Ragged Company (8 page)

“There’s days when the colour and the light of things are perfect for how you feel,” he said. “Or at least you think so. Grey days. You look out your window and you stand there feeling like there’s no separation between how you feel between the ribs and the shade of the day in front of you.”

“Monochrome,” I said.

He looked at me for a moment and I saw his puzzlement. “Yes. One cold, flat, ache of colour that’s not really sadness, not really regret, not really sorrow but maybe a shade or two of them all.”

“Yearning,” I said quietly, and he nodded.

“Yes. All you know is that the day, the day that’s all around you, is inside you too, and you think that it’s a perfect fit. But you go outside and you walk in your woe. You take it to the streets or the fields or wherever and you walk in it. And then it rains. Not a real rain. Not a downpour or even a shower. A mist. A thin sheen of rain that doesn’t really hit your skin so much as it passes over it.”

Like a hand, he said, and I knew what he meant.

“That’s how that movie felt,” he said. “Fine. Fine like the rain sometimes.”

I don’t know about the rest but I just sat there looking at my hands. Feeling those words and feeling like that movie had moved me beyond where I was too.

Amelia raised her head and looked around the table at each of us. Then, she reached over and patted the guy’s hands that were folded on the table just like mine. “That’s a beautiful description,” she said. “I guess I know what fine is now.”

The guy took a sip from the whisky he’d ordered.

“I know what that means too,” I said.

Everyone looked at me, as surprised at my willingness to talk as much as I was. I swallowed some beer and went on.

“When I was a boy I used to stand at a window just like you were saying,” I said. “It was a farmhouse and the window looked over the forty acres that kinda flowed down to where a railway track ran across at the bottom of the hill. I used to wait for the morning train and try ’n guess where it was going, who was on it, all those kinda kid games you play.

“And something about the train moving through the fog and the mist at the end of those forty acres used to really get me somehow. Made me want to cry. I don’t know why. It just did. So when you talk about the rain like that, I know how that feels.”

He nodded.

“The movie took you back to that window, Timber?” Amelia asked.

“Yeah, I guess it did.”

“How about you, Digger? Did it make you feel fine?” she asked.

Digger swallowed all of his draft in one long gulp.

“Look,” he said, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, “what I think is what I fucking think, and I don’t share that with anybody. Ever.”

“Come on, Digger,” she said, “all I want to know is if you can tell me what fine means to you.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all.”

“No scooting around in my head, trying to get me to talk about shit I don’t wanna talk about?”

“No.”

He waved for another beer. “Okay. Okay. Well, here then. Fine is like that half-empty bottle of brandy I found that time. Remember, Timber?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

“Fucking thing had a name we couldn’t even pronounce. Got a couple bucks for the empty, too. Anyway, strangely enough it was raining that day and we were all cold and wet and miserable. We were in the alley back of the fucking Mission and man, that fucking stuff slid down my throat and into my belly like fucking sunshine. Now that was fine. And after a few swallows it changed the fucking colour and the light of things for me too, guy,” he said, staring at the Square John and swallowing the new draft as soon as it landed.

“Fine’s like Sunday brunch at the Sally Ann,” Dick said suddenly.

We all looked at him and he took a nervous gulp of his draft.

“Like you gotta go to chapel first ’fore they’ll feed you. Most people don’t like that an’ kinda sit there all pissed off, but me, I like it on accounta it’s different. I like the songs. Especially the one about gatherin’ at the river. I like that one. But after, when you all move downstairs an’ line up for food an’ you gotta wait even though you’re hungry as hell an’ everyone’s bitchy, it gets all antsy for me. Then, I get my tray an’ pick up my food an’ find a seat an’ take that first mouthful. Man, that’s fine. All that waitin’ just to get to that first mouthful.”

He finished his beer off and stared at his feet.

“That sounds pretty fine to me,” Amelia said.

“Me too,” the Square John said. “What about you?”

She looked at him squarely. “This.”

“Pardon?”

“This. This is fine,” she said.

“What?”

“This. Us. All of us, sitting here together talking. It’s fine. Very fine,” she said. “Except that we don’t know who we’re talking to. We don’t even know your name.”

“That’s right. Well, excuse me,” he said, sitting straighter. “My name is Granite. Granite Harvey.”

He reached out and shook her hand.

“Granite?” Digger asked, squinting. “Like the frickin’ rock granite?”

He grinned. “Yes. Like the frickin’ rock granite.”

“Well, fuck me,” Digger said and reached over to finish off my draft.

