restitution exist only in fantasy.

Learn to live
broken.
It’s the only way.

Dirty dishes are just as sacred as clean ones.

In the midst of death, we are in life.

If some miserable bastard tries to cheat you, you might as well let the sorry piece of shit get away with it.

As soon as possible, move away from home.

Don’t buy shoes that hurt your feet.

We are all walking through fire, so keep walking.

Never tell other people how to raise their children.

The truth not only hurts, it’s unbearable. You have to live with it anyway.

Don’t reject what you don’t understand.

Simplicity works.

Only idiots boast, and only fools believe in “bragging rights.”

You are
not
better than anyone else.

Cherish the dents in your armor.

Always look for the
source.

Rhythm is repetition, repetition, repetition.

Snobbery is a disease of the imagination.

Happiness is primarily for children.

When it’s time to go, that’s what time it is.

LITTLE RED, HIS HOBBIES AND AMUSEMENTS

Apart from music, books, and television, he has no hobbies or amusements.

EPISTLE OF C—M—to R—B—, CONCERNING LITTLE RED

Dear R—,

Have you heard of the man,
if he is a man,
called Little Red? Has the word reached you? Okay, I know how that sounds, but don’t start getting worried about me, because I haven’t flipped out or lost my mind or anything, and I’m not trying to
convert
you to anything. I just want to describe something to you, that’s all. You can make up your own mind about it afterward. Whatever you think will be okay with me. I guess I’m still trying to make up my own mind—probably that’s one reason why I’m writing you this letter.

I told you that before I left Chicago the last time, I took some lessons from C—F—, right? What a great player that cat is. Well, you know. The year we got out of high school, we must have listened to
Live in Las Vegas
at least a thousand times. Man, he really opened our eyes, didn’t he? And not just about the trombone, as amazing as that was, but about music in general, remember? So he was playing in town, and I went every night and stayed for every set, and before long he noticed I was there all the time, and on the third night I bought him a drink, and we got talking, and he found out I played trombone, and when and where and all that, and he asked me if I would sit in during the second set the next night. So I brought my horn and I sat in, and he was amazing. I guess I did okay, because he said, “That was nice, kid.” Which made me feel very, very good, as you can imagine. I asked could he give me some lessons while he was in town. Know what he told me? “I can probably show you some things, sure.”

We met four times in his hotel room, besides spending an hour or two together after the gig, most nights. Mainly, he worked on my breathing and lip exercises, but apart from that the real education was just listening to him talk, man. Crazy shit that happened on the road with Kenton and Woody Herman, stories about the guys who could really cut it and the guys who couldn’t but got over anyhow, all kinds of great stories. And one day he says to me, When you get to New York, kid, you should look up this guy Little Red, and tell him I said you were okay.

“What is he,” I asked, “a trombone player?”

Nah, he said, just a guy he thought I should know. Maybe he could do me some good. “Little Red, he’s hard to describe if you haven’t met him,” he said. “Being with the guy is sort of like doing the tango.” Then he laughed.

“The tango?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “You might wind up with your head up your ass, but you know you had a hell of a time anyway.”

So when I got to New York I asked around about this Little Red, and plenty of people knew him, it turned out, musicians especially, but nobody could tell me exactly what the guy did, or what made him so special. It was like—if you
know,
then there’s no point in talking about it, and if you don’t, you can’t talk about it at all, you can’t even begin. Because I met a couple of guys like that, when Little Red’s name came up they just shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads. One guy even walked out of the room we were in!