“Odd name,” I said, nodding at Digger.

“I suppose it is,” he said. “My father named me after the rock. My family has been stonemasons for generations. Quarrymen. And granite is how they made their living.”

“It’s a good name. A strong name,” Amelia said. “I’m pleased to meet you, Granite Harvey.”

“Pleased to meet you, too, whoever you are,” Granite said.

Amelia chuckled. “Let’s start with the boys and then we’ll get to me,” she said. “This is Timber. That’s what he’s called at least
and that’s how we know him. The tall one beside him is Dick and, of course, you know that this is Digger.”

The three of us sat there not knowing how to move. Granite stood up slowly, reached over the table to Dick, and shook his hand solemnly.

“Dick,” he said. “A pleasure.”

“Sure,” Dick said shyly.

“Timber,” Granite said, “glad to meet you.”

I shook his hand. It was a warm, soft hand. “Granite,” I said.

When he reached over, Digger just stared at the outstretched hand. Then he raised his head and looked squarely at Granite for a moment. “So what’re you gonna say to me? Great to meet you? Glad to make your fucking acquaintance? Let’s buddy up? I’m your wingman, pal? Fuck.”

To his credit, Granite stood there with his hand held out toward Digger. He never moved and never stopped looking right at him while he spoke. Digger stood up and looked across the table at him, finally. The two of them matched looks for what seemed like forever.

“Digger,” Granite said finally, “meeting you is like trying to pet a cornered tomcat.”

“Fuck’s that mean?”

The two sat slowly at the same time. Granite took a sip of his whisky but never took his eyes off Digger, who stared hard across the table.

“Well, when I was kid, our neighbours had a barn and there was always a whole slew of kittens around each spring. But every now and then there’d be a tomcat on the prowl that’d come along and kill the kittens. Trying to protect his territory, I suppose. Anyway, everyone wanted to kill him. But me, well, somehow I got it into my head that all that was really needed was for someone to show that cat some attention and maybe he’d quit killing kittens.

“So I waited. One day, I walked into the barn and that cat was sitting on a beam looking down at me, just like you are now, all far away and cold. When I saw that look I thought, Maybe I’m
wrong. Maybe this cat really is a mean son of a bitch and I should stay away. Maybe he is a killer at heart.

“But you know, Digger, something in me understood that there was something in this that I didn’t understand, the learning of which could change everything. Now, I can’t explain that. I just knew. So, inch by inch, as slowly as possible, I moved toward that cat. He just watched me. Just sat looking at me in that cold, scrutinizing way. Finally, I got close enough to touch him.”

Granite waved at the waiter and signalled for another round.

“So? What happened?” Digger asked, frowning.

“Well, the son of a bitch scratched me. Leaped onto my chest and tore the bloody hell out of my jacket and scratched my hands and neck. Then he jumped off and ran away. Never saw him again.”

“And?” Digger asked, moving slightly so a fresh draft could be dropped in front of him.

“And? And what?”

“And … what was it you learned that could change everything? And, by the way, change what everything?”

Granite chuckled and sipped the last of his first whisky. “Well, I learned that life is risk. I learned that the only way I was ever going to know, discover, find out, learn, was to reach out—especially to the scary things. And what it changed was how I approached my life.”

“How fucking fascinating,” Digger said and swallowed half his drink. “But what in the name of fuck does that have to do with meeting me?”

“Well,” Granite said, looking right into Digger’s eyes, “I also learned that life is full of mean sons of bitches, and you can reach out all you want but the bastards will still try to scratch the hell out of you. Meeting you has been a reminder of that.”

Digger just looked at him. Then, slowly, he nodded and a grin appeared on his face. “I like that,” he said and reached his hand across the table. “Just so long as you know.”

Granite shook his hand firmly. “Long as I know.”

“Well,” Amelia said. “That was fun. Anyway, Granite, my name is Amelia One Sky and I am happy to meet you.”

They shook hands wordlessly. We all sat there silently, looking at each other, and if they were like me right then, they were all shopping for something to say to lead us somewhere, anywhere but the deep silence we found ourselves in. The four of us men took turns sipping or gulping from our drinks while Amelia sat there with a small smile on her face, watching us watch each other.

“So what’re we gonna see next?” Dick said, and we all laughed like hell.

S
O WE’RE SITTING THERE
, me and the Square John, after everyone else had split, not really saying much, just eyeballing the bar and drinking. Me, I’m there because I wanna drink and him, well, I kinda think there was something in the way that old-man bar felt that he liked. You can pull aloneness around you like an old coat sometimes and the Palace was full of coat-wearing mother fuckers. Looking at him that night I got the feeling that Mr. Granite Harvey wasn’t exactly having your typical urban pleasure trip through life and living. I liked that, really. Made him seem more real, more like me than I ever mighta figured.

“So Timber’s kind of an odd name,” he goes after a while.

“Yeah,” I go. “It kinda is.”

“That’s not his real name, is it?” he goes.

“No. It’s not. It’s a street name. We all got ’em. At least those of us that’ve been around long enough, anyways.”

“So what does Timber mean?”

“Means look the fuck out.” I swallow my draft and give him the short version of the story.

“And Dick? That’s obviously his real name.”

“There ain’t nothing fucking obvious on the street,” I go, and
tell him about Double Dick Dumont and how he got his handle. Granite sat there looking at me wide-eyed, smiling and laughing finally.

“Wow,” he goes. “That’s a story all right. What about Amelia?”

“One For The Dead,” I go and wave at the bar.

“What do you mean?”

“Probably the most well-known street name out there. Everybody knows the old lady.”

“Where did it come from?”

The fresh brew arrived and I looked at it. “From this,” I go, and pour a little slop of beer on the carpet. For a minute or so I explain about the old rounders and their rituals and how the old lady came to get her handle. All through it Granite squints at me, taking it all in and still not touching the drink at his elbow. That bothered the hell out of me.

“Are you gonna drink that fucking thing or not?”

“Oh, yes,” he goes, and swallows half of it. “What about you?”

“Me? Well, I’m a digger so that’s what they call me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I go, feeling the numb, no-fucking-forehead feeling of a good drunk coming on, “that I dig around for stuff. Dumpsters, alleys, anywhere people toss shit off, and I sell what I can. Metal, cans, old magazines, curtains, fucking toys, it’s amazing what Square Johns’ll throw away. S’okay though. Makes me money. S’all I care.”

He nods.

“So you don’t panhandle?”

“Fuck no. I don’t ask nobody for nothin’.”

“That’s good,” he goes.

“Fucking rights that’s good,” I go. “Out there you got your word and you got your fuckin’ pride and thass all yuh really got.”

“I suppose.”

I look at him, half closing one eye so I can focus better. “Fuck you doin’ here, man?” I go finally.

“I don’t know,” he goes. “I really don’t know, except maybe being polite.”

“P’lite? You be p’lite in Roxborough, wherever the fuck yuh live. We doan need yer p’liteness down here. Fact, yuh can shove it.”

“Sorry,” he goes, finishing his drink. “I only meant that I wanted to be polite to Amelia. I guess, in a way, I promised her I’d come along.”

“She doan need yer p’liteness either.”

“No. I suppose not. Well, I should be going.”

“Go, then.”

“Yes,” he goes, standing and reaching a hand out to me.

I shake it limply, not looking at him at all, and he turns and starts walking away.

“Hey, Granite,” I go suddenly.

“Yes?”

“If we see yuh at the flicks, s’okay if you sit with us.”

He grins. “Okay. It’s okay if you sit with me too.”

“But don’t go thinkin’ we’re fuckin’ wingers all of a sudden.”

And he’s gone. I sit there a while longer feeling myself pull that coat of aloneness snug around my shoulders, finger the twenty Granite left sitting on the table, pocket it, and head off to my digs.

T
HE SHADOWED ONES
brought us
Rain Man.
I remember it well. It was a drizzly day as we sat in the Mission going through the newspaper ads while outside the first early thaw was on in full force. The boys were all in a fine mood, mostly because the nights were becoming easier to bear, and even though all of us had places where we were warm enough, sheltered enough, and tucked away enough to be comfortable, the suggestion of an end to winter was welcome. We’d been to movies every day since that cold snap and we’d grown to know what we liked. Digger would always choose the noisy, busy kind of films, especially if they involved some degree of mayhem. Timber seemed drawn to the reflective, people-driven sorts of movies that allowed you a peek at the motions of someone’s life. Dick, well, Dick loved everything.
He was enthralled by every film we saw and never failed to display a spirited, childlike anticipation when it came to choosing a movie. And me, well, I have to confess that I liked them all too, but maybe leaned more in favour of those types of stories that reached inside of you, touched something that you hadn’t touched for a long time, and reminded you of the soft moments where you really came to be who you are. We’d seen comedies, westerns, horror, fantasy, science fiction, romance, family dramas, and hero-driven action movies. By the time that day rolled around, we had become what Digger called “movie junkies.”